“You were flirting?” I deadpan.
She gives me a push in the upper arm, my left upper arm. A slight sharp pain fires off in my shoulder. I’ve been working out like a fiend and am more sore than normal, but fear creeps into the back of my mind that it’s more than regular soreness. I’m used to a quick recovery, not this lingering ache.
“Shut up,” she scoffs.
“And since when you do you flirt with me, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Boredom?”
“Gee thanks.”
“Like your ego needs any stroking. You’re hands down the best-looking and sexiest man in this room, and you couldn’t care less, which just ups your appeal.” She twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “You sure this girl is special enough to pass me up?”
I laugh. “Sorry, Han. I’m positive.” If Chloe were in town I would not be sitting here without her. “There’s a guy three o’clock, though, who can’t take his eyes off you. How about I head home and give him space to make his move?”
She casually inclines her head in his direction. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”
I kiss her cheek. “See you around. Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year. Good luck with your girl.”
“Thanks.” I don’t put a lot of stock in luck, but in this case, I may need it. No matter how hard I work to convince Chloe we should be together, it’s ultimately up to her. Of course, I don’t give up on things I want.
The valet brings my car around and the first thing I do is look around for my phone. I patted my pockets earlier with no luck, but thought I brought it with me. Ah. There it is. On the floor under my seat. I tap the screen and find dozens of notifications.
All of them focused on a couple pictures of me and Hannah, taken inside the hotel right after we said hello. I’m too tired to decipher everything being said, but the few words that do catch my eye tell me the subject is my love life. And that subject is racking up thousands of likes. Bloody hell. Two pictures curated by someone other than my social media manager are collecting way more attention than they should.
I dial Chloe. Has she seen them? I need to explain. I need to hear her voice, that vibrant and melodic timbre I love just as much as the sound of my bat hitting a home run. The call goes to voicemail as I realize belatedly that it’s three hours later back east and she’s probably asleep. “Hey, Chloe, I know it’s late there, but I wanted to say hello anyway. Call me tomorrow before your flight… Miss you,” I tack on because I really fucking miss her and I want her to know it before she hits the friendly skies.
When I get home, the house feels emptier than usual. Too quiet. Too bleak. I love this place, seriously love the solitude it affords me, so I’m not sure what’s up with my sudden glum mood. I stop in the kitchen for a glass of water and find Sylvie left me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the counter. My mood immediately lifts. I marvel at how cognizant she is of my routine. PB&J has been my go-to nightly snack as of late. She probably knows what time I take a dump every day, too.
I down my sandwich and then trudge upstairs ready to hit the sack. Yeah, I know. It’s barely ten o’clock on a Friday night and I’m going to bed. But sleep is important to maintain my killer physique. Muscles like mine need proper rest. Don’t get me wrong, if Chloe were here I’d be all over her, exercising one particular muscle to great length and sleeping later.
A solid eight hours will do me good, though.
And a run tomorrow morning before Dwayne shows up to kick my ass.
Then before I know it, the hot blonde I’m in love with will be back in my arms. I fall asleep to the surety of our impending reunion.
Big mistake.
Chapter Twenty-Two
#DownForTheCount
Finn
“Dude, you’re scowling so hard your face is gonna get stuck,” Giancarlo says to me. “And what good do you think it’s doing, anyway? Clemons can’t see it. Only me and Mike can, and it’s messing with our vibe, so knock it off.”
He’s right. Glaring at an Instagram picture of Clemons and Chloe on my phone isn’t accomplishing anything. It’s Thursday night, there’s a hockey game on my big-screen TV, and my two teammates are here to enjoy themselves. (Although they were highly amused when I grumbled about the injustice of the Chloe-Clemons situation.)
I place the phone on the coffee table and slide it out of reach.
“Was that so hard, smiley face?” Mike asks.
I dial back my irritation. It isn’t Mike or Giancarlo’s fault Chloe got assigned to a project with Clemons. “Nope. Who wants another beer?”
They both do, so I grab three bottles out of the fridge. Another plate of Sylvie’s homemade tamales too.
I can’t remember the last time I was drunk, but tonight seems like a good idea. I’m pining for a girl whose left me one measly message in the past five days, and it pisses me off that I’m letting it get to me. It’s not like I won’t see her again. And I’m genuinely happy she’s doing work she’s excited about. But seeing her smile alongside Clemons’s smug grin is like a fastball to the solar plexus. I can’t breathe, the wind completely knocked out of me.
I replay her message in my mind. She called when I was in the shower on Saturday morning.
“Hi, Finn. Sorry I missed you. I’m sure you’ll hear from Rena, but I’ll be out of town for the next week on a special MLB project. I’m super excited about it as it’s been a dream of mine to work directly for them. So, I guess I’ll see you next year. Crazy, huh? Take care. Bye.”
Take care is something you say to an acquaintance, not the man who’s been balls deep inside you.
After leaving her a couple of voice messages, I gave up. Those times I’ve said I go after what I want until I get it? I’m not feeling it so much anymore. I’ve got my pride and I get the sense Chloe is pushing me away. I’m not sure of her reasons, and that doesn’t sit well with me, but that makes her reticence even more bothersome. Confusion isn’t a color I like to wear. She’s been hot and cold with me from the start, though, hasn’t she? Not to be cruel. To protect herself. And I get it. I did the same as a teenager to keep my dyslexia a secret, and I still do it now on occasion.
“Yes!” Giancarlo shouts, snagging my attention.
The Kings have scored a goal to take the lead three to two with ten minutes left in the third period. The crowd goes crazy. Los Angeles fans are the best. I bring my beer to my mouth as the game goes to commercial.
“Oh, hey, I’m supposed to invite you to dinner at our house next weekend,” Mike says to me. “Layla wants to set you up with another friend of hers.”
Giancarlo throws the last bite of his tamale at him. “Hey, why doesn’t she ever set me up?”
Mike catches the piece of tamale with ease and pops it in his mouth. “Because you’re all about ‘variety is the spice life’ shit, and Lay wants to see all her friends married.”
“Ah. True.” He settles back into the couch, while I choke down my drink.
Mike slaps me on the back. “Was it something I said?”
He damn well knows it is. The last time Layla set me up with one of her friends, the woman had our wedding planned before we’d finished dinner.
“Not interested,” I rasp.
“Swear to God this girl’s different. She’s an investment banker. Owns her own home. Runs half marathons and eats tofu. Interestingly, she said the same thing when Lay brought up your name.”
I didn’t see that coming. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Why are you bringing it up then?”
“Because, duh, you two would be perfect for each other.” He grabs another tamale.
Not true. I’ve met the woman perfect for me.
The game fires up again on the TV, but my teammates are looking at me like I’ve got a baseball bat coming out both ears.
“What?” I say.
“You have?” they ask at the same time. Mike’s got a smug look on his face, while Giancarlo wears surprise l
ike a clown just rode into the room on a unicycle.
Damn it. “I said that out loud?”
“You sure as hell did,” Mike bellows. He turns to Giancarlo, puts his hand out, palm up. “Pay up, player.”
Giancarlo groans in defeat as he pulls his wallet out of his pocket, fishes out a hundred-dollar bill, and slaps it down on the coffee table.
“What is happening?”
Mike tucks the bill away. “We made a little wager about you and Chloe.”
“Me and Chloe?”
“Nice try, Romeo. I can read you like a flashing neon sign and after our lunch at the stadium a few weeks ago, I knew you were in deep with her. Giancarlo said I was crazy, so we made a bet.”
I rub the back of my neck. “How exactly could you tell?”
“First off, you blush every time you say her name.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Go look in the mirror, dude.” This from Giancarlo who’s now studying me like he can’t believe he didn’t see it sooner.
“And second, you’re happy.”
“I’m always happy,” I argue. Minus a few games in the World Series and my epic collision with the back fence.
“Not this kind.” Mike shakes his head once. “Trust me, I know. I was in your shoes once. The combo of a happy dick and a happy heart is lethal.”
“So is a punch in the face if aimed right.”
Mike laughs. “If that isn’t a confirmation, I don’t know what is. Try to deny it all you want, but you’re not fooling anyone.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. It’s not that I want to deny it, or that I hadn’t thought these guys would find out eventually. I’ve been caught off guard, is all, so I voice my biggest concern. “Think I’m fooling Chloe?” Because one wrong move could send her running even farther away, if she hasn’t already decided to. She’s into me, no doubt. Maybe she even loves me back. But that doesn’t mean she’s willing to take a chance on us when she believes she’s cursed.
“Why would you want to?” Mike asks.
“She’s playing hard to get, for good reason.”
“A douche for an ex?” Giancarlo takes a drag on his beer.
“More than one, actually.”
“Ouch.” Mike puts his hand under his chin in thought. “Okay, I see your concern, but she’s a smart girl. She knows something.”
“Go! Go! Go!” Giancarlo shouts at the TV screen, his body lifting off the couch and angling forward. “Damn. I can’t believe he missed that breakaway.” He sits back down, tips his bottle back until it’s empty. Then he burps.
After that we stop talking to watch the rest of the game. I’m twisted up in goddamn knots for the first time in my life, and I hate it. It’s unlike me to be unsure of myself, so while the guys cheer on the Kings, I remember what’s always been most important to me. Baseball. It’s uncomplicated, fulfilling, and never leaves me in doubt. It’s what I’m best at. Chloe distracted me in the best possible way, but no more.
*
“Fetch!” I tell Sammy, tossing the ball across the field. She’s grown since I last saw her. Joshua has, too. He’s taller, put on a few pounds. His mom says he’s the happiest she’s ever seen him, thanks to his four-legged best friend.
He’s standing on my left; his brother Jesse is on my right. We’re at the park across the street from their house. It’s Saturday morning. The sun is shining, but the smell of chimney smoke fills the air.
“See how good she is now?” Josh says when Sammy brings the ball right back and drops it at our feet. He picks up the toy and throws it again.
“You’ve taught her well.”
“We’re doing puppy school and our teacher says Sammy is one of the smartest dogs she’s ever seen,” Jesse says with pride.
“She’s an A-plus student,” Josh adds.
I know about the training. I’ve made sure the Davidson family has everything they need where Sammy is concerned. My mom was upset with me when I told her I’d given Sammy away—until she heard the reason why. I’ve never lost Mom points and gained them back so fast in my life.
“Except she likes to eat our shoes.” Josh pets her head and then lobs the ball again.
She catches it midair, returns it, chases down a pitch from Jesse, returns it. I wonder who will tire first, Sammy or the boys.
I look down at the boys’ feet. Sure enough, the rubber toe of Josh’s sneaker has a chunk missing. “I can see that. Have your feet grown since I last saw you?”
“Yep. I’m a size one now,” Josh says. “No more baby shoes for me.”
“I’m a size four.” Jesse lifts his leg to show me.
I remember my mom buying me and my brothers shoes almost every month, our feet grew so fast. Monday morning I’ll have a box of new shoes in their sizes and a few sizes up delivered to their house. It’s my fault, after all, their shoes are being eaten.
The boys talk nonstop as we play with Sammy. They tell me what Santa brought them, what movies they’ve watched, how when they go back to school it won’t be long before baseball season starts. For me either. In just six weeks I’ll be taking the field with my team for our first full-squad workout. Two weeks after that I’ll be in Arizona for our first spring training game. I close my eyes for a second to picture the emerald-green grass, the snow-white bases, the scoreboard. I can’t wait to get back out there. My fingers tingle thinking about wearing my glove on the regular.
“All right, guys, it’s time I walk you home.” I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to stop by Chloe’s. Rena told me her flight from Sacramento was landing this morning, and it’s walking distance to her house, but given our relationship has cooled off, maybe it’s best to leave the ball in her court.
Josh skips ahead with Sammy. He’s got the ball in his hand so Sammy is trying to snag it out of his palm. Her playfulness gets to him and he throws the ball. The kid has a good arm and the ball sails toward the street.
Sammy takes off running for it. I see a car turn the corner. My pulse picks up as my stomach sinks. “Sammy, no!” I shout. She doesn’t listen.
I give chase, passing Josh who has started to run, too. “Stay here,” I command, grateful when I glance over my shoulder to find he and Jesse are huddled together, stricken looks on their almost identical faces.
Don’t do it, Sammy. Don’t run into the street. The car continues, albeit at a slow speed, but whatever tons of metal it weighs is no match for a thirty-pound dog. “Sammy! Stop!”
She slows for one thundering heartbeat before the ball bounces and she can’t help but follow it. Shit. I’m closing the gap, closer…closer. She’s just about within reach. The ball rolls into the street. Sammy stops at the curb, thank fuck, but a split second later she’s on the asphalt. The car puts on its brakes, screeching toward a stop. I lunge off the sidewalk, catch Sammy’s fur in my fingers and yank. She yelps as I crash to the ground with her in my arms. The smell of burned rubber stings my nose.
There’s another thing that stings. Although sting isn’t the right word, not by a long shot. Scathing pain radiates in my shoulder and across my collarbone. Not again. Please God, not again. The last thing I remember is Sammy licking my face.
*
When I wake up my eyelids feel too heavy for my face. My throat is parched. The bed I’m lying on is comfortable as hell, though. There’s a vitals cart to my left. Looks like I’ve got a steady heart rhythm and normal blood pressure. That’s reassuring. And at the foot of the bed and to my right is my entire immediate family, staring at me like I’ve woken from a year-long coma. That isn’t so reassuring.
“Hello, darling,” my mom says.
I try to sit up. Pain hurtles through my neck and shoulders, my upper chest. A whimper slips through my pursed lips. I’ve got a goddamn sling on my left arm again.
“Don’t move.” Ethan puts his arm across my body. “I’ll bring the bed up for you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as the events of earlier flood my memory. “Is Sammy okay? Josh and Jes
se? The driver of the car?”
“Everyone is fine,” my mom says. “The Davidsons are in the waiting room. The boys told us what happened and they feel terrible but we assured them it wasn’t their fault.”
“I passed out.” It’s really more of a statement than a question but my dad answers it anyway with, “Yes.”
“Did I fracture my clavicle again?”
“Yes,” Drew says. “Let me go grab the doctor so he can tell you what’s up.”
I turn my head to the side, away from everyone, and stare out the window. I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I want to punch a goddamn hole in the wall. I want to be left alone to wallow in misery.
The hospital suite I’m in is huge. I recognize the private VIP room from when my grandma had minor surgery last year. I’m on the sixteenth floor with an ocean view in the distance. No one will have access to me unless we want them to, and my privacy is guaranteed, every staff member on this floor here because they signed a confidentiality agreement.
“Mr. Auprince.”
I roll my head to a neutral position. I hate that the man wearing light blue scrubs with graying hair and an easy smile is familiar to me. After the team doctor treated me back at the end of October, I was referred to this fine man, renowned orthopedic surgeon John Bell.
“Dr. Bell. It’s really not good to see you.” I’m serious and I don’t care if I sound like a dick. The weight of my situation is settling in further, and I want everyone out of this room so I can be mad at the fucking world in private.
“Agreed,” he says. “I won’t beat around the bush. You’ve suffered another fracture. It involves several fragments this time and given your occupation, I recommend we do surgery. At this point, a surgical repair with a plate and screws will lead to a better long-term outcome than non-surgical healing. X-rays taken when you arrived showed there was some slight scar tissue forming. Were you still having pain before this accident?”
“A little, yes.”
“With your permission, I’d like to schedule surgery for Monday.”
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