Chapter 4
GOOD NEWS
SHABOOZEY
OWEN
“There he is.” My brother's voice breaks through the fog of confusion I’ve been trying to pull myself out of for what must have been hours.
Though my eyes are still heavy with sedation, the feel of Jack’s hand on my chest is a grounding presence.
A reminder that we’ve been here before, in very different roles.
“Take it easy, O. They’re holding you over for the night, so you don’t have to rush it. ”
I lick my lips, trying to rid myself of this dry, cotton mouth, only to feel the plastic of a straw at my lips and Jack urging me to drink more. “You already downed an apple juice, but I guess it wasn’t enough.”
“I did?” I say, confused but able to open my eyes a little more, taking in my surroundings and remembering why I’m here in the first place.
The game feels like a million years ago.
How hard I was working and praying to just make it through one more pitch—one more inning—only to feel my shoulder give out, and then an excruciating snap in my elbow.
A possible career ending snap. Closing my eyes against the rush of tears I don’t want Jack to see, I take another sip.
“Oh yeah, ya did.” He chuckles, an unusual bit of levity for him in a place I know he hates. “Brooke all but spoon-fed you every ounce of applesauce and juice the post-op nurse instructed her to give you, and she barely batted an eye at all the confessions that slipped out in your anesthesia haze.”
“No,” I groan, lifting my good arm to feel where bandages are placed over my shoulder and down the length of my arm. “How bad is it?”
“Your injuries or your impending embarrassment?”
“Both.”
“Well, little brother,” he says with a sigh, setting the apple juice down on a cart nearby and leaning over the railing of the hospital bed so we’re sitting eye to eye.
“I always say, go big or go home, and you went big. In both cases. You’ve got a SLAP tear in the cartilage of your rotator cuff and, as they suspected, a grade three tear of the ulnar collateral ligament along your elbow. ”
Basically, every pitcher’s nightmare and a season ending one at that.
“Recovery?”
“Twelve to fifteen months,” he says, without sugarcoating a word. I always appreciate Jack’s honesty. It’s likely why my family chose him to break the news to me.
“And…” I clear my throat, knowing it can’t get much worse. “The other thing… with Brooke.”
He leans back, wearing a shameless grin. “You sure you want to know? We could wait. Give you a minute to get your bearings before—”
“Just tell me.” I close my eyes and let my head melt into the pillow.
“Well, the moment you woke up, you all but pushed Mom out of the way, begging for your Brookey.”
“I didn’t.” I feel the heat climbing up my neck.
“You really did. You wouldn’t eat or drink until we brought her to you.
” He does little to hide his amusement, and I wish I could disappear into the floor.
“Mom all too willingly obliged, of course, and I’m pretty sure she filmed at least part of your confessions.
I believe she turned off the camera right after you insisted on kissing every one of Brooke’s fingers between bites of applesauce and just before you went into astonishing detail about the way you have all of her curves memorized.
You had a hint of applesauce dribble and some post-surgery gas that Brooke seemed to be really charmed by.
Between all that and the way you sang “Can You Feel the Love Tonight,” I think you’ve really got a shot, man. ”
“I hate you.”
“Aw, I love you, too, bro.” He slaps my good arm, and, thankfully, the rest of me is too numb to feel the jostle it causes. “Seriously, Owen, listen up.”
I open my eyes, and it’s not the pain or the embarrassment, but Jack’s sudden seriousness that makes me crack.
“You’re going to get through this. Do you hear me?
” he says, returning his hand to my chest. He’s solid and strong, and, not surprisingly, the only person I want to see right now.
The only person that I know truly gets it.
That the pain I’m feeling isn’t physical but the result of the possible loss of my future plans and goals, all taken away within the course of a single pitch.
“Physical therapy. Practices. Whatever we have to do. You will play again, O. You’re gonna make it to the Majors, and I will be with you every step of the way. ”
I know he means every word in earnest. He wants to be here for me like I tried to support him, but we both know he has a life, with a wife and a newborn daughter now.
He doesn’t have the time to keep the promises he’s making, and I’d never ask him to sacrifice a minute of the life he fought so hard for just to watch me convalesce and pray desperately to still have a career after the dust settles.
Closing my eyes against the range of emotions hitting me, I settle back into the bed. Jack’s chair shifts, and I hear him take steps towards the door.
“Jacky?” I whisper, feeling like I did when we were little boys and I’d wake Jack up in the middle of the night whenever I had a bad dream.
I don’t want to be alone.
“I’m not going anywhere, buddy.” Jack pauses at the door, and without me having to ask and not an ounce of jeering, he adds. “I’m just going to get your Brookey.”
He quietly hums “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” as he leaves, and I let myself relax back into the mattress, only now realizing there’s an army green, toy Bronco that looks a whole lot like my actual Bronco on the bedside table—evidence that my best friend was truly here—as I drift back to sleep.
Tots, Collaborate & Listen is packed tonight.
The whole place smells of beer and tater tot combos.
The crowd is electric as they sing along with Dinah, her sister, Emory, and their friend, Chloe, to “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places.
” Drinks in one hand and arms around shoulders, the whole place is swaying like they’re at the tail end of a Garth Brooks concert but aren’t ready to go home yet.
Months ago, Nate and Maloy, the owners who are brothers and my life-long friends, insisted they’d host a party for the team and our supporters as a way to open up the Badgers’ season.
At the time, I thought it was a great idea.
I could tell Brooke’s relationship with Wolverine was coming to an end.
My six pound, nine ounce, perfect-angel niece had just been born.
And, the Atlanta Hammers’ management had just reached out to my coach with interest in scouting a game.
Everything in my life was going pretty well.
A night of karaoke with my teammates and family sounded like icing on a perfectly baked cake.
But tonight, four days post-surgery, and two before I miss my first game thanks to this injury, I’d rather be anywhere else. I know no one expected me to come tonight, but I didn’t want to let the team down more than I already have.
The Hammers have officially moved on, letting my coaches know they wished me all the best but couldn’t risk further investment. No need to waste time on a player who may not even have a career by next spring.
“Hey.” Brooke slides onto the stool next to mine at the bar, letting her hand rest on my back. “Do you feel okay, or are you ready to go?”
Nope. Just wallowing away in self-pity.
“And miss you singing “Strawberry Wine?” Not a chance.” I take a sip of my drink, doing my best to smile over the rim of the glass, though the pain is really starting to intensify. I want Brooke and my team to have fun tonight. Even if I’m miserable.
“You could sing, too, ya know?” She orders a ginger beer, then scoots her stool closer to me so we can talk over Titan’s surprisingly good rendition of “Unchained Melody.” Looping her arm through mine, Brooke leans in.
Despite the noise and the scent of beer and cheese permeating the room, the smell of her hair fills my senses.
She’s wearing it down tonight, curled in a messy but cute way that I know took her little time to perfect but makes her look breathtaking.
She smells like the shampoo she’s used for years. Almond and shea butter. It’s sweet and savory and makes me want to bury my face in the spot along her neck where her dusky, black hair lies in waves against soft, pale skin. Ya know, like friends do.
“I bet everyone would be just delighted to hear you sing a good love song, O. Maybe something Disney inspired.”
I groan and take another sip. “You’re never gonna let me live that down are you? I was not in my right mind, Brooke. Drugged. Loopy. I can’t be held accountable.”
She laughs, shaking her head, and begins to sing, “You’re holding back, you’re hiding…”
“You’re a pest,” I joke, though I can’t say that I mind it a bit. She’s light and silly tonight, brightening this little corner of the bar, the night, and my world… like she always does.
“Yeah, but you love me—”
We both freeze. The truth of her words—and my confession while under the influence post-surgery—stuttering between us.
The way her eyes can’t meet mine as she runs her finger over the rim of her glass tells me she wasn’t expecting her teasing to lead to an actual discussion about what I said at the hospital.
Something that, despite our proximity over the last four days, she’s expertly evaded.
I’ve got little going for me now that my entire professional life and goals are essentially on a twelve to fifteen month—possibly indefinite—hold.
Something about knowing my life has taken a dramatic turn has me wanting to throw caution to the wind and press pause on my promise to Brooke.
To acknowledge that everything I said when I was at my most vulnerable was, and has always been, the truth.
She clears her throat and starts to push back from her seat. “We should probably get you home, right? You’re due for meds.”
“Brooke—”