Chapter Twelve
Amy's expression is full of fury as she slams the locker room door shut behind us.
For a moment, she just glares at me with her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed, tapping her fingers.
"What the hell were you doing out there?
You weren't the only player on the field, Braddock.
If you can't play smarter than that, you won't play at all. "
I can't help feeling defensive, but lashing out at her seems unwise, to say the least. I'm still sweaty from the game, but I don't dare grab a towel, not when Amy is on a rampage.
She won't let up until she's said her piece.
So, I lean against a row of lockers, trying to appear more relaxed than I feel.
"I was trying to win," I say. "Kinda thought that was the point of the game."
Amy's glare could cut glass. "Not at the expense of your shoulder, Braddock. We need you in for the season, not just one damn game."
I almost laugh. She's worried about my shoulder? If only she knew the truth. It isn't only my arm that's messed up—it's my confidence too. Amy's leaving me behind to go somewhere else. "You need me? Since when?"
"Since it's my job to care. I'm your coach, dammit."
"Then coach me." I throw my hands up in mock surrender. "But you might want to decide if you like my arm in working order or hanging limp. Kind of hard to have both."
She blusters a breath out through her nostrils, but there's a flicker of something else now, something deeper, in that expression. "This is not a joke, Charlie. You push yourself like that again, and you'll be out for good."
She's standing so close that I can almost feel the heat radiating off her body. The thought of being out of the game makes my stomach twist, but I can't show her that. Not yet.
"Don't need to ride me so hard," I tell Amy, brushing past her to yank my jersey over my head. "If I go soft, I lose my edge. Either you believe I know what I'm doing, or you don't. Make up your mind."
She shakes her head, disbelief written all over her face. "Have you thought this through at all? Because right now, it looks like you're squandering your career."
"Come on, it's not that big a deal." I try for a joking tone as I add, "If you knock me out of one game, I'll get a mini vacation. St. Barts has always sounded nice."
"This is serious!" Her voice rises, echoing off the walls.
I notice the way her ponytail sways as she paces. Even when she's furious, she moves with purpose, like everything she does has a reason. Like it's her goddamn mission to make sure I don't screw up my life.
Slumping my shoulders, I rub my forehead. "Fine. I'll take it down a notch if that makes you happy." I slam my locker shut and face her. "But don't bench me just because you're afraid I might break a nail."
The way she stares me down, it's like she's peeling back my defenses layer by layer.
It's unnerving. "You think this is about me?
I'm trying to make sure you have a career after this season.
" Her tempers her voice, just a touch. "You used to be the best, Charlie.
I want to help you get back there. But you've got to stop pushing so hard, otherwise you might damage your shoulder irreparably. "
Her determination and dire tone throw me off balance. Those words hang between us like a curveball I didn't see coming.
When I study her, deeply and rationally, I realize she means every word. "That's why you're still here, right? For me? Except you're leaving after this game."
Amy crosses her arms, the fire still in her eyes. "You'll have nothing left if you keep going like this. Just think about it, okay? About what's really important."
I don't know whether she's talking about my shoulder or something else, but she's got me wondering all the same.
I watch as she heads for the door, her strides as determined as ever.
Once she's gone, the locker room is quiet except for the dull thud of my heart. This isn't only about the game anymore.
Maybe it never was.
As I exit the stadium, I hear the color commentator informing the crowd that I'm out for this game—and explaining why.
The fans can guess the rest. Amy's heading back to her apartment in Jacksonville and then probably on to…
wherever she used to live. Christ, I never even thought to ask about that.
I'm not exactly keen on watching Jared act like God's gift to baseball, so I run a hand through my hair and speed past the parking lot.
About a mile down the main road, I hit a sports bar called The Fly Ball Pub.
The place feels just as shaken as I am after that last play—half the neon letters on the pub's sign are burned out.
The remaining letters flicker with a headache-inducing red light.
Inside, there's some talk about me mixed with clinking glasses and rowdy cheers for the Altitude.
I suck it up and slide onto an empty stool.
Jared might have won this round, but if Amy thinks I'm sitting out, she doesn't know me as well as she thinks.
"Scotch," I tell the bartender, a lanky guy who looks barely old enough to serve drinks. His name tag says he's Dave.
"Rough game out there, huh?" Dave smirks as he slides the glass over to me.
"You could say that." I take a long sip, letting the burn distract me from the mess inside my head.
"Guess you're getting an early start on your vacation," he adds with a grin.
"If you can call a couple days off a vacation."
I bet Jared put everyone up to this before even leaving the field, making sure the word would spread like wildfire—Braddock's out. Dave is probably friends with Morris. I struggle not to grit my teeth, feeling like I've got a bullseye on my back.
"Bet you could do with a break from the crowds," Dave says, leaning back and taking in the game as a roar goes up from the pub crawlers in here. "Sounds good to me. Downtime in St. Barts would be sweet."
The Altitude scores again, and just like that, the place erupts. Baseball jerseys and foam fingers wave around, though I can't see who's holding them. I down my drink and signal for another. This is how it's gonna be until I prove them wrong: Jared soaking up the spotlight and Amy glowering at me.
Stop whining, Braddock. Suck it up and keep going.
I slap a few bills on the bar and ditch this joint.
That night, the pain wakes me up. In the morning, I roll out of bed, barely managing to dress myself before heading for an MRI that promises answers I don't want to hear. Only Phil could get a scan done that quickly. The results aren't what I hoped. Inflammation, weeks of recovery, maybe longer.
Phil paces like an angry bear in the manager's office, threatening to bench me for the season if I don't pull my head out of my ass. My arm's throbbing, and so is my pride. Amy is nowhere to be seen, but I knew she'd be gone by now. Her one-game reprieve has run out.
This morning's practice doesn't feel right—at least to me. I got used to Amy being here, giving me hell, propping me up, whatever it took to prepare me. My new coach, Andy, definitely knows his stuff, but…
I miss Amy. How pathetic is that?
After another long day of rehab and some gentle practice, I go home for the night.
As I drop the bottle of painkillers on my nightstand, I flop onto the bed like a rag doll.
My shoulder feels stiff even after the meds kick in.
They say it'll take weeks to heal, but I don't have that kind of time if I want to stay in the game. If I want to stay relevant.
On day three without Amy, I receive an unwanted visitor. It's Alicia, and she seems determined to play nursemaid, problem-solver, and meddler of the year, all rolled into one.
"Charlie!" she cries out, bursting through the door with a bandwagon's worth of Admirals merch. "I brought you a care package!"
"I'm good, really, so you can leave now.
" I wish I'd remembered to take away her key to my apartment after the divorce.
But I didn't. So, all I can do now is drag myself into a sitting position on the sofa, blinking sleep out of my eyes.
She's already stranded me in a sea of swag, and I screw up my face when I see a particular item.
"An Admirals onesie? If you're trying to seduce me, that's a terrible way to start. "
"Don't be so mopey," she says, her voice sing-songy and bright. "You need to keep yourself busy while you're sidelined."
I wince at the word. "Who says I'm sidelined?"
Her smile wavers, and her brows wrinkle. "Everyone? But that's not necessarily bad news. You're rehabbing, right? Taking it easy like you're supposed to."
"Alicia." I give her my best long-suffering look. "I don't want company right now."
"You aren't planning to do something stupid, are you?"
"What's it matter if I am?"
She lays a hand on my forehead like she thinks I'm feverish. Then my ex-wife settles her ass on the sofa's arm right beside me. "Forget about that Amy girl. I can take care of you better than anyone else."
I slump into the cushions. "Just leave me alone, Alicia, okay?"
She jumps up, hands on her hips. "No, it's not okay. I won't leave your side until you've recovered, and that's nonnegotiable."
I groan. The woman I want has left me, and the ex-wife I don't want refuses to go away. Perfect.