Chapter 8 Luca
LUCA
“I swear to fucking God, your upper body is deceiving,” Dom gripes as he swipes a towel over his face.
It’s late, but we decided to stay after everyone else had gone home and take advantage of the newly finished fitness facilities at the stadium. Dom thought I was insane putting a state-of-the-art gym into a minor league baseball stadium, but now he’s whistling a different tune.
“It’s okay to just admit you’re jealous,” I tease, earning a shove that is not quite strong enough to make me trip.
He’s known me long enough to know the limits of my balance.
And that upper body strength he’s talking about?
Comes from years of using crutches and years of needing that extra core and back strength just to walk around and perform normal activities.
Things that others don’t think twice about take me so much longer.
Yeah, I’m strong. Except for when I’m not.
We walk out onto the field, lit up by the also newly replaced stadium lights. Things are starting to come together after several months of hard work—and plenty of money.
“You think you can still hit off my curveball?” Dom shouts as he jogs out to the pitcher’s mound.
I grin. “Depends on if you can still throw like you did when we were sixteen.”
“If you mean deadly fast and accurate, then fuck yeah, I can.” He rotates his shoulder while I get into position, making sure my prosthetic is firmly planted. It’s been a long time since I swung a bat, but it feels good.
“If you hit this, I’ll let you spend whatever you want on merch design.”
My eyes widen and I nod enthusiastically. “You’re on.” The possibility of getting an unlimited budget to design new merchandise? Hell yeah, I’m gonna hit it.
He winds up, and my gaze zeros in on his arm. The ball leaves his glove, and thank fuck, he’s just as rusty as I am because it moves slow enough for me to track the path it’ll take and adjust.
I swing. And make contact. Not great, as the ball only goes a little past first, but there’s contact.
“That was pathetic, Calloway,” Dom jeers from the mound.
I scoff, taking a couple of practice swings. “Your pitch? Yeah, I know it was. Try harder.”
He barks out a laugh and nods at me before taking his stance.
This time, my bat connects with a lot more force and the ball goes sailing into left field. “How ’bout that?” I crow, swinging my bat around.
“Yeah, yeah, fine. Bankrupt the organization with foam fingers and jerseys,” Dom gripes, shaking his head.
“Forget fingers, I’m thinking giant foam lightning bolts.”
“That would work if we were the Cedar Creek Lightning,” he fires back, and I shrug with a smirk.
“Whatever. I get to do what I want. I hit the ball.”
We go for a few more pitches before switching places. Except the slope to the pitching mound presents me with a challenge. After the first few shitty pitches, I throw my glove down in frustration.
“Fuck.”
Dom jogs over. “Hey, everything okay?”
“Yeah. Fine,” I bite out, bending down and massaging my quad. “Just can’t get a good stance on the slope.”
He frowns down at my leg. “Doesn’t your fancy microchip thing help with that?”
I swear to God, this guy. He’s known what GaitSync is for almost a decade and he still gets it wrong. “That’s not what it—” I stop when I see him grinning. “Fuck you, Dom.”
“Hey. It worked, didn’t it? Got you to stop beating yourself up and get annoyed with me instead.”
I shake my head as we move over to the dugout.
I’m moving slower than normal, my leg starting to ache from the twisting motions that were unavoidable when I was batting.
It’s the same struggle I had when I was younger.
I could play ball, but only for short stints.
Thank fuck I had coaches willing to work with me, to adapt so I could play—even if it meant changing lineups on the fly when things would go wrong with my prosthetic.
GaitSync was meant to make all of that easier.
To allow people like me to adjust their prosthesis in real time, without always having to go to their prosthetist for it.
And most of the time, it works as intended.
But I’ve been putting my leg through a lot lately, pushing myself in the gym and playing ball tonight.
I could lie and say it’s just to deal with the ongoing stress of the renovations and revitalization of the team, but it’s not only that.
I sink down to the bench, and accept the water bottle Dom passes me, drinking from it deeply.
“So. Isla. How’s that working out?”
I toss my now empty water bottle at him. “It’s fine. She’s doing good work.”
Dom makes a sound, and my brows narrow into a hard stare. “What’s your problem with her? Don’t tell me you think she’s not good at her job.”
“I don’t have a problem with her work. I have a problem with the way you look at her when you think no one’s watching. She’s your fucking employee, Luca, not some random woman you can pursue without thinking of the potential consequences.”
My head falls back with a slight thud against the wall. “Trust me, I know. Nothing is gonna happen.”
“Good.” Dom slaps my shoulder. “Because we need her. A solid marketing plan is a huge element to our success. There’s a hell of a lot at stake if you chase her off.”
“Fuck off, Dom, I know.” My voice is harsh.
He’s not saying anything I haven’t already told myself.
“But I can’t just stop being attracted to her.
I can’t turn it off like a fucking light switch.
She’s beautiful, and funny, and smart. And so damn off-limits.
” I exhale slowly, letting my annoyance at my friend fade.
“Besides, even if I wasn’t her boss, there’s no saying she’d be interested in a guy missing his fucking leg. ”
Dom snorts. “Are you serious? Look, I had my reservations when you hired her. I still do. After all, she was the only damn candidate you interviewed. But she’s proving she can do the job.
Even I can admit she’s a good person. And while I definitely don’t think you should be thinking about dating her, she doesn’t strike me as the kinda woman who would care about shit like that. ”
I think back to what I’ve seen from Isla over the last few weeks.
She’s worked hard, every minute of every hour she’s here.
But she’s also kind, and generous, and sweet.
I’ve watched her take the time to learn almost everyone’s name, from the players to the admin to the janitors.
She brought in cookies the other day, including a special plate of nut-free ones for the outfielder who has a nut allergy.
She always checks with everyone before going on a coffee or lunch run, and most often brings back an extra treat for whoever she’s picking up a drink for.
She’s already made connections in the town, and they’re all positive.
Just last week, I received a call from the Cedar Creek Chamber of Commerce, complimenting me on my initiative to have our team sponsor a Little League team.
I didn’t even know we were doing that. But it made my fucking heart swell to hear it.
Isla Forrester is a good person, through and through.
“It doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, she’s here to do a job for us. And I’m not gonna jeopardize that just because I’m attracted to her.”
“I agree, Isla is off-limits. But what about dating someone else? I’m sure Coral could find someone to set you up with?” Dom asks before chugging the rest of his water.
“Your wife is a saint to put up with you, and a stellar woman. But I’m not letting her set me up,” I scoff. “Besides, even if I was interested, I don’t have time to date.”
“Okay, what about just finding someone to have some fun with?”
“It’s not that easy. Before my ex, the last two women I went out on a date with basically ran the other way when they found out I’m an amputee.
Sex isn’t as easy for me as it is for you.
It takes effort and coordination and they don’t want to deal with that.
Fuck, the last girl flinched when she saw it.
Flinched. That’s great for a man’s self-esteem.
” Dom is the only person I’ve ever allowed to see me this vulnerable.
“There are plenty of women out there who wouldn’t give a damn about your leg. Don’t let fear hold you back from finding someone, Luca. You’re a good man, and you’ve worked too damn hard to get where you are to live only half a life.”
He’s right, I know this. But what am I meant to do when the only woman I want is the one woman I can’t have?
More importantly, why do I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle against the part of me that says it’s wrong to want her…