The worst part of it all is I haven’t seen Hollis since my last day in Florida which was over three months ago. I didn’t even get to see him for our one year anniversary. We were separated for both our birthdays. It’s killing me to be apart from him, to be missing out on all the important days of dating in this first year
Today, though, luck is back on our side. The Sox are playing the Phillies and since I have a day off, I’m going to spend it at Citizen’s Bank Park watching my man beat the Phils.
Okay, actually, I’m not even sure if he’s pitching today. He told me there was a last minute schedule change but didn’t actually elaborate if it was a good change or a bad one. Either way, I plan to see him today one way or another, even if I have to pull a Mulan, pile my hair under my hat, and sneak into the dugout my damn self.
With my sidekick by my side, I drag him to the gates early to make sure we’re the first people into the stadium. He doesn’t seem too thrilled with my exuberance.
“Can’t you get in early through a special suite or some shit? Don’t you have family and friends privileges?” Leo asks as he lifts his Phillies hat to wipe the sweat away.
“We’re not married, so I never asked. Besides, I like being a normal fan.”
“A normal fan sleeping with the star pitcher. Riiiiiight.”
I roll my eyes and pull my hat down over them. The hot July sun is already brutal and it’s barely even noon. I’m not sure how people in the south live in heat worse than this. It’s hot as Satan’s dick out here and I’m only in Pennsylvania. As soon as the gate opens and I’m through security, I run down to where the players are warming up, hoping I at least catch a glimpse of my boyfriend. A group of people push against me, having the same goal as me. The difference is they’re not sleeping with one of the players.
They’re also not here for the Red Sox, so I’m able to one-up them there.
I make my way down toward the away team’s dugout, scanning the field for my man. If he’s not playing, he may not even be on the field. If he is, he might be in the bullpen. It’s a damn miracle when I catch him throwing the ball to the catcher within the warning track.
“Hey, eighteen,” I call to him, a smirk in my tone. “Lookin’ good.”
His answering smile is what I’ll hold onto after this game when we’re apart once more. He leans over the barrier separating the stands from the field and kisses me. There are a few other Red Sox fans around, taking pictures and calling to him for autographs.
“I’m glad you came.”
“As if I could stay away.” Leo fake gags and I roll my eyes. “Are you pitching today?”
“Yeah, one of the other guys pulled a muscle which made me get bumped up for today.” I feel like he just pitched a game. I know they have rules and a set rotation, so I’m sure it’s fine.
“Good luck, baby. Throw fast or whatever.”
He chuckles and I give him one final peck before Leo and I head to our seats.
“I’m gonna grab a beer. You want anything?” my friend asks as I take my seat.
“Yes. A beer and a hot dog and a soft pretzel.” I smile broadly and he shakes his head. This isn’t the first time I’ve astounded him with my ability to eat. Then again, what’s a baseball game without a hot dog and a soft pretzel? Leo returns soon after with an armful of unhealthy snacks and the game gets underway.
The Phillies are winning three to nothing after the third inning. My friend is happy, but I can tell something is wrong. Hollis keeps rolling his shoulder. It’s not like him to let up this many runs in an entire game, let alone in the first couple of innings. By the time the fourth inning is ready to start, Hollis walks onto the mound rubbing his shoulder. Something is off and there’s a pit in my stomach. I don’t know what’s about to happen, but I have a feeling it’s going to be bad. I’m on the literal edge of my seat, ready to dart onto the field the minute something happens, consequences be damned.
Hollis throws the first ball and it goes wide. He shakes out his arm before throwing the next pitch and that’s when it happens. The ball goes flying, lightyears away from where it needs to be. Hollis grips his right shoulder and collapses onto the mound. His scream of pain slices through all the other noise in the stadium and in an instant, I’m up and out of my seat.
Leo grabs my arm. “Don’t,” he tells me and it takes all of his strength to hold me back. I know if I jump on the field I’ll probably be arrested, but I can’t continue to sit here and do nothing. I need to get to Hollis. It’s killing me.
“Hollis!” I yell despite knowing damn well there’s no way he can hear me.
I push through the crowd, needing to get as close as I can. People are surrounding him now, his coaches and teammates, helping him off the ground and off the field. He disappears into the dugout while I call to him, but no one answers me.
I leave my seat and climb the stairs up to the main level of the stadium. Grabbing my phone, I call Hollis, praying by some miracle he or someone will answer. I don’t get so lucky. I pace and pace the floor until Leo comes to find me.
“Hey, he’ll be okay.”
“Where is he? Why won’t he answer? What can I do?”
“He’s likely with the team doctor right now. He’ll call you back as soon as he knows anything. Don’t panic. It’s going to be okay.” His hands are on my shoulders and I crush my body to his in a gripping hug while tears pour down my cheeks.
I knew it. I fucking knew something was going to happen. I wish I could’ve told him not to pitch today or spared him the pain. I wish it were my shoulders instead of his. I wish there was anything I could do for him, but I know there’s not.
Leo’s right. I need to wait it out, but the anticipation may kill me.
The game is over and I still haven’t heard anything. I’m waiting outside Citizens Bank Park for any news or update or direction of what I should do next and where I should go. I don’t want to head home because I would be too far away in case Hollis calls me and needs me. So, I wait. Leo insists on staying with me, disregarding my insistence that he head home. He’s a good friend and I’m lucky to have him. I think he’s afraid I’m going to get arrested if he leaves me alone because I’ll storm the team and threaten anyone who gets in my way.
When my phone finally rings, I press the button so hard I’m afraid I’ll break the screen. My hands are shaking as I put the device up to my ear.
“Holy shit, Hollis? Where are you? What’s going on?”
“Lila? This is Coach McGuire. I’m at the hospital with Hollis and he wanted me to call you to let you know. They’re running some tests on him now, but he didn’t want you to worry.”
The tears flow heavily once more and my hand covers my mouth in horrified shock.
“Which hospital?” I mumble through my fingers, but he understands me.
After giving me all the information on where to find him, Leo and I head straight to the emergency room.
I see a bunch of Sox players are already here and I’m about to walk right up to one of them, not giving a damn who it is. Instead, Owen, the semi-douchey teammate Hollis can’t stand walks right up to me when he sees me.
“Lila? Hey, remember me? I’m—”
“Owen, yeah, I got it. How is he?” I don’t have time for small talk and pleasantries.
“The doctor believes he tore his rotator cuff. They’re doing some tests now to find out the extent of the damage and what course of action will be taken.” A sob breaks through and Owen rubs his hand on my back. “Hey, he’s going to be fine. This happens all the time.”
“Why are you even here? I thought you hated him.” Apparently my filter vanishes when I’m overwhelmed.
“I don’t hate him. I like to give him shit. Plus, there’s a new rookie now. Graham’s off the hook.” He smiles, but I can’t return the gesture. “Come on, sit down. It’s gonna be a while.”
I sit beside Owen when I glance up and see Leo. “Shit, I’m sorry. You should go. I’m fine. You heard him; it’s going t
o be a while.” Leo has classes tomorrow and I don’t want to hold him back. “Really. Go.”
“Call me if you need anything. Let me know how it pans out.” I hug him and he heads out. He was my life vest keeping me afloat in the storm. I lean into Owen; he’s my life support now.
After hours of waiting and alternating between pacing the lounge and asking a nurse for updates, the doctor finally comes out. “You can go see him now. Not all of you at once.” I glance around, determining if I’m able to take down all of these guys to get back there first.
“Come on, Lila.” The man I discerned is the coach of the team walks back with me to see Hollis.
He’s dressed in his regular clothes, but seeing him here at all breaks my heart. There’s a bulky blue sling supporting his arm and it splits my heart all over again.
“Lila, it’s okay.” I curl into his good side. It’s funny how he’s the one who got hurt and yet I’m the one who needs consoling.
“I’m sorry. You should be the one upset.” The coach and the doctor talk off to the side. I guess Hollis already knows his diagnosis. “How bad is it?”
He grimaces. “I tore my rotator cuff. I need surgery. I’m getting it scheduled back at Mass Gen for Friday.”
“What does that mean for you?” He runs his good hand through his hair and my lip wobbles as I see his emotions come to the surface.
“I’m probably done for the season. I don’t know. There’s a lot of factors to consider.” I can tell he’s torn up inside. I wish I could take away even an ounce of his pain. I wish I could have the surgery for him, but I can’t. There’s nothing I can do.
I’m wishing I’d gone to medical school after all. Maybe if I was in a surgical program I could sit in on the surgery for learning purposes or something.
“Let me know the times of your surgery the minute you find anything out. I’ll take time off, I’ll nurse you back to health.”
“Lila, no.”
“I want to be there for you, Hollis. If nothing else, I can be your nurse at least. Let me be there for you. I have to be.” I’m becoming hysterical. I’ll do whatever I can to be there for him. It killed me, not being able to hold his hand the minute the injury happened. I don’t want to feel that helpless again.
“We’ll talk about this later. I promise.” His words say one thing but his tone speaks volumes.
“You’ll stay with me tonight?”
He shakes his head no. “As soon as I’m out of here, we’re heading back to Boston on the bus.”
More tears fall and the feeling of helplessness returns. I can’t even be there for him this week to help him before surgery. I dig the base of my palms into my eye sockets, forcing the tears to stop. “Call me every day no matter what. I want daily updates. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come up there myself.” He nods. “I love you. I’m sorry.” For not being there. For his career. For the injury. For everything.
“I know, baby.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Hollis
I’m so fucking stupid. One ball might’ve changed my entire life.
The amount of pain I’m in is fucking mind-blowing. I should’ve told coach I couldn’t pitch today. I knew I was in pain before one cleat even touched the grass. I thought I could power through it, but I pulled the ball too hard and the next thing I knew, my shoulder felt like it was being split in two.
It still does.
This is fucking excruciating. And I’m even on pain meds now.
I can tell Coach is pissed at me. I’m waiting for him to lecture me like a parent; ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.’ Except, I feel like he is mad. I should’ve been more responsible and spoken up. Someone else could’ve pitched today. I didn’t have to be the hero but I wanted to be.
Fuck.
I keep replaying the moment in my head like there’s a jumbotron in my room highlighting the moment. The second the ball left my hand, I knew. I went down and a sound I hadn’t realized I was capable of making poured from my mouth. I think I blacked out for a minute because of the sheer amount of pain. My career flashed before my eyes. I know it sounds fucking lame, but I thought I was done. Never going to pitch again. The doctor says that’s unlikely, but still, anything can happen during surgery.
My second year in the pros and I fuck it up. I’ve barely gotten started. This isn’t how my story gets to end; not if I have any say in the matter.
I’ve pitched fifty games as a major league pitcher. That’s it.
No way in hell is that where my stats die.
“You ready to hit the road?” The thought of sitting on the bus for the drive home fills me with dread. Maybe I can get the doc to give me more pain pills for the drive.
Physical therapy can suck my dick.
The surgery went well and I was set to start physical therapy a week post-op. I thought, with the word physical in the name, I’d be doing actual exercises to help me heal. Instead, I show up to find my supposed renowned therapist wants me to sit on my ass and practice passive and assisted motion? What the hell is passive movement? Sounds like a fucking oxymoron.
No matter how many times I informed him I’m a major league pitcher and will heal quicker than an ordinary patient, he spewed off some bullshit about how that means I need more rest because I’ll be doing more intense damage to the muscle. It’s a load of bull.
I don’t travel with the team. I chose to stay behind to focus on my health, but for what? My life now revolves around sitting in this douchebag’s office and not moving my arm. How am I ever supposed to pitch again if I’m not allowed to move my shoulder?
As much as I love Lila too, I’m sick of her lecturing me. She doesn’t get it. She thinks I’m pushing myself too hard, too fast. She thinks I’m overdoing it and I don’t know what I can and can’t handle. She keeps holding the incident over my head as proof I don’t know my own limits. It’s frustrating as hell.
I know she’s looking out for me the only way she knows how, but that’s what I have my team of doctors for. I don’t need her being a nurse with me. I need her to be a supportive girlfriend.
As the days turn into weeks, I feel disconnected from myself. I have to watch my own team play on TV, I sit at home doing nothing and ordering take out because I can barely cook, and I can’t even fucking masturbate unless I want to practice with my left hand. Thank fuck Lila visits as often as she does, even though I think she’s getting sick of me and my piss poor attitude. But what does she expect? Rays of sunshine to be shooting out of my ass? Not likely.
It takes six fucking weeks to move from passive to active motion thanks to this moronic, holier than thou doctor. My shoulder is stiff, tight. It feels like every time I move it, the muscle is going to snap. Maybe if it wasn’t stuck in a fucking sling for the past six weeks I could’ve healed faster. I could’ve gotten back to work and maybe not have been out for the whole season.
Instead of fighting with my doctor or with Lila, I drink a lot more now than I ever have. I’m gaining weight thanks to all the alcohol and crappy food I’m consuming. I’m a goddamn mess. I don’t even want to look at myself. I’m disgusting.
What is my life if I don’t have baseball? What am I going to do next, coach? I’m twenty-fucking-seven years old looking like I’m suffering through a midlife crisis. All I need is a wife beater and a motorcycle and I’ll be a well-rounded cliché.
It doesn’t help that Lila and I keep fighting like a bitter, old married couple either. God, I know it’s not her fault and my misplaced anger is only driving her away. Part of me wonders why she keeps coming back. Between the pain and frustration, I’ve been a royal dick to her.
My phone vibrates face down against the coffee table and I’m not even sure I want to answer it. If it’s her, I don’t feel like arguing today and I’ll probably say something stupid, like tell her not to come up. If it’s coach, I don’t need his lectures anymore either. He’s going to be on me, watching me, making sure I don’t fuck up again. I can already feel him breathing down
my neck.
For the record, he was pissed at me. Insanely so.
If it’s my parents…I can’t listen to the pity in their voices anymore either. After surgery, when Lila couldn’t be here, they came to stay and help me out. It became unbearable and I was glad when they left to go home. I assured them I’d be okay. If they saw me like this, they’d come right back for who knows how long.
I lean forward to flip the phone up just enough to see who is calling. I pick up the call because it’s Jimmy’s name on the screen. He’s one of the only people who actually call me to check in, not just out of some bullshit obligation to feel good about themselves.
“What’s up, man?”
“Just checkin’ in on ya, bud. How ya holding up?” Jimmy told me he went through this same injury a couple years back and ever since he’s been my confidant. He went through it and came out on the other side maintaining his career. It’s common for pitchers, but still, there was a part of me that never thought it would happen to me.
“You know. I’ve been better.” He even had the same dipshit doctor I’m going to and he swears by him. Even though it’s driving me crazy now, I’ll be better for it in the long run. So he says, anyway. Since Jimmy’s doing just fine, I guess I have no choice but to believe him.
“You still being a dick to Lila?” I run a hand through my hair and blow a heavy exhale through my nose. “It’s normal, man. Don’t beat yourself up. You’re angry and she’s the easiest target to take it out on. Doesn’t make it okay, but it happens. You’ll apologize and she’ll forgive you. This will all blow over and be nothing but a blip long term.”
“Shouldn’t I be better than that, though? I know it’s not fair and I’m acting like a goddamn prick.” If I know it, why can’t I stop myself from snapping at her every time she’s here trying to help me?
“Don’t we all want to be better? Do better? Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, we let life get the best of us.”
Fastball Flirt (The Boys of Summer Series Book 1) Page 20