Smashed Steel: A Steamy Stand Alone Sports Romance (Steel Crew Book 7)

by Mj Fields

  “You’re so stup … stupi … fuuu …” he slurs.

  “Max, you good?”

  “No, My, no, I’m not feeling all that …”

  A horn blast, and I look up as we’re crossing lanes, heading right.

  I reach over to grab the wheel.

  Max is passed out. I feel us spinning, then hear the sound of metal smashing, and then everything … goes black.

  I hurt everywhere. My head and arm are the worst. I can hear people talking, but I can’t say a damn thing. I have no fucking clue why I’m here or what happened.

  I smell Mom’s perfume, and I hear Dad’s voice, but it fades in and out. I think I heard Brisa and Tris, both crying. I try to wake up, wanting them to know I’m fine, and then when they got that, I’ll tell them to shut up because my head fucking hurts like hell, but every time, I fall back to sleep.

  If I’m dead, and this is what my eternity will consist off—smelling Mom’s perfume and not being able to give her a hug, hearing Dad’s voice but not his words—his fucking words—and listening to Brisa and Tris cry, not being able to do a damn thing about it, not tell them it’ll be okay, not make them laugh—then I’ve definitely fucked up and landed my ass in hell.

  Momma Joe is gonna be pissed.

  I wonder if there’s a baseball field in hell. If there isn’t, there will be.

  Silence.

  My throat is on fucking fire.

  “The swelling on his brain has gone down significantly. We’ve stopped the medication. He’ll be agitated for a bit, but the medication should be wearing off.”

  Swelling on the brain?

  “And the tube you had shoved down his throat?”

  Dad’s pissed. I hear Dad.

  “We took that out while you were getting coffee.”

  “Did it hurt?” Mom whispers.

  “Fuck yes, it does.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Mom cries softly. “Thank God.”

  I feel her hugging me, but barely, as I fight to open my eyes.

  “Fuck,” I hiss as the light stings my eyes. “Blurry.”

  “You have a patch on your right eye, Mr. Steel. Please don’t touch it. We’re hoping it heals, and you haven’t lost any vision in—”

  “What’s wrong with my fucking eye?” I yell. “Dad, what the fuck is wrong with my eye?”

  “Gotta chill, My, just gotta chill or they’re gonna put you back under.”

  “Chill? I’m a ball player, not a fucking pirate. I need my damn eyes.”

  I hear Mom whimper-cry, and I know it’s not good.

  I focus on her. Well, on her blonde hair in a bun. Mom’s hair is always down. Then I glance toward Dad’s voice. His hair is fucked, too.

  “You’re alive, kid. Let’s focus on that miracle, and getting you healed. Baseball is always gonna be there.” He looks at Mom, who’s still hugging me. “Bekah, you wanna go call the girls and tell them he’s awake and very alert?”

  She kisses my cheek but doesn’t give me her eyes. “Be right back.”

  “Call Jase, too. Max needs to know he’s gonna be fine.”

  “Fine?” I ask, looking at my leg, in a brace, and my shoulder … my arm in a sling.

  “He’s family, My. I get you being pissed, but we need to heal that, too.”

  “The hell are you talking about?”

  “He loves you. He fucked up. It was an accident. He’s beating himself up enough. Spent a night in jail. Gonna be doing community service. I don’t want him to—”

  “What the hell happened to Max? What did he do?”

  He looks at me with deep-ass concern.

  “Dad, spill it.”

  Dad’s jaw tightens, and his face pales.

  “Mr. Steel,” the doctor, or nurse, or what the hell ever she is asks, “do you remember the accident?”

  “What acc—”

  I stop when I realize my head, my eye, my arm, and my leg getting fucked up didn’t happen during a workout, but I don’t remember any accident.

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me the last thing you remember?”

  “The guys were leaving. Fuck, are they okay?” I look at Dad. “Dad, Max … What happened to Max?”

  “He picked you up from a club. There was an accident.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s good. Just a bruised up a bit from the accident.”

  “Why did he go to jail?”

  He inhales a deep breath.

  “Come on, Dad; just spill it.”

  “Max got a DUI.”

  Easy Come, Easy Go

  I wake in the dark, inhaling a disgusting mix of antiseptic, disinfectant, cleaning solutions, and crushed fucking dreams. My body hurts, my head is pounding, but the physical pain isn’t shit compared to the pain of the betrayal that I feel to my fucking soul that Max came to get me in the city to drive me home for the weekend after the guys left and he was fucked up.

  He could have said no. He fucking should have said no. I would have taken a car back to my place from wherever the fuck I was, slept off my buzz, woke up, worked out, and then drove home.

  I can’t fathom him not telling me he had plans to get fucked up. I can’t wrap my brain around the fact that he wouldn’t feel we were tight enough for him to do just that.

  Max and I are tight. Real fucking tight.

  Were fucking tight, I think, pissed off all over again.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck … We could have died, I remind myself.

  We’re alive. We’re fucking alive. We’re alive, I repeat the phrase over and over in my head, hoping like hell that gratitude can kill the anger raging deep inside of me. Anger describes the feeling mildly. I’m fucking livid.

  My eye’s fucked up, half my head is shaved due to the surgery to remove the shards of glass they found when they repeated the CAT scan to reassess the brain swelling, I have a separated shoulder, and a meniscus tear in my knee.

  The knee can be fixed with surgery, but the healing time is too damn long. PT may work, but it may not. My shoulder should heal with therapy, but if it doesn’t, then I will need surgery for that, too. If, and that’s a big if, the PT works, it will be two to twelve weeks for the shoulder, and four to eight weeks for the knee.

  The possibility of being down for twelve weeks is not a death sentence.

  We’re alive.

  If I hadn’t just been pulled up, if I had been playing majors for a few years, there would be no worry. I would make a comeback. But I have no fucking clue how this is going to work, and Dad told me to keep my mind on healing, and we will deal with it when we have a plan. He assured me he will be in contact with the coaches.

  In high school, I was number one in the country. In the minor leagues, I was an above average player. In the majors, I’m average on the field, but not many can touch me at bat.

  Let’s pray I heal like a fucking superhero. Shoulder and knee all back to normal, there’s still the problem with my eye. If I can’t see, I can’t hit a fucking ball.

  Fucked. I’m so fucked.

  I’ve cried once in my life—when Tris was hospitalized. I won’t do it again, but fuck if I don’t want to.

  I hit the call button, and within seconds, someone in scrubs walks in. I cover my eyes with my arm.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fucking great.”

  I hear the nurse sigh. “Can I get something for you?”

  “Something to knock me the hell out, and then a doctor to pull this shit out of my dick. I can piss on my own.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I wake to the smell of lasagna, garlic knots, and a faint floral scent. Momma Joe is here.

  I love that she wants to show me some love, but I also know she equates food with family, with love, with bonding, and with healing. But I’m going to guarantee it’s not the kind of healing I’m focused on. She’s here for Max, just as much as she is for me.

  “Momma Joe.”

  “Amias,” she whispers, and I open
my eyes.

  Her sad smile confirms I am correct.

  “Your parents said you’ve not been eating. I told them I didn’t blame you—hospital food is not real food.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  She leans over the railing and kisses one cheek and then the next softer. “I know you do. You’re a good man, Amias. A strong young man.”

  “I’m not feeling really great right now. Stomach’s off. Really not hungry. Just like to sleep through it.”

  She opens the container of garlic knots. “Your stomach’s off because you’re four days without anything decent in your it. The sooner you eat, the sooner you get strong. The sooner you gain strength, the sooner you get out of here. And, Amias, as much as they’ll have us believe that a hospital is a place to heal, that’s rubbish. Now eat.”

  Before I have a chance, she’s pressing the button to raise the back of the bed.

  “Momma Joe, I love your cooking, better than my own mother’s, but I am not hu—”

  The end of a garlic knot gets shoved into my open mouth, and I’m looking at Momma Joe, whose perfectly shaped brow is arched as if to say, Try me.

  “Momma Joe, what in the fu—”

  “Zandor,” Mom snipes at Dad, cutting him off.

  She moves her head, blocking me from seeing my mother, whose cooking I just trashed.

  “I don’t care that my son, your father, thinks I’m overstepping. I care that you, my grandson, eats, so he can get strong enough to get home where he can heal. Now chew.”

  I really have no choice, and not because she shoved a garlic knot in my mouth—I could spit it out—but because Momma Joe said chew in the way you know she means it. Fucked up, in pain, angry … doesn’t matter, no one disrespects Momma Joe, no one.

  “Bekah, Zandor, sit and eat.”

  They sit. They eat. And Dad talks.

  I know why Momma Joe is here today of all days with lasagna and garlic knots. My career being over before it truly began should have nothing to do with Max. Yet it does.

  Fuuuuck!

  “We really wish you’d come home for a couple weeks.” Mom squeezes my hand as we leave the hospital; her and Dad walking, Brisa and Tris behind them, me in a fucking wheelchair.

  “I’m a grown man.”

  “I’m not leaving you. Who knows if your crazy will kick in and you’ll end up trying to off—”

  “Oh my God, Tris, shut up,” Brisa gasps.

  “Why?” Tris asks, serious as shit. “The Yankees were his first love. His everything. The Yankees were all he ever wanted. They fucked him when he is at his lowest, and that hurts. Hurts really freaking bad, too.”

  “Tris,” Dad scolds her the way he does now—softly. Calm and quiet, like he’s walking on eggshells around her since her life got messy.

  “I’m a grown-ass married woman; you don’t get to Tris me anymore.” She opens the door to the SUV then gets in, still yapping. “I’m staying with him.”

  Brisa slides in. “Move over.”

  “No. Climb over me. I’m sitting next to Amias.”

  “Grown-ass woman, my left tit,” Brisa grumbles as she climbs over Tris.

  Mom leans down. “You want to sit up front with Dad?”

  I stand up, a crutch under my arm, and kiss Mom on the cheek. “No. At least they’re not crying.”

  I begin to move forward, but she stops me. “My?”

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “You’re going to be okay. Like Dad said, it’s a setback. You’ll do the work, just like you always have, and you’ll get picked up by someone else.”

  “Not sure how much PT can fix the vision issue, which is the reason I got dropped.”

  “Then you’ll teach yourself to hit right just as good as you do left.”

  I love that she has faith in what she’s saying. Her and Dad’s constant belief in me and interest in my training and focus gave me a huge advantage over so many others. It was at least fifty percent of the reason I got where I got. The other fifty was dedication to a game and to a dream. Right now, I don’t have much faith in either.

  Sliding in, I nod. “No doubt.”

  “That’s our boy.” Dad winks at me as he shuts the door, then opens the passenger side door for Mom.

  Your boy’s full of shit right now and is hurting like a motherfucker.

  Standing against the counter, I watch as Brisa and Tris tear apart the kitchen in my place, intent on cooking me dinner. Love them, truly fucking do, but I would also really love to break shit. Then I’d like to set up my new phone, because my phone apparently got smashed up, and call Max. I need to know what happened.

  “Go take a nap,” Brisa says sternly but softly.

  “Probably want to change those sheets. You need a sterile environment, and I’m guessing, if we blacklighted them, they’d be all sorts of—”

  “Oh my God, Tris.” Brisa throws a roll of paper towels at her. “Take it down a notch, or nine thousand.” She pulls out a barstool. “Sit. I’ll change your sheets.”

  “Just sayin’, you never know. Hell, he can’t even remember.”

  “Tris, seriously, do you need your medi—”

  “I’d rather her shoot straight than coddle me like Mom and Dad. Things aren’t okay. They’re all sorts of fucked up. I—”

  “He’s a pirate, for fuck’s sake!” Tris sets a pot on the counter.

  Brisa gasps again. “Tris!”

  She waves her off and continues, “Tell me what kind of pasta you want.”

  “Not sure, T. What kind of pasta do pirates like?”

  “You two are so fucked,” Brisa says while walking away.

  “I’m not sure. Let’s ask Alexa.”

  To that, I sit. “I appreciate you and Brisa staying, but it’s not necessary. Matteo needs you, Ranger needs Brisa, and I need sleep.”

  “Leave me alone. I need to have a private breakdown, doesn’t bode well in this family. Truth be told, it doesn’t bode well with anybody. I wasn’t grateful for the support we have in this family. I tried to kill myself, Amias. And I’m not saying you’d do that. I’m not saying you’re crazy. What I am saying is that I’m not leaving until you have a plan and are focused, because I know you need that.” She picks up the pot and takes it to the sink to fill it with water. “Now, what kind of pasta do you want?”

  “Tris, I can promise you I’m not going to try to kill myself. What I want is to be alone so I can be pissed. I need to be pissed, so then I can deal with the Max situation. I need to deal with the Max situation, because I don’t want him thinking I hate him. I’m guessing he’s not dealing well. He’s softer than me. That happens, I’ll be good. So, T, I get what we have as a family. I get it, and I’ll fix it. But again, I haven’t had that chance, that minute to be pissed without an audience of family or medical staff basically up my ass, and I don’t want it to sit on simmer.”

  She brings the pot full of water over and sets it on the counter. Then she turns on the stovetop and sets the pot on the flames.

  “Can’t work out. Can’t go for a run. Can’t blow off steam on the field. Can’t fucking see out of my right eye because I’m wearing a fucking patch.”

  She lifts a shoulder. “You look hot still. And when the patch comes off—”

  “T, you’re supposed to be the irrational, emotional crazy one. I need to be pissed. I fucking need to be allowed to be pissed.”

  “Which is why I want to be here. But now we have Brisa, and you know she feeds off—”

  She stops when Brisa walks into the kitchen area.

  “Don’t stop on my account.” Brisa opens a cupboard and grabs a pile of plates, walks over to me, sets them in front of me, grabs one off the top, and then hurls it against the wall.

  “What the fuck are you—”

  “Breaking shit.” She holds a plate out to me. “Break shit, Amias. That’s your thing. You break shit like bats and feel better after. We’ll clean it up. You’ll then go take a nap on fresh sheets, and we’ll eat when you get up.�
��

  “And I’m the crazy one?” Tris chuckles under her breath.

  “Oh, please, every one of us is a little crazy. You don’t get to lay claim to it.” She thrusts the plate at me. “Break shit, My. Break it so you can get better.”

  “That’s real mature, Brisa.” Tris laughs.

  She shrugs as she turns and chucks it. It smashes all the fuck over the place.

  Tris grabs a plate, grinning, her eyes all lit up, not dark and angry anymore. “We’re breaking shit, My.”

  So, we break shit.

  In my room, fresh sheets on my bed, new phone in hand, I set to uploading everything from the cloud. Once that’s all done, I scroll through messages but don’t open any of them until I see Max’s name.

  I am so sorry, Amias. So fucking sorry.

  That was the day after the accident.

  I hit reply.

  We’re good, Max. Once I get to feeling better, we’ll chat.

  I hit send then toss the phone on the nightstand.

  Wanting a shower, I remove the sling, and pain shoots through me like lightning, but I push through it. Then I get rid of my fucking knee brace, and pain nearly brings me to my knees. I push off my jogging pants and boxers, and pain still fucking rocks me to my core. Nevertheless, I grab the crutch, tuck it under my left arm, and make my way to the bathroom.

  Standing under the shower, wishing it had some fucking healing powers, I try not to cry from the pain, but it’s more from frustration. I question every fucking thing I did and asked the big guy: why me? I straight up feel like He rolls His eyes at me. I know I’m no altar boy, but I’m no serial killer either.

  After my shower, I almost bust my ass getting out. I do tweak my knee a bit then brace myself with my right arm, which hurts like a bitch. I scream, like a bitch, and the girls come running in. I have to promise them that I’ll take baths from now on and threw in that, if they didn’t tell the ’rents, I’ll even take bubble baths.

  After dinner, I settle into bed, and Brisa brings me a hospital bag with my watch, unscathed, my silver necklace with a cross—See, Big Guy, see?—and my wallet.