Chapter Nineteen #2
“Agresta’s having a stellar debut season. Might even grab Rookie of the Year if he keeps it up as we look toward the pennant race. Before you joined the team, he was pitching well, but seemed easily flustered and at times combative. He’s really calmed down, and many credit that to your influence.”
Jake’s pulse hopped, and he worked to keep his tone steady.
He’s not so calm right now. “He’s getting his fastball consistently down in the zone, and when he throws ninety-five with late movement, he’s able to get weak contact.
The thing with baseball is, when you’ve got top hitters at the plate who can get the bat on great pitches, sometimes you get bloopers and that kind of stuff.
That can be really frustrating, and it’s challenging to control your emotions.
Agresta’s young and he’s working on not letting those situations get the best of him. ”
Nico had been holed up in the gym, and when Jake had gone for a light jog on the treadmill, Nico had refused to even glance his way. Jake was awfully tempted to haul him into a closet and spank him until he saw reason, but had restrained himself thus far. Barely.
The reporter said, “This is a crucial series against Boston before you briefly head to the west coast. Boston and Baltimore have been duking it out for the division lead all season, but the Caps are right there with them. What do you think will be the key to hanging in with the top teams as the pennant race heats up?”
“We just have to play our game and not worry about what everyone else is doing. From the first pitch to the last in every inning, we have to be focused and positive.”
“This is quite a young team, both the players and the franchise. Do you feel added pressure as one of the veterans?”
“You know, we’re grinding through this together down the stretch, and it’s about the team, not individuals. We all have our roles to play.”
“You’ve actually never been to the postseason in your career. How does it feel to be playing for a contending team again?”
He grinned. “Michelle, it feels pretty darn great.”
She moved on to questions about growing up playing baseball in a hockey town—hockey country, really—and Jake rattled off his standard answers. Game time was nearing, and the crowd was filing in, the dome open to a blue sky, the parliament buildings rising in the distance.
Excitement rippled through him despite the fight with Nico. The pennant race was on, and they really could win. They could really do it for the city and the fans and the country. And themselves, of course.
There was no time now, but he’d speak to Nico after the game. Jake had to admit that if he’d heard Nico laughing and chatting with a former lover in such a friendly way, he’d have been jealous too. They’d talk it out once Nico had calmed down. Fuck it out too.
Smiling to himself, Jake imagined how red Nico’s ass would become when he got him to submit. Could definitely turn the morning’s lemons into lemonade.
He jogged back to the locker room to strap on his pads and collect that day’s starter, Ricky Palmer. Palmer jabbered all the way to the bullpen as he always did, and Jake smiled and nodded and let him talk out his nerves.
In the bullpen, Jake tossed the ball to him casually, warming him up slowly, taking the pace down a notch. Sure enough, Ricky’s breathing calmed, and he got into the rhythm.
Jake stood from his crouch for the anthems, ignoring the sharp twinge in his lower back and his creaking knees. His aches and pains didn’t matter. The stupid fight with Nico didn’t matter.
It was game time.
Full count.
The crowd stomped and shifted, willing Palmer to hurl that last strike. There were runners on, so Jake adjusted his crouch to shield the coded signs he flashed. Ricky shook his head. Okay, he didn’t want to throw a sinker. Jake went to his backup for the lefty batter, a slider. Ricky nodded.
Hamilton waved his bat over his shoulder, shifting his weight.
Some batters twitched at the plate, and others were almost like statues waiting for the ball.
Hamilton had been on a majorly hot streak all month, and it was intimidating, especially with no outs and a runner not only on second, but Ephram Wrigley ninety feet away at third, itching to score.
Jake tucked his hand behind his right leg to protect it as best he could, his middle finger stinging from a foul tip in the second inning. He’d shaken it off and assured the trainer he was fine. He held out his glove with his left hand as Ricky wound up. The ball rocketed from the mound and—
Crack!
It was a chopper to third, bouncing to Crowe, who fired it right back to Jake. Jake held out his glove, bracing with his legs apart, close to the plate but not blocking it yet, adrenaline spiking as the ball hit his glove and—
His knee blew out, the blunt force of Wrigley’s cleat and the twist of gravity combining as the bone crunched and ligament tore like flayed, useless rubber on a tire rim shooting sparks on the asphalt.
His pads were no match for the impact, the white-hot agony seismic as he flipped and rolled, crashing to the dirt on his stomach, mask flying off.
A scream tore from his throat, a kaleidoscope of color filling his vision before inky tendrils of black smothered everything.
Distantly, he heard voices shouting, felt hands touching him gingerly, and then one familiar voice in his ear. “You’re okay. I’m here.”
Nic. He must have flown out of the dugout.
Jake wanted to cry, and as someone eased him onto his back, he realized he was, wetness breaking free from his tightly closed eyes, streaming down his cheeks uncontrollably.
He thrashed and kicked with his right leg, his left ruined.
His glove was somehow still on his hand, and he pounded the dirt with his other.
“Breathe,” Nico ordered, stilling Jake’s arm and taking his hand. “Come on.”
Bile choking him, Jake managed to open his eyes, his vision blurred for a frightening few seconds before the world came into focus.
The world being Nico hovering over him, his brown eyes wide, the trainer on Jake’s other side, his mouth moving.
But Jake couldn’t make out the words, and he looked to Nico.
“Can you hear us?” Nico asked. He dug his fingers into the back of Jake’s hand. “Jake?”
“Uh-huh.” It didn’t sound like his own voice, but Jake supposed it was.
The trainer was asking him questions about what he felt.
Beyond, teammates hovered with pinched faces—Diego, Alvarez, Palmer, Crowe, and some other guys crowded in behind.
The Boston trainer had come out too, his mouth pressed into a grim line.
In the terrible silence, an oppressive stillness flattened the stadium, thirty-five thousand people holding their breath.
His chest pad strangled him, and Jake opened his mouth, gasping.
Nico said something he couldn’t understand, and Jake needed to get back in control, but he was frozen.
A bolt of panic exploded, and he shook his arms and legs, reassuring himself that he could.
The pain blasting from his knee was a punch to the throat.
Fuck, everyone was watching. In the stadium and on TV. He needed to get up. He needed to take charge. But all he could do was lay there, powerless and trembling, what was left of his knee shrieking, gnawing on his lip so he didn’t scream as well.
Then the EMTs were there with the team doctor, more faces hovering over him, more voices blending into an indistinguishable haze. The only thing sharp and focused was the agony in his knee and Nico’s eyes, Nico’s fingers gripping him, holding him together.
Jake realized everyone could see Nico holding his hand, but considering how much pain he was in, no one would likely think anything of it. Even if they did, Jake wasn’t letting go.
Something caught Nico’s attention, and he twisted his neck, snarling behind him. “Step the fuck back, you cowardly piece of shit.”
It had to be Wrigley. As someone removed Jake’s glove, he asked, “Is he out? Did I hold on to the ball long enough?”
“Don’t worry about that, son.” Skip’s voice, and the familiar manic chomping of gum as he leaned closer.
“But that’s the go-ahead run.” Jake’s throat was dry, and his voice still sounded wrong. Panic clawed, and he clung to Nico’s hand. He hadn’t cared for so long, and now it felt more important than anything, even the soul-shredding agony in his knee. They’d worked so hard and come so far—for what?
“We’ve got it covered,” Skip assured him. He glanced at Nico. “Agresta, ride with Jake in the ambulance and we’ll see you there after the game.”
It was only when they hoisted Jake onto the stretcher that Nico had to let go of his hand. Jake closed his eyes while he was strapped on. He couldn’t bear to look as he was wheeled off the field before the stunned crowd, who applauded their support.
In the tunnel, voices told him to hang in there.
Jake felt like he was on the ceiling, watching as they approached the loading dock where an ambulance waited.
He saw Nico beside him in his uniform, the white still untouched by dirt since Nico had been riding the bench and wouldn’t pitch again for another couple days.
I won’t be able to catch him.
Panic and grief flapped through Jake, and he wanted to scream. He’d ruined everything. He was abandoning Nico and the team. He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the scene and praying to wake up, praying the throbbing agony in his knee was nothing more than a nightmare.
When he opened his eyes again, he’d returned to his broken body, the pain overwhelming but for a strong warmth around his hand.
He stared at the ambulance roof, then at the back of the EMT, who’d turned to root through a drawer as the doors were closed.
Nico was on Jake’s other side, squeezing his fingers, their palms connected.
“It’s okay,” Nico croaked. “You’re okay.” He leaned over and pressed their lips together for the space of a heartbeat. Sitting straight, he tried to smile. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Sirens wailing, the ambulance sped away from the stadium. Jake almost floated to the ceiling again, but the grip of Nico’s hand and the lingering sweetness of his kiss grounded him.
It’s over.
The grief churned like white water, unrelenting, as Jake endured an x-ray and pokes and prods, painkillers dulling the torment enough that he could breathe. Nurses and doctors spoke calmly, none of them saying what Jake already knew.
It was over.
At the very least, his ACL had blown, that much he knew for sure. At his age, this wasn’t an injury that would land him on the fifteen-day disabled list. This was the end.
He was in the ER behind a curtain, the left leg of his uniform pants sliced off, his pads removed.
He kept his eyes on the ceiling tiles, unwilling to look at the ruin of his knee.
Turning his head left and right, he searched for Nico, who had been there with him until the tests but then disappeared.
Jake knew he should be strong, but he longed to hold Nico’s hand again.
“Mr. Fitzgerald? Jake?”
He blinked, trying to focus on the middle-aged woman leaning over him, her dark hair swaying in a short bob. “I’m Jake,” he replied stupidly.
She smiled fleetingly, without teeth. “I’m Dr. Choudhury. We need to do surgery on your knee to properly assess the damage and repair it.”
A commotion rumbled up from nearby, voices raised, a woman saying, “Sir, I told you that you need to stay in the waiting room.”
“No!” Nico nearly shouted. “I need to see Jake. Get out of my way!”
Dr. Choudhury grimaced. “Your teammate is very persistent.” She yanked back the curtain. “Sir, lower your voice and please leave. You’ll have to wait until after surgery.”
“No, I want to see him,” Jake rasped. Please. And some water?”
Nico pushed into the space, exhaling sharply. “They wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“Of course we won’t,” Dr. Choudhury admonished. “You aren’t family, and we still need to discuss treatment with Mr. Fitzgerald.”
Jake sucked the ice chip a nurse held to his dry lips and said, “He can hear. I want him to stay.”
The doctor nodded. “All right. Well, the damage appears extensive, Jake. I think you know that the ligament has been severely torn. We don’t need an MRI to confirm since the x-ray shows a small piece of bone has been pulled off the lateral tibial plateau at the top of your shin bone, indicating the ACL has been torn.
Chips of your kneecap were also broken off by the impact and need to be removed.
Given your age and profession, I suspect the meniscus—cartilage—is likely weak.
We’ll repair what we can tonight and assess. ”
“How long will it take to for him to recover?” Nico asked.
She glanced at Jake. “We can’t say right now.
We have to get in there and see what we’re working with.
It might require more than one surgery. I think recovery will be at least six months, if not longer.
” She hesitated, and Jake knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Whether or not you can play baseball again will have to be assessed down the road. Let’s take it one step at a time, okay? ”
Jake nodded because he couldn’t speak. His throat tightened as he looked at Nico’s stricken expression, but he had to be strong. Guilt sliced through him jaggedly to think he was abandoning Nico on the field.
This is karma. This is what you get for checking out all those years.
Nico looked between Jake and the doctor, then nodded.
“We’re going to take you upstairs now, Jake.” Dr. Choudhury gave his arm a pat and strode out.
You wanted to retire early. This is what you get for not appreciating everything you had.
“I—I’ll be here when you wake up,” Nico said, his voice steady after a shaky start. “Everything’ll be okay.” He glanced at the nurse, then gave Jake’s forearm a squeeze, his palm damp and warm.
Jake was supposed to take care of Nico, not the other way around. “I’m sorry.”
Nico’s brow furrowed. “Why? I’m the one who’s sorry. This morning, I—” He looked at the nurse again, but then Jake was being wheeled away, and Nico wasn’t allowed to follow.
Nico called out, “I’ll be here!” and Jake could only lay there and go where they took him. Powerless to fix it. Should have gotten out of the way! Must have been in Wrigley’s path. I was sloppy. He ached to turn back time and make the play again. To do something—anything—differently.
He couldn’t even sit up by himself. There was nothing he could do. Upstairs, another nurse cut through the rest of Jake’s uniform with precise, economical movements.
Snip, snip, snip.
She tossed the red and white fabric aside like garbage. Motionless, Jake wanted to weep, but knew it was what he deserved.
He’d played his last game and he’d lost.