7. TIM
Chapter seven
TIM
I’m dying. This has to be what dying feels like. Cold but hot, my legs like iron weights, bones trying to rip free from my skin, throbbing and pulsing in sharp bursts. Death is coming for me, I am sure of it. At least that is what it feels like right now as I sit naked in my shower eating ice and letting the steaming hot water run over my body as I shiver and ache in pain.
The second I said I felt a bit off at warm-up this morning, the trainers had me isolated in a room, and when my temp spiked, they pulled me from the roster and sent me home. Good thing they did, too, because I was only home for about an hour before the chills started. My head was throbbing next, and despite the blanket of exhaustion that has surrounded me, I can’t sleep. The shower is the only place I feel even remotely human, and in another two minutes my alarm will sound, and I’ll drag myself out so that I’m not using too much water. Technically, I’ve used three days’ worth of showers already. I hate wasting water. It might be an Aussie thing ingrained in me from the summers spent under water restrictions.
The alarm sounds, and I reach up and push the lever to shut the water off. My bathroom is filled with steam, and it fills my lungs, warming me from the inside out, but I still can’t stop shaking.
I pull myself up, dry off as best I can with a towel, wrap myself in my dressing gown, and open the door. The cool air of my loft brings my teeth chattering together, and I crawl into bed, snuggling under the covers and pray for sleep.
At some point, it must have worked because the next time I open my eyes, it’s dark outside, and there’s a knock coming from my door.
“Just a minute,” I call, and then there’s rustling and footsteps, but when I open the door, no one is there. Motherfuckers. Seriously, who knocks and runs a sick guy?
As I turn, I catch sight of a bag at my feet. This better not be a bag of dog shit, I think, remembering my school days back in Aus when a few douchebag teens would drop bags of dog shit off on old Mr. Tucker’s doorstep and run away. They used to light it on fire, though, and this bag is warm, but it smells good, not like shit at all.
I take it inside and set it on the table before opening it up to look inside.
A large tub sits with a cat-shaped sticky note attached to the lid.
Get better soon, is written in block letters, but it isn’t signed. I crack the lid, and the most delicious smell fills my nose. I really should leave it or dump it. God only knows who dropped it off, but my stomach growls in protest. I haven’t eaten in who knows how long and the pit in my gut only sinks deeper the longer I wait, so I grab a spoon and sit.
It’s probably from Ryan. He’s always cooking for the guys. Or Duckie. No, he’d use a duck note, not a cat one. Yep, probably Ryan.
It tastes even better than it smells, and after finishing it off completely, I pop a few Advil and climb back into bed, sleep finally coming easily.
***
I grab my coffee and climb through the window onto the fire escape. It’s early, but I’ve been asleep for the last fourteen hours and am finally starting to feel like me again, so what better way to give myself a little soul boost than to watch the sunrise over Savannah from the rooftop terrace. I lean on the bar top I bolted to the ledge. I have the best view. From here, I can see the old lighthouse and the tops of the yachts moored at the marina. The sky is peppered with clouds, their dark undersides contrasting with the brilliant golds and yellows of the rising sun behind them.
“Good to see you’re feeling better,” a voice calls from below. With the sun not yet risen high enough to illuminate the street well, all I can tell is they’re big.
“Thanks,” I reply, not wanting to be rude.
“I was going to drop this off at your door, but if you’re up and about, maybe you don’t need it.”
I squint to try to see them better. “Sorry, I can’t see you all that well down there.”
“Oh, no problem. I’ll come up.”
Then he disappears from view, and I hear the rattle of the fire escape ladder. He can’t be serious. Is it a guy from the team, and I’m just too tired to recognize his voice? He’s kind of Harry’s size, nope, actually he’s not, he’s bigger.
A flash of the Misery movie crosses my mind, and I look around me for something I can use as a weapon if this guy ends up being some kind of sunrise serial killer. It’s not like I can run inside, he’s on his way up using the only way down. I head over to the smoker and grab one of the long forks from my barbeque tool set.
“Wow, this is really cool,” the voice says, and I spin to find Lion standing on the terrace, wide eyes staring out at the sunrise.
“Oh, hey, umm, Lion, right?”
“Yeah. I know it’s not a name you hear every day. My parents had a thing for animal names. I’m Lion, my sister is Mouse, and I have a brother, Buck. But hey, you look great. Mrs. Crisp’s soup is amazing, right?”
“You brought the soup?”
“I thought it might help. Ryan told me you were sick, that’s why you weren’t at the game.”
“Did Ryan tell you where I live?”
“Nope. I ride past here on my way to work and saw you climbing out the window a while back. I just counted the floors up.”
“Oh. Umm, thanks,” I reply, scratching my head. Is this guy for real?
“You’re welcome. So, are you feeling better?”
“A little. I actually do think the soup helped.”
“Oh, good. I brought you more. Mrs. Crisp is my neighbor, Daffin is always at her place, so when I was sick a few months ago, she brought this to me, and I was good as new in two days. With how much you want to be out on that baseball field, I wanted to help.”
I finally notice the bag in his hands. It’s a good thing he wasn’t a serial killer standing up here with a knife or chainsaw in his hands, I wouldn’t have even noticed. He really commands the space. Not just because he’s big. Though his extra-wide shoulders don’t exactly hurt. It’s his eyes and smile that hold your attention. There is a childlike happiness that radiates from him, and it completely disarms any fear or nerves that had risen before I saw it was actually him.
“Is Daffin your… partner?”
“My cat, one of them. I have four. Daffin, Chip, Reynolds and King. Wow, this view is really amazing.”
“I was super excited when I saw the space up here, it was the perfect place for my smoker.”
Lion turns away from the view to take in the whole space.
“You cook, too?” he asks, moving over to the lounge area and placing the bag on the coffee table.
“I barbeque,” I reply, suddenly releasing that I’m still holding the fork. I place it away with the other tools and sit on the corner seat of the lounge.
“That’s awesome. Is that why you go to all the barbeque places when you’re on tour?”
“I like to see what good barbeque is out there, yeah. Umm, how did you know that?”
“You posted about it last year. Remember, you had that picture of you and some of the guys from the team at Brend’s Steak House. It looked great, but I bet yours is better. You’re great at everything you do, that flip you did to catch the fly ball the other week was insane. I got it on camera, too. Did you see it?”
“That was you that posted that video? I knew it. You’re Kittyball100.”
He blushes a little, and it’s too freaking cute.
“Yeah. I umm, I just wanted you to see how cool it looked from where we were. The crowd loved it. It must be hard learning all the dances, plus trick plays on top of practicing the actual baseball, too. You’re amazing at it all, though.”
His words send a rush of energy through me, similar to what I get seeing all the posts and comments online but amplified somehow. I don’t hate it.
“I try to visit a new place in every town we hit on the tour. Do you cook?”
“Sort of. I make things. I work at a cafe in town, Mary Beth’s cafe. You met her at the restaurant the other week. She’s my boss.”
“What cafe?” I ask, and he sits on the side of the lounge, the sun rising behind him illuminating him in a golden glow. He looks like a god. A really fucking gorgeous god. I should probably be freaked out that he knows where I live. Duckie thinks he could be dangerous, but he’s not. I don’t know how I know that he’s not. I just do. He’s sweet, and he cares about people. About me. I like being cared about. I’ve been on my own for so long, looking after myself has become the norm, and it feels nice to have someone else want to do it.
“The cafe’s called Sweet Blossoms.”
“Oh, I know that place, it always has the flowers on display.”
“I do those. I make the fresh sandwiches, too. Mary Beth does the coffee.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s great. I get to work every day with my best friend, and she’s already approved every day I need off for Banana Ball season. I have one of the Big Banana season passes, so I’ll be at every game this year.”
“Wow, so you’re traveling along with the tour, then?” I knew he was a fan, but every game? That’s commitment. If he’s only working at a cafe four days a week, how can he afford to travel to all the games? She can’t pay that well. Maybe he saved up for it or has another income. Maybe he plans on hiding out on the tour bus with the team, like a stowaway in the luggage compartment. Okay, that’s not likely, and we’ll be flying to a bunch of the games, not like he could hide out on a plane. Not that he could hide anywhere. He’s the kind of guy who stands out in a crowd.
“Yep. My sister and brother got it for me. It comes with two passes, though, so she’s lining up fans who couldn’t get tickets to join me at each away game.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah. I mean, she is totally going to try to use it to set me up on dates. I don’t want to be set up, so hopefully she starts choosing women or old people, they are loads of fun at games.”
“Yeah, they are always fun to hang out with pre and post games, too. I met an old guy last year who used to play ball back in his hay day, he said he wished it was this much fun back then. I should have seen if we could have gotten him more involved in the game, I reckon he would have loved it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, next time you have a great idea like that, you should go for it.” His stare moves to the horizon, and the light catches his hair, making it shine like a golden mane, and I imagine running my fingers through it.
“I will,” I say, and Lion stands.
“I better get going or Mary Beth will try to organize the display again. I hope you’ll be well enough to play this weekend. I’ll be there, I have a BnB booked for three nights.”
“Yeah, me, too. Thanks again for the soup. It was really sweet of you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He heads down the fire escape, and I move to the edge to watch him go. His broad shoulders barely fit inside the cage surrounding the ladder. He jumps the last few rungs down to the ground and lands in a soft thud. He pulls on a helmet before jumping onto his push bike and riding toward town. I watch him until he turns a corner, and it’s only then I realize I was hoping he would look back my way.