Hawk: The Boys of Summer #4

by Heidi McLaughlin

  “The radiologist will look this over today and give you a call.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  She walks me back to the changing room and wishes me a good day. Inside, there’s a few men of various ages. I do everything I can to avoid eye contact, but the young one in here knows who I am.

  “Hawk Sinclair, right?”

  Man, how I want to say no, but my full sleeve of tattoos is a dead giveaway. Plus, my return to Boston without my team has been highly publicized thanks to the BoRe Blog. When Stone told us that the BoRe reporter was going to have exclusives, we thought he was joking. We understand ESPN, Fox Sports and our very own NESN getting the exclusives, but a blog? Hard to believe, but I guess things are changing in terms of spreading the news.

  What I’m going through isn’t news though. It’s a damn travesty and should be kept in the clubhouse. I was hoping Wilson wouldn’t put me on the IL, that this issue would stay under wraps, but when I wasn’t ready three days later, he had no choice. Between him, Stone and Cait, they all thought it best that I return to Boston to seek treatment. The only thing I’ve done since my return is spend hours in physical therapy and doctor appointments.

  “Hey, man. How’s it going?”

  The fan sticks his hand out to shake mine, leaving me no choice but to keep the smokescreen up that everything’s okay. We shake and pain radiates through my arm.

  “Think I could get an autograph?”

  I look down at what I’m wearing, wondering if my ass is hanging out for all to see. “Uh, sure. Let me change first.”

  “Oh, okay.” He looks dejected. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Just sign while wearing this hospital gown? And what am I signing? He has nothing for me to write on.

  Pulling my clothes out of my locker, I turn and find the guy right behind me. I smile and sidestep past him and into a room. Thank God the door locks and I can dress as slow as possible. Not that I’m doing that on purpose; it really does take me a long time to get dressed these days. I’m hoping that by the time I come out, he’s gone, and I won’t have to worry about forcing my arm into writing my name. It was hard enough when I had to fill out page after page of information on my injury.

  When did it happen? I don’t know.

  On a scale of one to ten, where is your pain level? A million.

  Do you feel more pain in the morning or evening? Um, all the time.

  Do you feel safe at home? Nope, not at all. Those shadows that lurk in the corners get me every time.

  On a scale of one to ten, when you’re doing your normal daily activities, how do you feel? Like I want to die!

  When I open the door, the guy is standing there, but this time he has a sheet of paper and a pen ready for me. I smile, grab the pen, and scribble my name. It hurts like fucking hell, but I do it.

  “Please make it out: ‘To Terry, thanks for being my biggest fan, Love Hawk’.”

  My hand pauses on the paper. Is this guy for real? There’s no way I can write that much, not right now. “Sorry, gotta run,” I tell him as I set the pen down and book it for the door. There’s a time and place for autographs and photos, and the hospital dressing room isn’t one of them.

  Four

  Bellamy

  Being late for anything is one of my biggest pet peeves. My clients, who just had to see a farmhouse on fifty acres which is forty miles from town at half past ten this morning, were almost an hour late and are taking their sweet time walking through the house. Every time the husband turns and looks at me, I smile sweetly even though I’m wringing their necks in my mind. My meeting with Brett Larsen is soon. Even if I leave now, don’t hit any traffic and speed, I’ll be late, and that’s the last thing I need when I’m trying to do whatever I can to help my son.

  After a thorough walk through highlighting all the features of this house, then taking them out onto the back porch to show them the view, I left them to talk it over. And they’re still talking. This house has been on the market for over a year. It’s not going anywhere. They could easily have the conversation about whether to invest in a massive piece of land at home. Not while I’m pacing back and forth on the front porch, wringing my hands together, and glancing into one of the two large picture windows. To make matters worse the husband seems to know when I’m passing by each time, and just happens to turn his head to smile creepily at me.

  There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m exaggerating all of this, but the fact remains that they were late, which is making me late for my next appointment. I’m about to go back into the house to see if there’s anything else they need, hoping to speed things up because I really need to go, when the door opens, and they walk out. They’re holding hands and both are smiling. Instant gratification soars through me as I know they’ve decided to buy the place. Finally. The sellers will be ecstatic now they’ve moved to the big city and adapted to condo living. Can’t say I blame them. One reason I bought my house where I did was because of the HOA. The homeowner’s association has a landscaping company that comes in during the spring, summer and fall to maintain our yards and they plow in the winter. For a single mom, these are huge benefits.

  “Beautiful home, isn’t it?” I direct my question toward the wife. I’m normally spot on with reading people. Mostly when I’m showing a house, I can tell right away if the buyers are remotely interested. It’s usually the wife. If she doesn’t love the entrance from the second she walks in, all bets are off.

  The husband beams while the wife looks pensive. There’s something she’s unsure of and I sense that it’s her husband who wants this house. She needs my attention. I take her by the arm and ask her to follow me and also ask the husband to stay where put. We walk up the stairs and I use buzz words like ‘grand’ and ‘elegant’. When we step into the master bedroom, we keep walking until we are in the bathroom. I move over to the window and sigh. The view from the upstairs is breathtaking and I need to sell her on it.

  “The house has been on the market for a while,” I remind her. “We can negotiate a better selling price. And when we do, I think you should take the savings and redo this bathroom. Make it your sanctuary: Radiant floor heating so you’re never cold. A walk-in closet with built-ins. A stand-up shower in the corner with dual sprayers, and by the window, put in a deep garden tub so you can look out. I can see you soaking, watching the snow fall.” I finish with a satisfying sigh and a long pause. “That’s what I would do in this room.”

  “It’s so far from the city.”

  I’m in complete agreement and fight the urge to look at my phone. My meeting with Brett will not happen today and there isn’t anything I can do about it. As much as my son comes first, so does work. Without my job, I can’t pay the bills, and lord knows his father isn’t going to cough up any extra child support.

  “There’s a lot to be said about living away from the city. It’s quiet, the air is cleaner and if you want to walk around in your pajamas all day, who is going to see you?”

  “It takes longer for police, fire and ambulances to reach you. People target out of the way homes for crime,” she adds.

  “The crime rate is so low here, it’s not even a statistic, and there’s a fire station a mile down the road.” I know I’ve lost the sale. If she’s paranoid about safety, there’s no way she’s going to make an offer on this place. “Let’s head back downstairs.”

  Her husband’s sitting on the steps when we walk out. He smiles, but it quickly changes as he takes in his wife’s demeanor. He wants the house, probably to hunt and fish on the property, but it’s clear he’s going to have to convince her this is the right place for them.

  “You have my contact details. Let me know what you decide. In the meantime, I’ll continue to look through the MLS for anything that might suit you better.”

  “Thank you, Bellamy, for meeting us today.”

  “Of course, we’ll speak soon.” They walk to their car and as eager as I am to get the hell out of here, I wait until they’re out of sight before putting th
e lockbox back together and making sure the door is secured. This isn’t the first time I’ve lost a sale and it’s definitely not going to be the last, but it frustrates me, nonetheless. With them being adamant they see the house today and then being late, there was a sliver of hope they’d make an offer.

  As soon as I’m in my car and my Bluetooth connects, I ask the AI to text Brett Larsen and wait for her to tell me to start speaking.

  I’m so sorry, Brett. I’ve been with a client all morning. Can we reschedule?

  The text sends as I speed down the road and as luck would have it, traffic is stopped. I don’t remember seeing any construction signs along the road when I came through so I can only assume the cowboys from the nearby ranch are moving their cattle. If I’ve caught the tail end of it, I honestly won’t mind. That means I’ll get to stare longingly at men on horseback, watching them wrangle the steer. If they just started though, I could be here for a bit.

  Luckily, I have cell service and Brett texts me back. He tells me he’s tied up for the rest of the afternoon and suggests dinner. I look at my calendar and see that I have a PTA meeting tonight and a few showings the next couple of nights. I tell Brett that I’m not free and suggest lunch tomorrow. I don’t want to put this off any longer.

  Busy until Friday. Dinner work?

  Perfect. I think it would be great for Matty and Chase to spend some time together.

  No children. Adults only.

  Should I touch base with Annie?

  No need. She has a book club thing that night.

  Oh, book club. Maybe I should talk to her about joining. It would be nice to sit around with other women, discussing the merits of literature while drinking wine. Of course, I’m not up to date on the latest trends when it comes to reading. I still prefer a paperback over an eBook and will listen to audiobooks while I’m driving, but most of those are self-help narrations. How to Be a Better Parent. Single Parents Unite. Parenting with an Absent Partner. Come to think of it, maybe I should listen to a romance book or two because these parenting books aren’t helping at all.

  Oh, okay. Where and what time?

  Maria’s. Eight o’clock. I’ll make the reservation.

  After the AI reads his reply, I grab my phone and look at the screen. Surely, I heard her wrong because why would he want to meet at the nicest, most expensive restaurant in town? Maybe the other coaches will be there. That would be ideal; then they could give me a list of Chase’s weaknesses and what I can do to help him.

  See you there!

  I feel good about this meeting and I’m confident that Chase will be on the right path to make the little league team. It doesn’t even have to be Brett’s team, although according to Chase that’s the best one. Any team would do for now. He needs the playing experience and the consistent practice. Before traffic starts moving again, I send a text to my mom, asking her if she can watch Chase for a bit. With dinner, the meeting shouldn’t take longer than an hour and a half, two, tops. We can talk before and while we’re eating to save time.

  By the time I make it back to town, I’m starving, in need of coffee and know I should stop by my office to at least make an appearance. We’re not required to be there every day as we work solely off commission, but it’s nice to touch base with the in-office staff.

  The bell on the door chimes as I push it open. My best work friend and office manager for the real estate company, Karter Watson, smiles when she sees me and comes around the oval shaped desk. She’s normally in her office so I’m surprised and elated to see her.

  “Lunch, let’s go,” she says as she grabs my arm and takes me back outside. We walk a few doors down and enter Betty’s Bakery. Growing up here, Betty’s only served breakfast. About five years ago, her daughter took over and expanded to lunch, which has paid off in dividends for their business. They’re always busy and sometimes have a line out the door, especially when they start making and serving their pumpkin donuts.

  “Why so eager?” I adjust my briefcase and purse as people push by to check in with the hostess or leave.

  “Owen has been up my ass all morning,” she mutters under her breath.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  She looks around and before she can answer the hostess calls out her name. “Did you have a reservation?” I ask her.

  “Yes, I was eating here no matter what after the shit show this morning.”

  The hostess shows us to our table, sets the menus down and leaves us. I lean forward. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Phoebe had an affair. Owen found out last night.”

  “What?” Phoebe and Owen were high school sweethearts, like most married couples in town. Affairs aren’t unheard of here, just not very common.

  Karter nods. “Owen came storming in this morning, slamming things around, and you know how I feel about that stuff. So, I go in there, ask him what his problem is, and he looks at me. Bell, his eyes were menacing. I’ve never seen him look so angry before. He tells me that he caught Phoebe in action with Eddie Peterson.”

  I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. “No!” Eddie and Owen have been best friends since elementary school and inseparable.

  “Yeah, can you believe that?”

  “No, I can’t. Eddie? Really?”

  “I said the same thing, like there’s no way. Their kids freaking play together, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Right, so me being me, I called Phoebe’s sister, Janelle, and asked what’s up because surely Phoebe would’ve called her sister, right.”

  I nod, trying to keep up.

  “Shocker. Janelle had no idea. She called Phoebe, Phoebe called Owen, who ripped me a new one for butting my nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  “You’re literally the town gossip,” I tell her, and she shrugs.

  “Owen shouldn’t have said anything, but he did. Like, with details that I really didn’t need to know.”

  As tempted as I am to ask, I don’t. When the waitress comes by, we look at our menus quickly and place our orders. After she’s gone, I make the mistake of telling Karter that I’m going to dinner with Brett and the other coaches.

  “Girl, don’t. Brett Larsen is evil scum and he probably wants something from you.”

  “A house? I can’t offer him anything else.”

  She cocks her eyebrow at me and eyes me up and down, but I brush her off. “He’s married and will no doubt have heard about Owen and Phoebe. This town can’t handle another scandal.” Besides, he’s a coach and coaches help children get better. That’s his job.

  Five

  Hawk

  As a professional athlete, the last thing you ever want to hear is that you need surgery, especially when it’s on the part of your body that makes your money, and the season has already started. I have what’s called thoracic outlet syndrome. It’s the cause of the numbness in my hand and fingers and explains why my arm has felt tired and hurts to move. Unfortunately, it’s becoming more and more common for pitchers to experience this. A few of my peers have opted for physical therapy, while most have gone straight for surgery. That’s where I’m at, in recovery.

  The MRI showed a pinched nerve in my neck. I thought it would be easy to take care of — massage, stretching and a few trips to the chiropractor and I should be good as new. I was wrong. According to the doctor, the veins and blood vessels in my shoulder and neck were compressed, resulting in the pain and numbness I felt. Removing what is known as the first rib in my shoulder, dissecting the muscles and nerves was the only option.

  Telling Wilson, Fisk and Stone was not easy and thankfully I wasn’t the one who had to do most of the talking, the doctor was. Still, before I went under the knife to have the uppermost rib removed, I questioned everything. Mostly, my recovery time. I would have full use of my arm in a few days, but the muscles around my shoulder would be weakened from surgery. I would be out a minimum of twelve weeks, almost half the season. That’s a hard pill to swallow when your team has high hopes
of making the playoffs. It’s even harder to look your teammates in the eyes knowing they’re battling their own injuries, some that likely also need surgery but they’re waiting until the season is over.

  There’s a machine beside me beeping. And another one. And another one. I can’t see the others, but I can hear them and the more I focus on the sounds, the louder they become. I try to lift my arm. It’s second nature for me to use my right arm to do everything, but the pain brings tears to my eyes.

  “Don’t move your arm.” Her voice is soft and quiet. I open my eyes and look to see who is speaking but my curtained off space is empty. It’s just me and the machine. I watch it for a minute, studying the green line moving in waves, monitoring my heartbeat. My mouth is dry, and it feels like I’m waking up from an all-night bender — something I haven’t done since Travis Kidd got married on New Year’s Eve. I smack my lips together to try and create some saliva to get rid of the dryness.

  “Here, drink this.”

  Ah, the angel with the prettiest voice is back. I try to do as she instructs, sipping through the straw but it ain’t easy. I’m groggy, my fine motor skills are shit right now and my tongue feels like a foreign object.

  “Are you in pain?”

  What kind of question is that? The surgeon cut into my collar bone and neck, removed a bone, and she wants to know if I’m in pain? Of course, I am . . . or am I? Her question gives me pause. My arm is sore. There’s no doubt about that, but I’m not sure if it’s because I know it is or if I’m in pain.

  I grunt out a half intelligible response but I’m not convinced she’s paying attention because she’s focused on my chart and the monitor. She presses some buttons and tells me she’ll be back shortly. I think I tell her okay or I nod, I’m not sure which to be honest.