Off-Trail at Sanctuary Lake

1. Shawn

Shawn

When I wake up, it takes me less than five seconds to realize I’m in a hospital.

The smells give it away—plastic and acrid antiseptic.

Then there’s the IV attached to my hand, the scratchy bed linen touching my skin.

I’m no stranger to hospitals. I’ve broken both arms, sprained ankles, broken my nose, had emergency surgery—twice.

There was that one time when I was five and I had a rash so bad my mom rushed me to the ER; it turned out I was just allergic to the new laundry detergent she’d bought.

But this is the first time I’ve been in a hospital and not known why. Did I take a pitch to the head? My head does hurt, a jagged line of pain across my crown, now that I think about it. But who were we playing? Boston? Philly?

A nurse comes into my field of vision—has she been here the whole time? She smiles when she sees my eyes are open then glances at the monitor. None of this worries me overmuch. Again, not my first time.

“Hello, Mr. Camden. How are you feeling?”

My mouth is dry, but I’m able to form words without much difficulty. “Headache. What happened?”

“I’ll get the doctor. And you have a friend here—she says she’s your agent.”

Callie’s here? The nurse moves the cloth partition and is gone before I can voice the question, so I sag back into the bed.

When a doctor comes in and I don’t recognize her, that’s when the thing that’s different about this particular hospital visit hits me.

It’s not trusty old Dr. Windsor or any of his team who comes to check me out, it’s someone called Dr. Morita.

And she treats me with cool professionalism, not the chummy warmth I’m used to from Doc Windsor.

Now I remember. I couldn’t get hurt playing Philly because I’m not on the team anymore. I’m no longer treated by the best sports medicine professionals in the country. I’m just a regular Joe in a hospital room with a headache.

“Your vitals are strong,” she tells me. “How’s your pain level?”

I try to wet my lips with my dry tongue, and the nurse brings me a plastic cup of ice chips. They don’t help a lot, but I manage to say, “Four.” I’m probably more like a seven, and the furrow between the doctor’s eyebrows tells me she’s not fooled. “What happened?”

“You were in a car accident, Mr. Camden,” she says calmly.

“Your airbag deployed, which is probably how you were knocked unconscious. You could see some bruising develop over the next few days. You don’t seem to have any lacerations or broken bones.

We’re going to treat you with the standard concussion protocol.

” She asks me a few questions about nausea and memory loss.

I know the drill, and my answers seem to satisfy her that I’m not experiencing more than mild symptoms. As a professional athlete, I should know.

Former professional athlete, my brain hisses at me.

“Would you like me to send in your visitor?” The collision is coming back to me now, and I’m pretty sure my visitor isn’t going to be particularly happy with me. But I can’t avoid Callie forever.

“Sure,” I croak. I lift my arm experimentally, managing to bring the ice chip cup to my mouth all on my own.

As I regain my bearings, I’m realizing I’m fine, just banged up.

Mild concussion fits the bill. I suck on my mouthful of ice chips while the nurse types some stuff into a computer and the doctor tells me she’ll be back in a while.

“Shawn.” Callie walks around the fabric curtain and straight to my bedside, her big, brown eyes full of concern. “Are you okay? What did the doctor say?”

“Mild concussion,” I say around the ice in my mouth. “Bumps and bruises. I’m fine.” My head doesn’t even hurt that much anymore.

Her broad shoulders drop slightly, but the worry doesn’t leave her eyes.

I’ve known Callie Roman for over a decade, but she’s only officially been my agent for the last couple of years.

Before that, her dad took me on as a client when I was a rookie fresh out of college ball, a fourth-round draft pick.

I was just happy to have a spot on a team, even if it wasn’t my first or second or even fifth choice.

Jamal Roman was a good agent, and a good man. Callie was his right hand before he retired and she took over his list. She might be an even better agent than her father.

“Shawn.” She has a way of saying my name through clenched teeth that makes me feel like a naughty child.

I maintain my eye contact with her even though everything in me wants to look away. “Callie.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

I give in and close my eyes. Yeah. I remember. “Mostly.”

“What the hell, Shawn? Jesus, you scared the shit out of Jett and me. Someone saw the footage and texted him. All we knew was that you’d been in a car wreck and the ambulance brought you here.”

“What footage?” The headache’s coming back. “Did you let Jett know I’m okay?”

“Tell him yourself. He’s here.”

“What time is it?”

“Two in the damn morning. Luckily, they’re being flexible about the visitor policy for dumbass athletes.

” Her tone contains her normal level of sass and makes me feel marginally better, even though guilt swamps me.

She shouldn’t have to be here in the middle of the night because of me.

Neither should Jett. He’s the starting catcher for the Hartford Laurels baseball team, and they’re going on the road tomorrow.

The man himself walks through the door, thighs like tree trunks and shoulders to match. “Hey, brother,” he says, taking up the spot next to Callie. He’s sporting a two-day-old beard and purple smudges under his so-dark-they’re-almost-black eyes.

“Why are you here? You should be in bed,” I say.

“I’ll sleep on the plane.” He smiles at me. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”

“How’s the car?” I ask, sparing a thought for my sleek silver Lamborghini.

“Hopefully totaled,” Callie puts in. She never liked that car. I think she once called it “conspicuous consumption on steroids.”

“Damn.” I chew on more ice chips, not sure what else to talk about now they can see I’m fine. What else is there to say?

Callie and Jett exchange a look, then Callie nods and Jett opens his mouth to speak. I feel like a little kid whose parents have been talking about him behind his back.

“So here’s the thing, brother,” Jett says.

“You didn’t just lose control of the Lambo and bump into a telephone pole.

You did it in front of a crowd gathered for some fall equinox festival.

There’s video of it all over the internet.

My cousin saw it and sent it to me asking if you were dead.

Scared me to death. You nearly hit some pedestrians.

There’s footage of them jumping out of the way.

And if you’d been drinking, you’d probably face charges. ”

My stomach turns at the idea of hurting someone, even unintentionally.

My already dry mouth gets drier. Thank god it was only me who was injured.

It could have been so much worse. “I wasn’t drinking.

” That much I do know. I rarely drink more than a beer or two, and I didn’t have even that last night.

“Then how the hell did you lose control of your car?”

I close my eyes again. “I had a session with Dr. Russell.” My therapist—the one Callie made me start seeing after I got cut from the team.

We met at his office, and afterward I should have gotten some dinner, but I wasn’t hungry.

“Then I went for a drive.” I bombed around on some back roads, headed back to the city late.

“Maybe there was something in the street. Maybe I had to brake hard.” I vaguely remember turning onto Asylum Avenue, a few blocks from my apartment.

I’d been thinking I should just turn around and drive until dawn because I had nothing to go back for.

No job. No one to care if I even came back at all.

I swallow against the lump of self-pity in my throat.

“Yeah, maybe,” Jett says. “Anyway, brother, you’re not exactly in good shape publicity-wise at the moment.”

“What does that mean?”

“We think it would be a good idea for you to get out of town for a while,” Callie says.

“Get out of town?” She’s acting like I’m a criminal with the heat on my tail.

“There’s this place up in Maine. Josh Morse told me about it.”

“Josh?—oh right, the PR guy.” I remember him from the initial fallout over my being released from my contract. Good guy, for someone who works in public relations.

“His aunt owns a retreat there. As soon as the doc clears you, you’ll go stay for a while,” Callie says. “It’s nice. Out of the way, quiet, next to a lake. Just what you need.”

“Why does it sound like you’re sending me to my room without supper?” I can’t help the sarcasm.

“Because you’re acting like a kid. And I very much on purpose chose to remain childless, so I don’t like this any more than you do,” Callie snaps back.

“Look, bro,” Jett adds, arms crossed in a stance I know from five hundred ball games. “A change of scene will be good for you. Think about things. Think about the future.”

“Now that I’m unemployed?” The bitterness of my words coats my tongue.

The silence that follows is heavy. Until last night, I hadn’t entirely given up the idea that I could get back to pro ball, maybe not with the Laurels, but another team might take me.

I’m only thirty-five. I have a lifetime .

290 batting average. Maybe I’m not an all-star player, but I’m solid. Dependable.

Or at least I was, before I tore my UCL last spring. I had Tommy John surgery, but my throwing arm has never been the same. With some different guys in the head office this year, it was apparently a surprise to no one but me when I was released from my contract midseason.

It’s been a long, confusing couple of months since then. It took a while for what was happening to sink in. Every time my phone rang, I thought it was Callie calling to tell me they’d made a mistake, or another team wanted me.

Dr. Russell finally got me to admit the obvious in our session last night. I’m never playing baseball professionally again. I’m not wanted anywhere. Callie doesn’t even want me in the state.

She glances at Jett, then at the door. “Jett, you aren’t my client, but if you were, I’d tell you to go home and get some sleep.”

“Sure thing,” Jett says, before clapping me lightly on the shoulder. “Take care, brother. Don’t do anything stupid up there in the woods.”

Callie doesn’t say anything after he leaves, just looks at me until I bark out, “What?”

“What is going on with you?” she asks mildly. Her tone is a little scary. Callie is many things, but mild isn’t one of them.

I’m tired and sore and guilty and feeling sorry for myself. “You aren’t my agent either, so why don’t you just go?”

“You may not be playing ball anymore, but I’m still your agent.

Read our contract,” she says sharply. “More importantly, I’m still your friend.

And I’m worried about you. So that’s why you’re going to this retreat in Maine.

I’m getting a driver to take you. And you need to get your head screwed on straight because I’m too old to be hauling my ass to the hospital in the middle of the night because of stupid shit like this. ”

I wince as her raised voice pierces my jostled brain. She can send me to the moon, but it’s not going to make me stop wishing I could still play pro baseball.

“Shawn. Say something.”

“I hate this.”

“I know,” she says, her voice worryingly soft again. “But you’ll get through it. And things are going to get better.”

Right now, ass o’clock in the morning, hooked up to an IV, my team leaving tomorrow for a series against Baltimore as they battle to secure their playoff spot without me—that day seems impossibly far away.