The Sweetest Game (5 page)

“Cassie?” Joe’s voice echoed in the tunnel, followed by the sound of him hanging up the rotary phone. Unable to speak, I looked up at him helplessly. “No one else is in there,” he said gently. “You can go in.”

He opened one of the large doors for me and I walked through into the one place at the stadium I’d never been before. I eyed the oversized couch and the carpet patterned with the team’s logo, before my gaze fell on the lockers bearing each player’s name and jersey number, a soft spotlight highlighting each one as if they were museum exhibits. I laughed to myself that the guys called them “lockers” when they looked more like the thin oak closets you would find in hotel rooms.

I found myself longing to photograph the room as each individual detail called to me in ways that only new places can. Occupational habit, I supposed. Or denial, maybe.

“Kitten?” Jack’s voice rang out through the large space, an undertone of pain causing it to sound different somehow.

Snapped back to the present, I called out, “Jack? Where are you?”

“Walk to the back of the room and make a right.”

As I hurried past the row of lockers, number 23 grabbed my attention and I couldn’t resist the impulse to pause for just a second at Jack’s locker since I’d never seen it, and might never have the chance again. His travel bag and street clothes hung inside, waiting for him, and I ran my fingers down the fabric, moving them slightly. Taped against the back wall was a picture of the two of us on our wedding day, flanked by other candid shots of us. I loved how much this man displayed his love for me.

With a slight smile, I headed toward the back of the room and rounded the corner just as the team doctor injected a shot into Jack’s arm to help ease his pain. I noticed that he didn’t even wince.

“I think it’s shattered,” Jack admitted as soon as his dark brown eyes met mine.

SHATTERED
.

And in that moment, that’s exactly how my heart felt. I rushed to his side, needing to be as physically close to him in that moment as I could.

“We don’t know that yet,” the doctor interjected. “I’m Dr. Evans.”

I extended my hand to his. “I’m Cassie.”

One look at Jack’s face and my chest ached with the need to protect and comfort him. I stroked his shoulder as I asked, my tone all business, “What do we know?”

“It’s definitely broken, but to what extent I’m not sure yet.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “But it will heal just fine, right? People break their hands all the time.”

Dr. Evans nodded. “True. But we need to make sure it won’t require surgery, or pins or metal plates.”

Pins or metal plates? Oh my God.

Jack swallowed audibly and I continued to prod the doctor, my growing concern overruling all levelheadedness. “And if it does, then what? People have surgery on their hands all the time too. They get better.”

“Yes, Mrs. Carter, they do,” he said with a frown. “But most of those people aren’t major league pitchers.”

My heart sank. “So, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I need to x-ray his hand first and then I’ll have more answers for you.”

Jack’s chin dropped to his chest and I watched his eyes close.

“Do I need to take him to a hospital?” I started to reach for my cell phone to call Matteo.

“No, no. I have a machine in the other room. As the team’s physician, I’m responsible for Jack’s condition and his recovery. It’s my job.”

“Wow. So we don’t have to go anywhere else?” Since I’d never thought this through, I didn’t know how it worked when a major league player was injured. Wrongly, I’d assumed Jack would have to get checked out at regular hospital, like normal people. But then again, the team chartered their own commercial planes to fly them places, so nothing about this lifestyle was normal.

“If I’m on the road with the team, one of my trainers will be here to help you, so no. You should never have to take Jack anywhere other than here.”

The Mets organization cared about Jack’s recovery, so I allowed myself to be comforted by the thought that he would be taken care of by the people who were invested in him the most. It was in their best interest, as well as his, to get him healed.

“If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Carter, we’ll only be a minute.” The doctor motioned for Jack to follow him into another room. “Let’s go see what we’re dealing with, Jack.”

I paced the floor, one hand tugging at my lips from nervous habit. I wanted to call Dean, but knew he’d ask me questions I didn’t have the answers to. So I waited to call anyone until I had more to tell them. A broken hand was one thing, but having a hand that required surgery was another.

A few minutes later, Jack exited the medical room alone and scooped me into a careful hug. I felt his heart racing as our chests pressed together. “I love you, Kitten.” He gave me a quick kiss, then released me and hopped back onto the exam table. His hand looked painful, his fingers had taken on a purplish tint and were swollen to a ridiculous size. The sight of it made my stomach tighten painfully and I had to turn my gaze away.

“I love you too.” I wanted to say more, but words failed me. Bringing my hand toward my heart, my fingers grazed across the ball chain necklace that lay there. I glanced down at the key attached and moved my fingers to it, rubbing them across the etched letters for comfort
.

Between the lies from Chrystle and the brutality from the press and fans, it wasn’t that long ago when I felt like my insides were unraveling. Melissa had given me this necklace when I needed it the most. Imagining that Jack was experiencing the same sort of feelings right about now, I realized this was the right time to pass the necklace on, as was intended.

I reached around the back of my neck, my fingers gripping at the chain before pulling it over my head. When I lowered the necklace around Jack’s neck, he looked up at me, his face pale and strained with pain, and raised his eyebrows at me. The bronze key fell against his sweaty white T-shirt before he glanced down at it. With his uninjured hand, he lifted the key and flipped it to the stamped side, then read its message out loud. “Strength.”

“You need this more than I do,” I said before leaning in and planting a kiss on his scruffy cheek. “We’ll get through this. No matter what the doctor says when he walks through that door, we’ll get through this.”

I tried to sound positive and strong, but my insides were rattled and fraying. If Jack lost baseball because of this, I wasn’t sure he’d ever get over it. His self-image, his hopes and dreams—hell, his whole identity—were wrapped up in the game. If the worst happened, if he could never play again, I had no idea how he’d process that loss.

The sound of the door creaking open caused me to pull my gaze from Jack’s and glance behind me. Footsteps slapped against the floor as Dr. Evans walked in our direction, a smile on his face. “Good news. You don’t need surgery and it’s not shattered.” I exhaled a huge sigh of relief and watched Jack do the same as the doctor continued. “You do have multiple fractures, however, here and here.” He pointed at areas on the x-rays as Jack tensed beside me. “And we need to get you in a cast immediately.”

“How long will I be out?” Jack asked, his face turning even whiter.

“Minimum, six weeks. It could have been a lot worse. Frankly, I’m surprised it isn’t.”

I watched as Jack flexed his jaw and worked to keep his emotions in check. He didn’t like that answer, but there was no answer that Jack would have liked. One day not playing baseball was one day too many for him. Six weeks probably sounded like a death sentence.

“I can’t leave my team for that long.” Jack shook his head as he mumbled, “I can’t let them down like that.”

“Jack, look at me,” I begged. “You’re not letting them down. They’ll understand, and they’ll want you to get better. Six weeks is better than six months, right? Let’s take it one day at a time.”

The pained look in his eyes informed me that these next six weeks were going to be anything but easy.

Hearing Dr. Evans tell me I’d be out for six weeks made me want to fucking scream. But I didn’t scream when I was frustrated; I hit shit. And right now, with a broken fucking hand, I couldn’t hit anything.

A million thoughts raced through my head at once.

Why the fuck did I stick my hand out like that? No one in their right mind could catch a fast-ball being hit straight back at them. I must be mental. What if my hand doesn’t heal right? What if they find someone new to replace me? Six weeks is a long time to have your job up for grabs. What if I can’t throw again after this? I didn’t want to get hurt. I just want to play baseball. What if I can’t play anymore? I busted my ass to get where I am, I don’t want to lose it. I’m a ball player, that’s what I am. That’s who I am. What the hell will I do if I’m not playing baseball?

It was one thing when it was your choice to leave the only job in this world you could see yourself doing, but being forced to quit was another. The truth was that it was rarely ever your choice to leave.

I sucked in a breath, took one look at my beautiful wife, and hopped off the table. Grabbing her by the hand, I pulled her forcefully out of the locker room.

“Jesus, Jack, stop. That hurts.” She jerked her hand from my grip and I winced.

“Sorry, Kitten. I just want to get out of here.”

She looked at me with sympathy in her eyes and I almost fucking exploded. The last thing I needed right now was my wife looking at me with pity. “Don’t look at me like that,” I ordered.

“Like what?” She stopped walking and tilted her head at me questioningly.

“Like my life just ended and you want to make sure I’m going to be okay.”

She huffed out a breath before rolling her green eyes at me. “You’re an idiot.”

“Excuse me?” I shouted, my voice echoing throughout the concrete tunnels.

“Of course I want to make sure you’re okay, Jack! Jesus. Excuse me for giving a shit about your mental state. But I never once thought that your life just ended.”

“You don’t get it,” I breathed out, my tone agitated. I was acting like a complete asshole in this moment and I fucking knew it. But I was pissed off. I was angry about putting my hand out like that … for letting it get hit … for letting it get broken.

“Oh, so now I don’t get it? You’re joking, right?” she snapped in response, her tone matching my own, before she turned around and walked away from me.

Fuck.

I needed to stop doing this to her; it wasn’t fair. Irritated with myself, I smacked the palm of my hand against my head before rushing to catch up to her. I reached for her arm with my good hand, desperately pulling for her to stop. “Kitten. I’m sorry. I’m mad at myself, not you.”

She nodded, her long blonde hair swinging with the motion, then let out a little sigh. “I know.” Then she locked her fingers with mine and pulled me toward the parking lot.

Once in the car with Matteo behind the wheel, I watched Cassie as she scrolled through her contacts, searching for my brother’s phone number. She must have already warned Matteo, because he hadn’t said two words to me and was avoiding all eye contact. My girl was good at this. I wished I hadn’t been such a dick earlier.

I reached my free hand across the seat and squeezed her thigh. She glanced at me, still a little wary of me, it seemed. “Thank you,” I whispered as she scrunched up her face in confusion.

“For what?” She scooted her body closer to mine to keep our conversation private.

“You know what.” I nodded my head in Matteo’s direction and she shrugged. I chose wisely when it came to picking a wife. She was the best thing I’d ever done. I needed to not fuck us up. Again.

She refocused her attention to her phone and I watched as Dean’s name popped up on her screen and she pressed
SEND
. The phone rang twice before my brother’s voice came from the speaker. “What’s up, Sis?”

Cassie turned off the speaker and sucked in a breath as she lifted the phone to her ear. “Hey, Dean. I just wanted to let you know before you saw it on
SportsCenter
or
Baseball Tonight
or something.” She paused briefly before continuing. “Jack broke his hand tonight.”