Chapter 3
Walker
Present Day
It had been about a month or so since I’d come back home to Primrose Hill.
The fracture wasn't fully healed just yet, but it was healed enough for the cast to come off and for me to start physical therapy to get my arm moving again.
I was itching to get back in the gym; sitting still was torture for a guy like me, but Dr. Bennett was adamant that I needed to take it slow.
I was headed into town to grab some coffee from my favorite place, PrimCup, when my phone began to ring over my truck's speakers, my agent’s name flashing on the screen.
I pressed the button to answer the call. "Hey Scott, how's it going?" Scott Fisher had been my agent since the beginning and was incredibly loyal.
"Walker, it's going good. How's the arm feeling?"
"It's feeling better. I start PT next week, so we’ll see how it feels then." I flicked my blinker on to turn onto Main Street.
"That's good to hear. Just wanted to check in to see how you’re feeling after all the articles about your injury came out. I hope you're not paying any attention to that bullshit."
I clenched my jaw. The articles were everywhere.
Speculation, opinions, predictions about whether this injury was the end of my career.
At thirty, the general consensus seemed to be that I was finished.
I didn't feel done, not even close. I wanted, hell, I needed a World Series win before I retired, like I needed my next breath.
"Nah man, I try not to read or listen to any of that shit. Just trying to stay focused on my recovery," I lied easily.
In reality, I’d read every headline. Each one sank me deeper into a dark headspace I didn’t recognize. It scared me more than I wanted to admit. But I wasn’t about to say that out loud.
"Good. Well, keep me updated on how PT is going, and if you need anything in the meantime, don't hesitate to call or text me." I knew Scott was as anxious as I was for me to get back to the game. I was his most lucrative player.
"For sure. Thanks for calling,"
I ended the call and pulled into a spot outside PrimCup. Across the street, the sign for Wildflower Interiors stared back at me.
My chest tightened.
Every time I saw it, the same sinking feeling hit.
I was proud of Farrah. Proud that she’d built the life she’d always dreamed of, but it still burned that she’d done it without me.
Nine years had passed, and I was still angry.
Still hurt. I’d managed to avoid running into her since I’d gotten home, but I caught myself listening for her laugh, hoping for a glimpse of her somewhere in town.
Shaking it off, I headed inside.
“Walker James!” Grace Williams called the moment she spotted me, abandoning the counter to pull me into a hug. “I’ve been waiting forever for you to show your face.” Grace was a tiny woman with a silvery bob and the bluest eyes.
I laughed softly. “Hey, Mrs. Williams. Sorry I took so long. I’ve been lying low.”
“Well, I’m just glad you’re here,” she said, already pouring my coffee. “Ray’s in the back if you want to say hello.” She and her husband, Ray, were good friends of my parents and often made appearances at our Sunday family dinners.
I poked my head into the back to find Ray Williams sitting in his office at his desk. "Hey, Mr. Williams. Just wanted to say hello before I head over to my parents’."
The older man pushed back from his desk and came over to shake my hand. He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed, his deep brown eyes shining. "Good to see you, Walker. How's the elbow feeling?"
"Feeling better. I start PT next week," I took a sip of my coffee and nearly moaned. They made the best damn coffee, and it was one of the things I missed most when I was in the city or traveling.
"Good to hear. I'm sorry about the injury, but I can't say I'm disappointed that we’ll get to see more of you around for a little bit.
" He smiled. "I don't want to keep you, so be sure to refill that cup and grab a blueberry scone on your way out. Say hello to your parents for us," He made his way back to his desk. “Oh, and Walker? Don’t listen to all that bullshit noise. You’re not done.”
I huffed out a laugh. "Thanks, I appreciate that. I'll see y'all soon." Back at the counter, Grace handed me the scone without a word, as if she’d heard every bit of our conversation.
I walked back to my truck, and once again, out of habit, I glanced over towards Farrah's building.
That’s when I saw her.
Long blonde hair falling down her back. The same posture I’d know anywhere. My breath hitched, my heart kicking hard as I stood frozen beside my truck, silently willing her to turn around. Just a glimpse—that was all I needed.
But she didn’t.
She slipped inside Wildflower Interiors, leaving me staring at the door long after it closed.
I didn’t know that girl.
Not anymore.
“How does that feel?” Dr. Howard asked, hands steady as he worked my elbow through its range of motion.
“Better,” I said honestly.
“Your mobility is ahead of where I expected it to be,” he said, jotting notes onto his clipboard.
“Well, you know me, I’m an overachiever,” I deadpanned. “So, what’s the bad news?”
Dr. Sean Howard was in his early fifties and had helped me rehab several minor injuries throughout my career.
The team used to insist I see a physical therapist in Austin who worked with our players regularly, but I would always drive to Primrose Hill to see Dr. Howard.
The guy knew what he was doing, and I trusted him.
I’d been working with him since I was fifteen years old, and he was just starting his practice.
He knew everything my body had been through over the years, and knew how to heal me properly.
After the first few injuries, the team saw what he could do and left me alone about it.
Dr. Howard chuckled. "I wouldn't say there is bad news, but probably just bad news to you. I think it'll be about three or four months until you can start working with your pitching coach to begin throwing again.” He leaned against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankles, with his arms crossed against his chest. "For now, we’ll start with isometric exercises, then we’ll introduce resistance, and after that, we’ll move on to shoulder and core strengthening.
I want you here at my office three days a week, and I’ll put together a program that you can do at home.
You’ll need to do the home exercises two to three days a week, preferably on the days you’re not at my office. "
I hopped off the treatment table. "Sounds good, I can do that. Can I work out at all?"
"You can do anything that won't impact your elbow—so legs and core. You can also run, just be careful and don't do anything that could risk the healing of your elbow," Dr. Howard said as he led me out of the treatment room.
I nodded. "Noted. All right, well, I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Yup, tomorrow the real work starts to get you back on that field." He smiled.
On my way home, I called my field manager, Coach Parks, and my pitching coach, Coach Turner, to give them the latest update.
A detailed report had been sent to Dr. Bennett and Everett, and they were already working on what my pitching program would look like once Dr. Howard and Dr. Bennett cleared me to resume throwing.
Seemed like everything was already taken care of, and now it was all on me to do what I needed to do to heal.
When I returned home, all I wanted to do was crawl back in bed and be done with the day.
Between the brief glimpse of Farrah this morning and having to start rehabbing my elbow, I was over it.
I didn't really know what to do with myself if I couldn't work on my pitching or run my body through my usual grueling workouts.
I didn't know how to sit with myself and my mind, especially when the only thing I seemed to be able to focus on at the moment was Farrah.
She was always there, sitting dormant in the back of my mind.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind spiraling. I began to question whether I had made the right decision all those years ago.
What if I’d fought harder when she walked away?
What if I’d chosen Primrose Hill instead of chasing baseball?
Would we have been happy? Would it have been enough?
Then my mind drifted back to baseball and this goddamn injury. The thoughts turned darker.
What if I didn’t come back the same?
What if this was it?
Who would I be without the game?
My phone vibrated, interrupting the endless questions running through my head.
Mom: Hey sweetheart can you come by tomorrow to help your dad?
Me: Sure 10 am ok?
Mom: Perfect see you then
I lay my head back against my pillow and shut my eyes on a defeated sigh. How the fuck was I going to do this for the next several months?