Chapter Seventeen #3
“That won’t be necessary. Mark is just going to re-record Lukan’s lines, and he’ll be in the next cast record for
episode five. But rest assured, your role is safe. Griffin’s particularly
impressed with your work, and we’re all looking forward to introducing Ashla to
the fans.”
Relief washes over me in waves, and I reach for my chair and
sit down. “Any chance his plan is to let the fans know sooner rather than
later?” I tease.
She laughs again, looking as relaxed as I am.
“Unfortunately, no. We’re really leaning into the surprise announcement. And
considering this is a brand-new series that acts as a prequel to so much of the
existing franchise, it’s important that we do everything right.”
I know it makes sense from a marketing standpoint, but I
can’t help being a little impatient.
“No one’s going to hear it from me,” I assure her. “Even if
it kills me.”
Amy glances around before moving in like she’s about to tell
me a secret. “For the record, it’s killing me, too.” With a smile and a wave,
she turns to leave. “Keep up the good work, Ella!”
Sighing, I slump down in my chair. The last few minutes have
been such an emotional roller coaster.
Much like the rest of my life, so why am I even surprised?
“I can’t believe they let Mark go,” Christian says.
“Seems to me they wasted the poor guy’s time.”
“Sometimes, you don’t know how something like this will turn
out until you’re underway, you know?”
“I guess.”
“I was about to have a total panic attack because I thought
I was the one being let go. I feel terrible that I was so relieved.”
“Why should you feel bad? It’s part of the business.”
“I know, but I hate thinking of anyone losing their job. I’m
not competitive like that. It’s not in my nature.”
“I don’t think you were being competitive. You’re playing
completely distinct characters. Haven’t you been on shows where roles were
recast or cut completely?”
“I have. It’s happened to me before. Twice!”
“Okay, then. So, this really isn’t anything new,” he says
lightly. “And from what you said, they’re really impressed with you.”
I nod. “I just don’t want to get too cocky and think I’m
irreplaceable. Because everyone is.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Uh-oh…
“What’s going on?”
This is where he typically tells me he’s fine, that
everything’s under control, and I have nothing to worry about.
“I’ve got a tear in my back.”
I close my eyes and silently count to ten before I speak.
“Okay. What does that mean?”
“Well, it’s technically a tear in the middle of my back. I
don’t know what happened. I was doing my physical therapy exercises when I
heard a loud pop.”
“So, did they put you on the injured list?”
“No, I’m doing therapy, and they say I can play through it.”
“So, you’re still playing.”
“Yes.”
I really want to punch something right now. I have so much
anger and frustration built up that I’ll have to look into a way to get it all
out before I hurt someone.
Karate? Kickboxing?
I know there are studios all over the city for both. Maybe I
can look one up and see if I can join, or if I have to wait for a new class to
begin, or…
“Ella Rose?”
But first, this.
“I’m here.”
He chuckles. “I know you are, but you aren’t saying
anything.”
“I’m not sure there’s anything to say. You’re hurt.
You’re still playing. And I’m worried. Same song, different verse.”
“The trainer assures me…”
“You know what? I can’t do this right now.” Guilt hits me
hard, but maybe part of the problem is that I always cave and listen and
believe and hope.
“What do you mean? Do you have to go?” he asks. There’s no
hint of accusation, only trust and genuine concern that he’s keeping me from
something.
“No. I mean, I can’t do this—this conversation—again. I
can’t keep listening to you telling me you’re hurt and then saying how you’re
not going to do anything about it.”
“But I am doing something. I’m doing the therapy. I’m being
careful…”
“If you were being careful, you wouldn’t keep getting hurt.”
He’s quiet for a minute before I hear the sigh.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to get a second opinion. I want you to go to a
doctor who is impartial and has nothing to do with baseball. I want you to hear
it from a medical professional who isn’t being paid by the team. And I want to
be there to hear it, too.”
He’s quiet again before he finally agrees.
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Would you like me to look for a doctor, or do you want to?”
“I know you’re busy, so…”
“We’re both busy,” I assure him. “Neither of our jobs is
more important than the other. But if it’s okay with you, I think I’d like to
do a little research and find a physician. There must be a back specialist in
St. Louis.”
“Okay.”
I don’t dare get my hopes up because going to the doctor and
hearing results won’t guarantee anything. Even if he’s told he should never
play baseball again, I’m not foolish enough to believe he’ll listen.
But if I’m there and have all the information and not the
watered-down version I know I’ve been getting, then maybe I can advocate better
for him.
If he’ll let me.
With my current frame of mind, I’m not going to hold my
breath.