25. Ethan
25
ETHAN
I’m disgusting and sweaty. We went into extra innings and we’re tied with Dallas. Every swing they take feels like it could be the moment that decides the game. My eyes stay focused on James as he stands on the mound, ready to deliver. It’s been a few weeks since we told PR about our relationship, and other than Will and Ashley, nobody else on the team knows or suspects anything.
James nods at the catcher, winds up, and releases a perfect fastball, right on the edge of the strike zone. The batter swings late, barely making contact. It’s a foul.
Rubbing the ball between his fingers, James sets his stance again.
He throws another fastball, this one higher than the last. The batter fouls it off again, sending it into the stands. We’re close, but we aren’t there yet.
James takes a deep breath, winds up for the next pitch, and then everything slows down. I watch as the ball leaves his hand, curving in toward the plate, and the batter’s ready this time. He swings and connects.
The ball shoots right at the mound like a bullet. I don’t have time to react as I watch a streak of white slam into James’s right shoulder. I can’t see his expression from here, but damn, that’s gotta hurt.
Then I see James reaching out with his left hand, stretching up toward the ball that bounced off his shoulder. He catches it. Then he loses his balance.
He goes down hard.
We’re changing over now, and I rush to the mound right as the medics get there.
“James,” I say, my voice tight. “Are you okay?”
His breaths rasp as he meets my stare. “I think so,” he manages. “I’ll be fine.”
The pained expression on his face tells me that he’s anything but fine.
I get called back to the dugout, and I tear myself away. The medics are all over him, checking his injuries and trying to assess the damage.
“Hang in there,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady as I watch James get loaded onto a stretcher.
The game isn’t over. I know that. But as I stand at the edge of the dugout, it’s hard to focus on anything else. I want to see James, talk to him, and know if he’s okay, but I can’t. Stupid game.
Then I get the call. I’m up to bat.
Snapping back to reality, the sounds of the ballpark rush in all at once. The stands are still buzzing, but all I can think about is ending this. Dave made it to second, and if I can get a solid hit, we can make it.
I grab my bat, my knuckles white as I step out of the dugout and head to the plate. My walk-up song ends without me even paying attention, and I dig into the batter’s box. Their pitcher winds up, and I can see the tension in his posture.
The first pitch comes in fast. I swing hard, sending the ball hurtling down the first base line, but it curves foul at the last second. Gritting my teeth, I step back into position.
The second pitch comes and I let it pass, the ball snapping into the catcher’s mitt with a loud thunk. The umpire calls it a ball, and I exhale while resetting.
Dave is fidgeting, ready to run. It’s time to focus.
The pitcher winds up again, and I can tell he’s trying to psych me out, but I’m not taking the bait. My eyes stay glued to that ball.
He releases and I tense up. This is it.
I swing with everything I’ve got. The bat connects and the vibration shoots up my arms, but I’m already running. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the outfielders scrambling as I round first base, but they’re too late. The ball drops down and I shoot a quick glance back to see Dave tearing down the baseline toward home.
With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I dash toward second base, the roar of the crowd deafening. The outfielders are still trying to get the ball back in, but we’ve got this. Dave makes it home, and I skid to a stop at second, breathing hard. It’s over. We won. I’m already racing toward the dugout, and I jump through the door that leads to the underbelly of the ballpark.
James is in the clinic, sitting on a padded bench with his shoulder wrapped in ice and his wrist bandaged. He glances up as I approach, and there’s a tired but relieved smile on his face.
“Nice hit,” he says, swiveling his head away from the small TV in the corner of the room.
“Thanks, but let’s get you home.”
A voice booms behind me. “Not so fast.” I spin around and see Blake, the team’s head medic, standing in the doorway with a tablet under his left arm.
Blake strides over and pulls out the tablet, his expression serious. “Before you go anywhere, I need to give you the rundown,” he says, looking between me and James. “It’s not great news, I’m afraid.”
My stomach drops. I glance at James, who’s already tensing up, his good hand tightening around the edge of the bench. “What’s the damage?” James asks, his voice shaking.
Blake sighs, swiping through x-ray images. “Well, the good news is that your shoulder should be fine. Just some bruising, and with some rest, it should heal up in a couple of weeks.”
That sounds promising, but Blake’s tone tells me there’s more coming.
“The bad news,” Blake continues, his eyes locking onto James, “is your left hand. The impact of the fall and the way you landed on it, well, your middle finger is broken and the rest of them are bruised.”
James closes his eyes and exhales a soft breath through his nose. I can see the frustration building, the way his jaw clenches. “How bad are we talking?”
Blake glances down at his notes again, then back at James. “It’s bad enough that you’re going to be out for a while. We’re looking at several weeks, maybe more. It’s going to depend on how well the bones heal, but with where we are in the season, there’s a lot to consider.”
I can see where he’s going with this, and I don’t want to hear it. But James does. “Say it, Blake,” he spits out, “Please.”
“You’re likely out for the remainder of the season. There’s a chance you could be back for the playoffs if the team makes it, but it’s a slim chance.”
The words land, and I can see James taking it hard. He stares down at his bandaged hand. “So that’s it,” he mutters. “I’m done.”
“Not done,” Blake says. “Just benched for now. We’ll do everything we can to speed up your recovery, but you have to take it seriously. No rushing it, and no pushing yourself before you’re ready.”
James doesn’t say anything, his face molded into an expression of frustration and disappointment. I don’t know how he’s keeping himself calm. It’s hard for me to keep the lump in my throat down, and I’m not even the one who’s injured.
Blake takes a step back. “I’ll give you guys space. But James, we need to get you to a hospital tomorrow for more scans. I’ll email you the details tonight, and we’ll set up a recovery plan afterward. For tonight, sleep on your back and give yourself as much room as you can.”
At that, Blake turns and heads out of the clinic. I squeeze James’s good shoulder, trying to figure out what to say, but I come up with nothing.
“This sucks,” he says. He sounds strained, like he’s holding back tears. “I can’t believe this is how it ends.”
“It’s not the end,” I reply. “You heard Blake. It’s possible you could be back for the playoffs.”
“ Could be, but what if I’m not cleared? What if this is it?”
“Then you come back next season and you kick ass.” I try to sound encouraging, but James sees right through me. There’s really no amount of false confidence that can cover up the extent of his injuries. This stuff has the potential to end careers, even if the recovery process is managed perfectly.
Without anything more to say, I place my hand on the small of James’s back and nudge him forward. “Come on. Let’s get you home so you can rest.”
I lead James out of the clinic to his car and ease him into the passenger seat. Neither of us know what to say, so silence fills the space. After adjusting my seat and buckling in, I turn to James who looks like he’s about to pass out.
I say the only thing I can think of. “You’re gonna be okay.”
It’s generic, I know. James gives me another weak smile, then looks away again.
The car blinks to life with a soft whir and a couple electronic chimes. The post-game traffic has disappeared by now, so the short drive back to our apartment is smooth, letting the vast silence weigh down on us for the entire four minutes. Once we arrive, James jumps out of the car as soon as I turn the car off, making a beeline for the elevator. I can tell that James just wants to crash, so I rush to plug the car in and follow him into the elevator before he has to wait any longer.
As soon as we reach our floor, James sidles past me without a word, climbs the stairs, and goes straight into our bedroom.
It isn’t clear if I should give him space or make myself available, so I walk over and sit beside him to offer a few more desperate words of encouragement.
“You know,” I start, searching for the right words, “Blake’s right. You’ll heal and get back on the mound before you know it.”
James doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at his wrapped hand. “Yeah, but what if I don’t? What if this screws up everything?”
“You’re one of the best pitchers in the league. An injury isn’t gonna change that. You’ll get through this. Besides, you’re ambidextrous. If your left hand takes a little longer to heal, so be it. You still have your right.”
He releases a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I’ve never been hurt like this before, Ethan.”
I reach out and place my hands on his. James’s skin is warm and soft, and I can feel him relax. “You don’t have to deal with it alone, James. I’m here.”
“Thanks,” he whispers. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Making sure to avoid his injuries, I lean over James and place a gentle kiss on his lips. He sighs, a lot harder than he usually does, and tries to push up into me. That isn’t successful, given that neither of his arms can hold much weight at all, so I place a hand behind his head and pull him in.
“Are you still gonna sleep here tonight?” James asks, his eyes averted.
“Not in the bed. I’ll end up rolling over and crushing something.”
James opens his mouth to say something, but he stops himself. I walk back over to the bed and sit on the edge.
“I’m not sleeping in the bed, but I’ll stay here with you,” I offer. James’s mood lightens a bit, even as I settle into the armchair across from the bed. He lies back, staring up at the ceiling, and I can tell that he’s tired but still unable to fall asleep.
There’s nothing I can say to take away the sting of what he’s going through. He’s terrified. I get it. It’s not about missing a few games; it’s about watching the rest of us play while he’s left behind, if only temporarily.
“You okay for now?” I ask softly, breaking the silence.
He doesn’t answer right away and gives me this small, almost imperceptible smile. “I will be,” he says, without much confidence.
“Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
James’s eyes flicker shut, and it seems like he’s drifting off. The air is still, and his slow, rhythmic breathing tells me that he’s asleep. I drag myself out of the armchair and switch the lights off. I’m heading back to the armchair before I stop, change directions, and settle onto the soft, carpeted floor next to James. The urge to lie next to him is overwhelming, but I can’t risk rolling over and aggravating his injuries.
The floor is the next best option, at least for tonight.