Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Cam
By the following Tuesday, nothing about this feels temporary anymore.
I’ve spent most nights at Kate’s place since the move-in spectacle—late dinners, quiet mornings, learning routines. I still have my rental. I still keep some stuff there. But when practice ends and the day winds down, I find myself heading back to her street without thinking twice.
T-ball practice is moving along easily, kids laughing, cleats scuffing dirt as we run grounders to first. Kate’s sitting in the bleachers, cheering Evie on like it’s the World Series.
Every time Evie waves, Kate waves back, that soft smile she saves only for her daughter tugging at something deep in me.
Evie’s next in line, all energy and pigtails and oversized helmet.
“Ready, slugger?” I call.
“Ready!”
I roll the ball her way, slow and easy, getting her used to fielding it. She scoops it up clean and beams. But when she spins to toss it toward first, her cleat catches on the edge of the plate.
It happens in a blink. The twist. The fall. The crack. A sound I’ll never forget.
“Evie!” Kate’s voice tears through the air before mine does.
I’m running before I even think, crossing the distance in seconds. She’s already on the ground beside her daughter, hands trembling as she brushes dirt from Evie’s cheek.
“Oh God, baby, talk to me—what hurts?”
Evie’s sobbing, clutching her wrist to her chest. “It hurts, Mommy! My arm!”
Kate’s pale, eyes wide, trying to stay calm but I can see it—panic bubbling under the surface.
“Let me look,” I say gently, crouching beside them.
She starts to argue on instinct, but I meet her eyes first. “Kate.” Just her name. It’s enough to make her stop fighting me for a second.
I examine Evie’s arm. The wrist is already swelling, the skin puffed and tender. She tries to wiggle her fingers and cries out, sharp and panicked.
“It’s a break,” I say quietly. “We need to get her to Cedar Falls Hospital ER.”
Kate nods too fast, brushing Evie’s hair back from her face. “Okay. Okay. I’ll drive—”
“I’ve got her,” I tell her, already slipping an arm under Evie’s back and legs.
“Cam—”
“Let me help,” I say softly but firmly. “You get the car.”
There’s a second where she looks ready to argue, that familiar fierce independence sparking to life. But then she sees Evie’s tear-streaked cheeks and the way she curls into my chest, and something inside her gives way.
She nods, eyes shiny, and sprints toward the parking lot.
Evie clings to me, small shoulders shaking. “It hurts, Coach…”
“I know, sweetheart,” I say, keeping her close. “We’re gonna get it taken care of. You’re tough, remember? Tougher than Coach Wells.”
She sniffles wetly. “I didn’t mean to fall.”
“Accidents happen, all the great players fall at some point,” I say.
Kate pulls her car beside the fence, the door already open. Knox jogs over, reading everything in a heartbeat.
“Do you need anything?” he asks.
“We’re headed to the ER,” I say. “Can you finish practice?”
“Go,” he tells me. “I’ve got this.”
Kate throws open the passenger door. “Put her in the back seat.”
I slide into the back seat with Evie still in my arms and lift her into her booster.
Gently, I pull the straps around her and click the buckles.
Kate doesn’t argue, just climbs behind the wheel and drives.
She keeps checking the rearview mirror, eyes flicking between us.
Her jaw is tight, knuckles pale against the steering wheel.
Evie cries in short bursts, holding her wrist to her chest like it might fall apart if she loosens her grip. I keep one arm around her and rub small circles on her back with my other hand.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her softly. “We’ll get ice on it soon.”
Kate’s voice wavers when she finally speaks. “Baby, I’m right here.”
Evie sniffles. “It hurts, Mommy.”
Kate swallows. “I know. We’re almost there.”
“You’ll be okay,” I add quietly, hoping Kate hears me too.
Cedar Falls Hospital is small, but the ER moves fast for kids. The second we walk in, the triage nurse takes one look at Evie’s tear-stained face and swollen wrist and waves us forward.
“We’ll get her checked quickly. Hi, sweet girl,” she says, crouching to Evie’s level. “Do you want a popsicle while we get started?”
Evie hiccups. “Do you have purple ones?”
“We sure do.” The nurse smiles and hands her a grape one from a small freezer behind the desk. “Can I see your arm, sweetheart?”
Evie nods, pressing closer to me as the nurse gently examines her wrist.
Kate stands beside us, hovering, hands trembling just slightly. “It’s really broken, isn’t it?”
“We’ll get X-rays to be sure,” the nurse says kindly. “But she’s doing great.”
They take us to a pediatric room to wait—one stocked with cartoon posters and a movie playing on a TV hung in the corner. Kate sits on the edge of the chair, twisting her fingers together, every inch of her tight with worry.
“She’s gonna be okay,” I say, keeping my voice low just for her. “Kids bounce back fast.”
Her laugh comes out brittle. “That’s not saying much. I’m already falling apart.”
I touch her shoulder. Just lightly. “Accidents happen, Kate.”
She looks up at me, eyes glassy. “I hate this. I hate that I couldn’t stop it.”
“You can’t stop everything,” I say gently.
For a moment, she just stares at me. Then she looks away, swallowing hard.
The X-ray tech calls us back, and they wheel Evie inside while we stand behind the glass. Kate presses her hands to her face. “I can’t believe this happened.”
“She’s going to be fine,” I say. “She’s tougher than both of us combined.”
That earns a tiny, watery smile.
The doctor confirms it’s a small, clean buckle fracture—painful, but easy to treat. No surgery. No complications.
Relief hits Kate so fast she sways.
They let Evie choose the cast color, and she doesn’t hesitate. “Purple!”
The cast tech laughs. “Excellent choice.”
As soon as the cast is secure, a pediatric nurse comes in with a tiny medicine cup and a bottle decorated with cartoon frogs.
“Hey, superstar,” she says, crouching beside Evie. “Your arm’s probably still throbbing a little. Can I give you something to help it feel better?”
Evie nods, sniffling. “Will it taste yucky?”
The nurse grins. “Nope. It’s grape. The best flavor we’ve got.”
She hands Evie the little cup of Children’s Motrin, and Evie drinks it in one heroic gulp.
“Good job,” the nurse says. “This will kick in soon. It’ll help a whole lot.”
Kate watches the exchange with a trembling breath, like the simple act of someone else easing her daughter’s pain knocks loose whatever strength she’s been clinging to. I touch her back—lightly—and she leans into it without thinking.
The nurse stands and hands Kate a discharge sheet. “She’ll be sore tonight, but she should feel much better by morning. Motrin every six hours, Tylenol in between if she needs it. And have her keep the arm elevated tonight.”
“Thank you,” Kate whispers, voice thin with relief.
By the time we’re walking out of the room, Evie is already showing off her cast to everyone we pass.
“Coach Wells, will you sign it?” she asks the second we reach the car.
“Of course! I’ll sign it as soon as we get you home,” I say.
Kate laughs softly, brushing a curl off Evie’s forehead. “You’re going to milk this for weeks, aren’t you?”
Evie thinks for a moment, then nods seriously. “Can it be chocolate milk?”
We both laugh, the sound soft, a breath of fresh air after the chaos. We walk out to the front desk to get everything settled. Evie runs her fingers over her cast while Kate talks with the receptionist.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, tucking the insurance papers into her bag. “For your help. I’m sorry I got a little snippy”
“You don’t have to thank me,” I tell her. “I’m on your team. Both of you.”
Her eyes soften, and I think she might reach for me. But then she glances at Evie, who’s proudly showing off her cast to the nurse at the front desk.
Her voice softens. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, heart still pounding for both of them. “Later.”
As we walk toward the car, Evie slips her good hand into mine, her little fingers warm against my palm.
We survived our first traumatic experience.