8. Chapter 8
The December snow had started to fall more often; a thin layer spread on the ground as I walked toward the PT clinic.
Wet slush soaked through the mesh of my tennis shoes, and my breath puffed out in quick clouds.
The clinic’s sliding doors dragged open—even the building was exhausted by how often I came here.
The inside still smelled of disinfectant, rubber bands, and the faint musk of old sweat. I wasn’t sure that’d ever change. A sense of routine and progress had started to replace the old feelings of being broken, but only a tad.
“How are we feeling today, Easton?” Nate called out the second he saw me, a smile plastered under his beard.
“Like someone replaced my shoulder with a soggy paper towel,” I said, dropping my backpack by the wall.
He chuckled. “Perfect. Let’s make it a soggy paper towel with slightly more structural integrity.”
Today was band work and isometrics—the boring stuff that reminded me of being a little kid pretending to work out. I used to long-toss three hundred feet and throw eighty-eight miles an hour without blinking. Now I was being congratulated for rotating my arm like a malfunctioning robot.
Nate knelt beside me as I tried the external rotation reps again. He adjusted my elbow, steadying it with two fingers. “You’re stronger than last week,” he said.
“That’s pathetic,” I muttered. “Last week I could barely lift a water bottle without feeling like my shoulder was stabbed.”
“That’s... not true,” he said, eyebrows lifting. “And even if it were, who cares? Don’t measure progress based on what you used to do when you were healthy. It’d be like judging a sprinter based on how fast they run with a broken ankle.”
I tried not to roll my eyes, but he had a point. A stupid one. A right one.
“Still feels dumb,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “Baseball’s your identity. Losing part of that is gonna sting.”
The words hit harder than any band exercise. No one had ever said it out loud. Not even Tanner—who tiptoed around the topic like it might explode. Or I might explode. Which I might, if I had to contemplate life without baseball.
“And recovery isn’t linear,” Nate added. “Your brain is learning to trust your shoulder again.”
I paused mid-rep. “My brain?”
“Yeah. It remembers the pain. It’s gonna fight you sometimes.” He tapped the side of his head. “Half the work is up here.”
I hadn’t known that was a thing. Or that my brain had shut off like a car engine after midnight.
When the session ended, sweat clung to the back of my shirt. My arm trembled with fatigue. The good kind of fatigue. Maybe.
Nate handed me a printed sheet with diagrams of the exercises to do this month. “Keep at it. You’re doing good work—even if you don’t believe me.”
I folded the paper and shoved it in my pocket. “Thanks.”
Outside, the cold hit fast, burning my lungs. Snowflakes caught in my hair as I walked to the Quinns’ house. Four of the Quinns—including Tanner—were checking out a college Zach wanted to visit. I’d been invited but declined, determined not to miss a single PT appointment.
Mrs. Quinn had asked me to spend the weekend at their house with Gavin. Not exactly a babysitter, but pretty much.
“Gav, I’m back!” I yelled when I opened the front door. No response.
I made my way up to Tanner’s room, where I’d slept last night. It had been weird sleeping in there alone, but what could you do?
I grabbed clean clothes and headed for the shower, my body a mix of sweat from the workout and the shivers from the walk home. The warm water sprayed my head like a relief valve—about as close to happy as I got these days.
The door swung open and snapped me out of my trance.
“Dude!” I said, covering myself even though I was behind a curtain.
“What?” Gavin’s voice rang out. “I only wanted to say hi.”
“You couldn’t wait until I wasn’t naked?” I said, relaxing slightly.
“Who cares? We’re both guys.”
“Boundaries, Gavin,” I said, rubbing soap on my legs, trying to finish fast.
“It doesn’t bother me. Zach and I do it all the time,” Gavin said, missing the point. The sound of the toilet seat shutting rattled around the small bathroom.
“Are you taking a poop?” I said, rinsing my legs.
“No, just sitting so we can talk.”
“Bro. We can talk when I’m done in the shower.”
“I’m bored, though,” he whined. “But I was thinking, if a shark fought a bear, the shark wins, right?”
I ignored the question, turning off the water and letting my body drip as I reached around the curtain to grab my towel.
“Never mind then. Do you want to get pizza later?” Gavin asked as he scrolled his phone.
“We already talked about this. Yes,” I said, throwing on my boxers before stepping from behind the curtain.
Gavin looked up. “Zach said I should switch to boxers, but he’s dumb. What do you think?”
“Dude. I’m not sure there’s anything I care less about than what underwear you wear,” I said, slipping on my sweatpants as quickly as possible. “Wear what’s comfortable.”
“Okay, perfect. Tighty-whities are more aerodynamic, anyway, so I’ll stick to those. You can look it up,” Gavin said, following me back to Tanner’s room.
I grabbed a shirt from my bag while Gavin stood less than five feet away from me. “Gavin. Can you give me, like, even a little room to breathe?”
A smile spread across his face as soon as my shirt passed my eyes. He stepped closer to me, the mischief in his eyes. “Why? Am I annoying you?”
“Yes. Yes, you are,” I said.
“What are you going to do about it?” he said, his giggles vibrating his entire body.
I playfully shoved him away from me, hoping that would end it. But Gavin didn’t have an off switch. He came back at me, trying to put me in a headlock.
“I’m gonna hurt you, kid,” I laughed, lightly shoving him off me again.
Then I saw him fall.
His foot had stepped awkwardly on my bag, and his body fell to the ground. He threw his hands out to save his body, and I heard it before I processed what was happening—the snap of a bone.
Gavin started screaming as he grabbed his left wrist. I swore it had changed shape.
“Oh, fuck,” I yelled, frozen in place.
“Easton,” Gavin said, tears already falling from his eyes, “I hurt my wrist.”
My mind was in a panic. How had I hurt Gavin, of all people? Mr. Quinn would kill me when he found out. Mrs. Quinn would never let me back in this house.
Focus, Easton. Deal with the fallout later.
Gavin needs ice. Right. Get him downstairs.
“Downstairs, dude,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady for him, but my mind was going to break at any second.
I picked him up and wrapped my arm around his body. Quiet sobs came from the kid as I escorted him down the stairs.
“Sit at the table,” I instructed. I opened the fridge, taking a second to let the breeze overtake me, which accomplished nothing.
Okay. Ice on a towel. Get him to hold it.
Perfect, done.
Now what?
My hands were shaking as I went through the options as fast as my mind would let me. Gavin needed to get to a hospital. Like, now. But the Quinns were over an hour away, and I couldn’t drive. Neither could my grandparents.
Coach Berrios.
I dialed his number, Gavin continuing to try not to cry but failing miserably.
“What’s up, Easton?”
“Coach, I messed up. Can you come pick me and Gavin up at his house and take him to the hospital? His wrist looks broken.”
“What the hell is going on, Easton?”
“Please,” I begged.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Be ready to go.”
The ten minutes felt like ten hours. Gavin’s crying had turned into light sniffling, the shock of what had happened starting to wear off.
When Coach arrived, I opened the back of his car and helped Gavin in, buckling him in as he was too preoccupied to do it himself. I slipped into the front seat, the heat from the vents making me even more flustered.
“What happened, Easton?” Coach asked. His voice was soft, but the question jabbed at me.
“We were fooling around. He tried to put me in a headlock, and I pushed him away. He tripped on my bag.”
“Have you called his parents yet?”
“Can you?”
“Not on this one, Easton,” he said, and my hands went cold around my phone. I continued to fiddle with it as we got closer to the hospital, not wanting to punch in the number.
“You need to do this, Easton. We’re going to need Gavin’s insurance info.”
“Okay,” I said. I delayed for another minute, but when the hospital came into view, I pushed the call button and waited.
“What’s up, Easton?” Mr. Quinn said, his voice too light and happy.
I swallowed.
Mr. Quinn spoke again, his voice sharper this time. “What happened?”
“There’s something wrong with Gavin’s wrist,” I spit out. “Coach Berrios is taking us to the hospital. We were messing around, but it’s my fault; I shouldn’t have shoved him.”
“You shoved Gavin, and you’re headed to the hospital?” Mr. Quinn said. His voice ripped to a level I’d never heard. “What do you mean you were just messing around? Is he okay?”
“I’m sorry,” I gasped.
“You’re sorry? Jesus fucking Christ, how many times do I have to ask you guys not to roughhouse? Put Berry on the phone.”
I handed over the phone, unable to say anything else, tears coming to my eyes.
“Hi, Scott. ... Yeah, we’re headed to St. Mary’s. Gavin’s going to be fine. We’re just going to need your insurance info. ... Yeah, I’ll stick around until you guys get back. ... Not a problem.”
Coach ended the call as we pulled into a parking lot and handed me the phone. He had this sad look on his face, like he knew the doghouse I was in with the Quinns.
I hoped I could survive it.