Hooked On You (Gatlin #5)

Chapter 1

— Scout —

I inhaled sharply as Linney, our team physiotherapist, gently pressed her fingertips into my elbow joint.

“Sore?” she asked, her caring light-blue eyes meeting mine as her fingers explored the area.

Sitting on the edge of the massage table, I hissed through my teeth and winced when she touched on a particularly tender spot. “A little… Yep, there.”

Concern pulled her brows lower as she focused.

While eyeing me with concern, Coach cleared his throat. “How’s it looking, Linney?”

Linney flexed my arm in and out a couple of times. “Hard to say for sure, but I’m worried it’s the beginnings of a Tommy John. It’s at least sprained.”

“Fuck,” both me and Coach cursed in unison.

A Tommy John injury was an elbow ligament injury and usually needed reconstructive surgery to fix. It had the potential to take me out of the entire season as well as impact the next if I couldn’t get it under control and rehabilitated quickly.

Coach eyed me and opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “It’s not bad enough to bench me if that’s what you’re going to suggest.”

I constantly worked on my fitness and physique to minimize issues like this. Having a flared elbow joint only one month into this season could be a major problem.

“I have to consider the entire season, Gats. We’re only in May,” Coach stated.

“I know that!” I growled, partially from frustration and partially from Linney poking around.

She murmured an apology while applying ice.

“Coach, c’mon. Let me finish the game. Jasper can’t shoulder the entire thing.” Jasper, our long receiver, was currently pitching while Linney worked her magic.

Coach frowned and rubbed his chin. “You’re not going to like this, Scout…”

I gritted my teeth, steeling myself for the inevitable.

“...but I’m benching you for the rest of this series and next, perhaps longer.” He then looked to Linney. “Treat as required, then we’ll discuss his rehabilitation plan after the game.”

She nodded while pressing against my shoulder as if expecting me to charge at Coach. Fuck knows I wanted to.

I could have argued until I was blue in the face, but I knew he was right. I’d fuck it up even more if I went back onto the pitch tonight.

Coach shot me a tight smile, then left the resource room with a dull thud of finality as the door closed in his wake.

“Fuck,” I hissed and banged my head against the wall behind the massage table.

“It’s been giving you minor trouble for a while now, Scout. You know this,” Linney murmured with sympathy.

I scrubbed a hand down my face. “Yeah, I know. But I thought I had a handle on it. It was fine until I threw that fastball to Karlow.” I’d been sick of him smirking at me, so I unleashed a punishing pitch. Guess the joke was on me now.

I growled out a frustrated exhale. “Be real with me, Linney: On a scale of one to ten, how fucked am I?”

She didn’t bother suppressing a snort of amusement. “Well, that depends on how early we’ve caught the injury. At the moment, I’d say it’s a fifty-fifty chance either way. Obviously, we want to avoid surgery where we can, but in cases like yours, it may be better to get the ligaments reconstructed early to avoid further injury, as well as taking into account the recovery and rehab time following a UCL reconstruction.”

My heart sank. Either way, it didn’t look promising. Baseball was my entire life. I’d signed on with the Portland Bears five years ago at the age of twenty-six. I was fully aware that I was coming to the end of my six-year contract, and an injury like this was essentially a career-ender.

I swallowed that bitter little pill in silence as Linney wrote up her notes.

It was no secret that pitchers faced injuries like this. I liked to think I was invincible, but after turning twenty-nine, I’d noticed a decline in how quickly my body recovered from the after-game aches and niggles. In my mind, thirty could get fucked. My body though… I knew my performance had peaked in my late twenties and despite working extra fucking hard to maintain strength and flexibility, aging was a factor I couldn’t control nor evade.

“Linney?”

Her blue eyes found mine. “Yes?”

I swallowed again and lifted my head. “This isn’t going to be the end of me,” I stated.

She pointed her pen in my direction. “That’s the attitude. Now, I know you’re itching to get back to the dugout, so keep it iced for fifteen more minutes, then check in with me before you head home later. I’ll have your rehab program sorted by then.”

“Thanks, Lin.” I slid off the table while cradling the ice pack to my elbow.

“See you in a bit,” she called, already poring over my notes.

Irritation over the injury had my jaw clenched and the scowl a permanent feature on my face as I sat my ass down in the dugout next to Morillo.

His expression showed concern despite snorting at the ice pack on my elbow. “What’s the damage, dawg?”

“UCL sprain mostly likely. It’s minor though.” I kicked back. “Linney’s erring on the side of caution.”

He grunted. “You playin’ or you out?”

“Out for the moment, man.”

“Fuck. How long?”

I leveled with him honesty while scrutinizing Jasper’s pitch. “Dunno. It’s two series at this stage.”

“Fuck,” he repeated.

“Yeah, fuck.” He wasn’t making my mood any more cheerful.

As a new batter stepped up to the plate, Isaiah twisted toward me. “Still going away this weekend?”

Shit, the wedding. I tipped my head back enough to rest it on the dugout wall. “Yeah, man. Wouldn’t miss it.”

My childhood friend from back in Gatlin Falls was marrying his high school sweetheart on Saturday. When he asked me to be a groomsman, I accepted without hesitation. Beckett had come a long way since our high school days; he’d served time in jail and was now working on some ranch out in Montana. It was real good to see him pick up the pieces of his life. What we’d all been through as teenagers had destroyed us all in its own special way. We’d been torn apart then thrust through hell, but Beckett and Mercedes had always been destined for each other.

With one eye on the batter stepping up to the plate, Isaiah hummed. “Amen to that, dawg—”

We were on our feet and hollering as Tito caught a high ball in the center field, then hurled it to Stoney on second base, getting two opposition players out.

Momentarily forgetting about my injury, I hollered and clapped, then clutched my elbow when the searing pain spiked through the joint. I didn’t dare let on how much it really fucking hurt, but Jesus fuck me until I cry, I bit down as hard as I could to lock the reaction down.

While the dust settled from the double-out, I left the dugout as incognito as I’d arrived and made my way back to the resource room.

Linney glanced up and did a double take when I entered. One look at my face, and she was on her feet.

“It’s not good,” I murmured.