Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
Brooke
My phone vibrates for the fourth time. I silenced it after two calls, but Morgan won’t stop. I would turn it off completely, but then I might miss something from a doctor or nurse.
I finish the X-ray on a kid’s ankle, trying my best to ignore whatever Morgan wants. Actually, I’m almost certain I know what she wants, which is more reason to avoid my phone.
Unlike her and Maribelle, I have contacted zero people this week concerning baseball. Unless you count taking Timothy to Nate’s house for one more practice.
Yet another reason I’m not excited about him playing ball.
I help the little boy back in the wheelchair so his mother can roll him to a room. “They have room two ready for you. I’ll let the doctor know the X-rays are done.”
“Thank you,” the mother says.
I open the door and lead them in the direction of the patient room. The boy is about the same size as Timothy. I don’t dare ask how he hurt his ankle, because I’m afraid the mom will say baseball.
When I leave the room, I’m extra cautious turning around. I have been ever since the day Nate surprised me in the hallway.
I wait until I’m back in the X-ray room to text Easton that I have images ready for him and a patient in room two. That’s when I notice a ton of texts from Morgan. None of them say anything other than “Call me.” Most of them in all caps.
I roll my eyes and call her.
“Brooke! Where have you been?”
“I’m at work. Aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?” I sit in the desk chair behind the imaging wall. Best get comfortable. Morgan likes to have lengthy conversations.
“I found enough kids to go in the draft.”
“Huh. I thought you said we needed one more.”
“That coupon won’t work.”
“What?” I hold my breath, hoping this isn’t some sketchy BOGO coupon for ball players they found on TikTok.
“Sorry, talking to the person I’m checking out.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and listen to her have a conversation with someone concerning a fifty-cent coupon for washing detergent. Morgan is lucky everyone at the Piggly Wiggly knows her so well, or else she might be without a job.
“Anyways, Aniston said Carter is ready to play again.”
“Really?”
“I know, isn’t that great?”
“Yeah.” I fight the temptation to think it isn’t. Selfishly, I want an excuse for Timothy not to play. However, Carter hasn’t played baseball since his parents died. If he’s wanting to play again, that’s a good thing. “Okay, I’ll let you go.”
“Wait!” Morgan screams in the phone.
I hold it back and rub my ear.
“There’s one more catch.”
Of course there is. I bite my bottom lip and wait for the news.
“A coach for the second team has to be present for the draft to happen.”
“Can’t Coach Bubba do that?”
“No. He can’t be a head coach.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not a parent.”
“Okay . . .”
My stomach swirls. I don’t like where this is going.
“Here’s the deal. I can represent the coach spot at the draft.”
“What!” Now it’s my turn to yell in the phone.
“Hear me out. Once we get a team, we’ll see who’s got good dads and make them the coaches.”
“I don’t know, Morgan. What if you get stuck coaching?”
“You think they’ll let me be a head coach?” She snort-laughs.
“If they wouldn’t, then what makes you think they’ll let you do the draft?”
“Because I’m bringing someone more respectable with me.”
“Who?”
I can almost hear her smile over the phone. “No, no, no.”
“Yes, for Timothy. You have to. Just tonight, okay?”
I sigh and ball my hand into a tight fist. Good thing I’m on the phone, or I’d be tempted to punch her.
* * *
Against my better judgment, I pull up to the elementary school gym a few minutes before six. Morgan, who’s usually late, is waiting for me by her van, a huge grin plastered across her face.
“You won, I’m here.” I sigh as her grin grows.
At least I had a little time off work to pick up Timothy and get him settled doing homework at my parents’ house. Morgan must have just left work, because she’s still wearing her red shirt with the Pig head on the back.
She struts to the gym entrance and opens the door for me. I walk in cautiously like I’m entering a hostage situation. There’s a lone table set up in the center of the gym and only the middle row of fluorescent lights is on. Hostage situation is an eerily accurate metaphor.
Footsteps come from the side, and we both turn our heads to Jeffrey across the gym. He flips on the rest of the lights.
“Ladies, welcome. The men will be here shortly.” He motions to the table with chairs around it. “Have a seat at the table.”
I give Morgan a cautious glare, then follow her to the table. It’s so quiet, we can hear the lights warming. The chair squeaks on the floor when I pull it back.
Morgan reclines in the chair beside me and pulls out her phone. She’s content with scrolling Facebook, then complains when there isn’t enough cell service for her to comment on a post.
We sit in silence for about two more minutes. Mainly because I don’t care to know any more than I have to about the draft. I’m here for moral support only.
Footsteps and low talking come from the door. I turn to five men, Jeffrey and Bubba included, walking our way. I lean toward Morgan as they get closer. “How many extra kids did you add?”
She bites her bottom lip and stares at the lights, then back at me. She shrugs.
“I know of like five, but Tami said she put something on TikTok about it.”
I drop my head to the table.
“Ladies.”
I raise my head to the men joining us at the table. Other than Jeffrey and Bubba, I only recognize one more. He blushes and looks away when I make eye contact. I would too. My only memory of him was when I worked the emergency room and he came in for a rash. It was poison ivy on places the sun doesn’t shine.
Let’s just say I bet he’ll look twice before he poops in the woods again.
“All right.” Jeffrey sits down last and slaps a few papers on the table. “Looks like we’re all here. Let’s get this show on the road.”
“How many kids did we end up with?” Morgan asks.
“Twenty.”
She nods at each guy, then raises one brow.
“My team is blessed with a lot of assistant coaches this year.” Jeffrey turns the papers toward her. “So I took the liberty of marking off the coaches’ kids since they’re frozen.”
Morgan’s eyes bug. “You can’t do that.”
“Rules are rules.” He taps the paper. “See here, I froze Andrew for you.”
“So you get six kids automatically, and I get one. What kind of draft is this?”
Bubba pulls the same small book from his shirt pocket as before. “According to section B, item eighty in the rule book, any parent willing to give up their time is guaranteed to coach their own kid.”
“But y’all get six? Why can’t I get six travel-ball boys?”
“Now let’s don’t go mixing tea with lemonade. Travel ball has nothing to do with park-ball drafting.” Jeffrey leans toward Morgan. “If you had assistant coaches, we’d freeze their kids for you too.”
Morgan grabs my arm and pulls me closer to her. My chair screeches on the floor. “I have Brooke.”
“Wait—”
She pinches my arm to shut me up. I obey because my arm is throbbing and she kind of scares me.
“Fine. Bubba, mark the Marshall kid off too.”
Bubba pulls a pen out of his pocket and puts a check next to Timothy’s name. I puff my cheeks and pray I don’t throw up. This is getting way out of hand.
“See, we got half the kids squared away. The rest shouldn’t take long.” Jeffrey shakes his arm and stares at a large gold wristwatch. “I may even make the second half of that cornhole tournament in Moonshine County.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding and slump down in my chair. Morgan owes me big time for this. Way more than her usual almost-expired free snacks from the Pig.
* * *
Nate
I tap my thumb against my knee and stare at the wall in the doctor’s office.
Now that Mom is safely squared away in her home—in my backyard—I can focus on my shoulder. Though I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. Therapy will be rough after a few weeks of nothing more than yard work and soft tosses to a second grader.
“Nathaniel Miller,” a nasally voice calls.
I turn to a young woman, who I assume is a new intern because I’ve never seen her here before. I try to ignore the twitch my shoulder gives when I push my hands off my knees to stand.
When I walk toward her, she smiles. “Nate the Great, right?”
Her eyes are starstruck and she’s still calling me “great.” Yeah, she’s for sure new around here.
“If you say so.”
She’s wearing a lanyard with the name “Shelby” on the tag. She’s also wearing scrubs.
Brooke works in scrubs. I bet she’d be hot in some Braves scrubs. Maybe I could score her a pair?
I shake that thought before it gets out of hand and follow Shelby to a larger room with medical tables with all kinds of torture devices.
“Have a seat and relax.”
I try not to laugh. They always tell me to relax, then wire my arm like a car battery.
Shelby turns the dial on the machine, and my arm tingles like I fell in an ant bed. “Good, or too much?”
“It’s fine,” I lie, knowing I need it and that my arm will adjust to it soon.
“Okay, let me know if it gets too much.”
She turns and walks across the room. I wait until she’s busy helping someone else before I close my eyes and try to relax.
Every tingle in my arm reminds me of a memory.
Pitching last season. Throwing out my shoulder. Having surgery. Prepping to pitch this season. Digging a ditch at the park. Soft-tossing balls to Timothy. Moving Mom’s china cabinet—with the china in it.
Yeah, that last one was probably the nail in the coffin that caused my current discomfort.
When my arm is all but numb, the machine cuts off. I open my eyes to Shelby peeling the sticky patches from my skin. A few arm hairs come off with one and I wince.
“Sorry.” She rubs my arm.
I look away. There’s no way I’m allowing a tiny girl to sense my pain.
“Dr. Trenton will be over in a minute.”
“Thanks.”
She offers a closed-lip smile, then moves on to someone on a table across the room. I watch the other guy flirt shamelessly as she tapes up his calf. Reminds me a lot of my buddy, Ace. He flirts with anything female and breathing. He’d most definitely flirt with a cute young woman.
Some of my teammates joke that I’m playing mysterious to make women want me more.
Truth is I spent the first part of my career with Brooke, then getting over Brooke. After that I focused more on ball and didn’t date unless I knew the woman well enough to make sure she didn’t have an ulterior motive. And the last few weeks I’ve moved into my Seeing Brooke Again Era, which brings up all kinds of emotions I don’t want to deal with.
I lean my head against the wall and squirm against the rubber padding on the table where I’m seated. I should be in Florida for spring training, but I’m here working with a team-approved specialist, still recovering from an injury. It’s becoming more of a recurring injury. One that’s made me think about retiring sooner than later.
I’m not even thirty, but pro athletes age in dog years.
Speaking of aging, Dr. Trenton is goals. The man is a retired Navy Seal who could pass for much younger if not for eye wrinkles and gray hair. He’s the only person I know who can make scrubs intimidating.
He marches my way, a faded bald-eagle tattoo partially showing under his short sleeve. He extends his hand without a verbal greeting. The bird’s wing turns on a flex when he squeezes my hand and gives it a firm shake.
I grit my teeth to play off the tension caused by him squeezing my already sensitive hand. Dang ant bed machine.
“Did that hurt?”
I narrow my eyes, trying to decide if he’s referring to the machine or the handshake.
“That’s what I thought.” He pulls a pen from his scrubs pocket and jots down a note.
“It wouldn’t bother me if I hadn’t been on the tingling machine first.”
He jots down something more. I lean forward, attempting to peek at the notes. But he’s also fast and slaps the folder shut.
“Nate, I’m going to work your shoulder through some different exercises than before. What’s concerning me most is that the pain is now crawling down your arm.”
Well, yeah, when you clip shockwaves to me.
Instead of answering, I do as I’m told when he stands behind me and pulls on my shoulder. Going through the motions of rotating my arm has never hurt so much. I’m blaming the china cabinet. Why does she even need that thing? We eat off her Pioneer Woman collection from Walmart.
But it’s Mom’s, so I moved it without question. Anything for her and...
My thoughts almost drifted to include Brooke.
They are the two women I’d do anything to protect. Anything to help. The only two women I’ve ever loved.
Crap. That’s why I can’t have an actual relationship with anyone. It has less to do with me thinking everyone is a cleat digger and more to do with them not being Brooke.
The doc presses his thumbs into my shoulder blade, causing me to jolt to attention.
“Let’s stand and work the bands a little.” I follow him toward the corner of the room. “Have you done anything recently to upset the injury?”
“I might’ve moved around some furniture last week.”
He shakes his head and hands me a resistance band. “Start stretching.”
No sooner than I pull the band outward, his fingers are needling in my shoulder again. He touches the tender skin of my surgery scar, and I cringe. I scrunch my face and concentrate on the exercise.
After a dozen or so reps, he circles in front of me and instructs me to stand straighter. “You need to stay away from any unnecessary lifting.”
“What about working out?”
His head wavers. “I need to have a discussion with your strength and conditioning coach for final say, but I’d go easy on the weight for any shoulder exercises.”
I sigh. It’s such a catch-22. I can’t pitch if my arm is weak, but I can’t build up strength if it will hurt my arm further.
“Look, I know this is frustrating. Nobody likes to think of ending a career.”
“What are you saying?” My voice is shaky, and now all my nerves tingle, not just the ones in my left arm.
“What I’m saying is if there’s any chance of you making it on this season’s roster, you’ve got to take better care of yourself.”
I hang my head in defeat. I finally started a few games last year in the majors, only to end the season with a bum shoulder. Now this?
Buying a home in Apple Cart was my retirement plan, but I didn’t plan on retiring so soon. Nothing in me wants last season to be my last.
“I’ll help all I can, but you’ve got to take care of that arm and shoulder.” He crosses his arms and gives me a stern face. “You’re recovering from a major surgery. Things aren’t the same as before.”
I study the eagle on his arm, staring at me as well. I lift my eyes and nod slowly.
“You’re a bright, talented young man. Follow doctor’s orders and you can still have a few seasons. Or heck, I hear the Savannah Bananas are always looking for new entertainers.”
I frown. As much as I enjoy watching Banana Ball, starring in a sideshow isn’t the way I pictured going out.