Chapter Seventeen
Chapter
Seventeen
It’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day
again.
And not in a cute rom-com way.
Spring training is over, and Christian’s hurt and not
listening to the doctors.
Honestly, I’m starting to spiral. Balance? Non-existent. I
can’t keep holding everything together for both of us. I can’t be a wife, an
actress, an advocate, a therapist, and whatever other hats I need to wear at a
moment’s notice.
Why can’t I just be a woman living a somewhat normal life?
When will things calm down enough for us to breathe?
We’re back in St. Louis in our sparsely decorated apartment.
I have to admit, I want to hang pictures or paint some walls, but why bother?
It’s still just a temporary home, and this is the last year of his three-year
deal. We might have to move again. It’s just easier to keep it simple. I think
I’m finally coming to accept that. This is part of our lives until Christian
retires. Right now, we have this place, my apartment in California, and our
room at his parents’ house. And none of them are ours.
Not really.
I know my apartment is mine, but it’s mine and
Jen’s.
I remember Christian selling me on the move to St. Louis and
how we would finally have a place that was ours. Technically, that was true,
but it was temporary. It wasn’t a place we could settle into and make our own.
So, I’m choosing to look at this a little like a role when I’m on location.
While I’m not living out of a suitcase—not really—it’s also not home. I never
realized how much I missed having one until it was dangled in front of me and
then taken away.
Ugh…I really am dramatic.
On a positive note, I’m still flying back and forth to LA,
recording more episodes of The Echo Wars. I am so in love
with this series, and my character is developing in such a fun way that I
always hate it when our sessions end. I leave wondering what will happen next.
I mean, I have the script, but I still want more. I want to
see it all come to life.
And that’s the other positive news. Ashla is being modeled
after me.
Me! Well, sort of.
Not only do they want me to use my own voice, humor, and
personality for Ashla, but they also film my face during recording sessions,
and the animators are using my facial expressions for the character. It’s all
so surreal.
I told Christian about it, and while he was excited, he also
seemed distracted. I don’t know why he thinks I can’t tell when he’s in pain.
Either that or he’s simply pretending I don’t know, so we don’t have to talk
about it.
But he’s wrong.
After spending time with Jen, I know I need to start
speaking up more. I’ve gotten better about it, but there are still times when I
back down because I don’t want to argue—or, even worse, sound like a bully.
And how’s that for irony? The girl who has been bullied so
much in her life is acting like a bully now.
“I’m not a bully,” I murmur as I go into the kitchen to
start dinner. Christian will be home from the stadium in a little while, and we
like to eat close to that time. It makes it easier for him to come home, eat,
shower, and then relax for the rest of the night. Since his days are sometimes
long, and I’m not here often during the week, we cherish the times when we can
crawl into bed, watch TV, and talk quietly about our days.
It’s a nice way to end the day.
But when Christian walks in the door a little while later,
my entire body tenses up. He’s limping and favoring his left side. Plus, he’s
walking like he’s a hundred years old.
Frustrated, I take the pan of fried chicken off the burner
and go to him. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing. Just a hard game today,” he says wearily
before slowly lowering himself onto the sofa. I hear the hiss of breath, see
the pained expression on his face, and it takes everything in me not to shake
some sense into him.
But at this point, I’d probably only injure him more.
“Christian…”
“Ella Rose, please,” he says tightly. “It’s been a rough
day, okay?” He looks miserable, and I feel like if I say anything, it’ll be
like kicking a puppy.
And that isn’t acceptable.
He looks up at me, and I know he can tell I’m trying to hold
my tongue. His expression softens.
“Something smells good,” he says in a weak attempt at
changing the subject. “Is that fried chicken?”
“Of course, it is. You said you were craving it,” I say with
only a hint of annoyance. “I actually listen to the things you say, and you
know I’ll do anything to make your day better.”
After a long and not-so-quiet huff of frustration, he looks
at me. “Whatever it is you feel you need to say, please say it.”
Ugh. Please say it. Please say it? Obviously, he
knows I’m mad, and he’s politely asking me to let loose everything that’s on my
mind? Well…
I straighten, cross my arms, and stare at him, looking right
into those cute puppy-dog eyes.
Darn it.
“Am I a bully?” I demand, but there’s very little heat
behind the words.
“What?”
Nodding, I repeat the question. “Am I a bully? Do you feel
like I bully you?”
“Where is this coming from?”
“Just answer the question, Christian.”
“No. I don’t think you’re a bully.”
“Oh.”
Frowning, he asks, “Why do you think you’re a bully?”
“Because that’s how you make me feel!” I practically shout
with annoyance, my arms loudly dropping to my sides. “You come in here, clearly
hurt and in pain, and you lie to my face about it.”
“I don’t want you to worry, that’s all,” he says quietly.
“Well, here’s a newsflash. I’m going to worry. Every time I
see you wince, I worry. When you limp, I worry. When I see you barely able to
walk, I worry. So please save us both the trouble and just be honest.” I sit
beside him, taking one of his hands in mine.
And yes, he winces.
“Why are you still pushing yourself? It’s early in the
season. You’re clearly still dealing with issues from last season’s injuries,
even after all the physical therapy. We need to get you to some other doctors.
Ones who don’t work for the team and will actually help get you better rather
than tell you you’re okay so they can send you right back onto the field.”
“The doctors take my injuries seriously,” he counters
patiently. “They understand that some injuries just take more time to heal.”
“And yet they’re not telling the trainers or the coaches to
put you on the injured list for a little while.”
“I’m the one who doesn’t want to be put on the list.”
“Yeah. I get that loud and clear. But if the entire staff
listened to the doctors and took that decision away from you, then maybe you
wouldn’t be feeling like this.”
“I’m getting older, that’s all. I’ll feel better after a
good night’s sleep.” He kisses my hand. “Can we please just have a nice dinner
and relax?”
It’s like talking to a wall, and I know I’m not going to win
this battle.
At least, not right now.
“Fine. I’m going to go and finish cooking. Dinner should be
ready in about fifteen minutes.” I move to stand, but he’s still holding my
hand, stopping me from moving away.
When I turn and look at him, he looks…defeated.
“I get what you’re saying,” he says. “And I don’t take it as
you bullying me. But you know how it felt when you were with Workin’ for Laughs, and they were
underutilizing you, right? You were afraid to stand up for yourself because you
were worried about the possibility of them letting you go. It’s a little like
that for me. I’m afraid that if I let them underutilize me, my career will be
over.”
Oh.
“I’ve had to overcome so much in my career. No one believed
in me. Every day, I fought for respect. I fought to prove everyone wrong.”
“I get that, and you should be proud of everything you’ve
accomplished. Every single one of those people who wrote you off or didn’t
believe in you had to eat their words after you won a second World Series. Not
many players can say they did that, Christian. You don’t need to keep proving
yourself.”
But he’s shaking his head. “That’s never going to end. If I
fail? If I don’t go out there with my team, you don’t think all those same
people will say how they knew I couldn’t keep it up?”
“Christian, come on. Where does it end?”
“How can I go from being the World Series MVP to the guy
sitting on the bench all season? The fans will pity me, my teammates will be
disappointed, and the naysayers will get the last laugh. I can’t do it, Ella
Rose. I just can’t.”
I sit back down and snuggle close, resting my head on his
shoulder. “I wish I had the answers, Christian. I really do. There’s no way to
please everyone. It’s not possible. It’s your body. Your life. Not theirs.”
“I don’t know if I see it that way. I’ve been given a gift.
A talent. Just like you have. Would you be able to walk away at the height of
your career? If you won an Emmy or an Oscar, are you telling me you’d be okay
with giving it all up?”
“It’s not the same thing. If I were sick or injured,
then…yes. If I couldn’t physically do my job to the best of my ability, then I
think I’d accept it and walk away.” I pause before I add, “With dignity.” But
those two words seem wrong to throw out there.
He looks at me, his smile sad. “It’s easy to say that when
you’re not the one facing the decision. My whole life, I’ve been raised to not
be a quitter. Lucases never quit. And that now means
me and you. You are a Lucas now, Ella Rose…and I wouldn’t expect you
to quit.”
We look into each other’s eyes, and I can tell he means
that.
“And look at all the sponsorship deals I made after being
named MVP? I’d be a joke if the guy on the cereal box went from running the
bases and hitting home runs to sitting in the dugout.”
“Pushing your body until it breaks doesn’t make you a hero,
Christian. Wouldn’t it be better to be the guy who was the MVP and knew when
his body needed to heal rather than the guy who took too many risks and lost it
all?”
We sit in silence for several long moments. When he
responds, it’s not what I expect.
“Honestly? I don’t know which is better. I just feel like I
wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t give one hundred percent to
this. Even if it hurts.”
And the crazy part is, I get it because…
That’s how I feel about this relationship.