by Roz Lee
“Move. Goddamn it. Out of my way!”
Doyle Walker stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Hold on. Let the medical personnel do what they do.”
Bent looked over the older man’s shoulder at his lover’s crumpled body. Tears blurred his vision, clogging his throat.
“Is he…?”
“He’s alive.”
Closing his eyes, he silently thanked God for the miracle.
“Clear out folks.” Doyle’s voice was calm as he urged the players to make room. “Go on to the clubhouse. I’ll update you as soon as we know something.”
Bentley wasn’t going anywhere. When the Mustangs’ manager pushed against his chest, he balked. “I’m staying.”
“Nothing you can do here,” he said.
“I’m staying,” he repeated, his gaze locked on Sean’s pale face. The Mustangs’ trainers and team physician knelt over him, their faces screwed up with concern.
“The EMT’s are here, Randolph. We have to make room for them,” Doyle reasoned.
Bent glanced up, saw the uniformed crew spilling out of the ambulance parked on the field. His gut twisted. They never called the emergency people unless the injury was life threatening. He took a step back then another as they piled into the dugout with their cases of equipment.
“Bring a backboard,” one of them called to the last guy out of the truck.
He was going to be sick. He swallowed back the bile rising in his throat, clenching his fists at his side to steady himself. Going to pieces now wouldn’t help Sean. He had to be there for him.
Bits of their last conversation flashed through his brain, and he fought the urge to wail. He’d been so stupid. So fucking stupid. He’d let the man down by not fighting for their love. He wasn’t going to let him down now.
I’m here for you. I love you.
He’d never felt so helpless in his life. The EMTs worked like a well-oiled team. In minutes, they pronounced the injured man stable, strapped him to the bright orange backboard, and carried him up the stairs to the field level where a stretcher waited at the open ambulance door.
No one stopped him as he followed them up the steps. After they secured their patient to the gurney, he stepped forward.
“I’m going with him.”
“We’ve got it,” one guy said after a silent consultation with his co-workers.
“I don’t give a shit if you’ve got it or not. I’m going with him.”
“Bentley.” Doyle Walker’s voice. “Let them do their job. I’m going to the hospital as soon as I change clothes. You can ride with me.”
He shook his head. “No.” He toed off his cleats then kicked them toward the dugout. “I’m going with him. Bring me some shoes when you come.”
Doyle regarded him with questioning eyes, then nodded to the emergency crew. “Let him go along.”
Nothing more was said as they loaded Sean into the ambulance, and Bentley climbed in. He’d never been in an ambulance. The ride was harrowing, but he held on, his focus trained on the man on the stretcher.
“Is he going to be all right?” he asked.
“He’s unconscious,” the guy who’d ordered the backboard said. “Probable concussion. Possible broken bones. He could have a spinal cord injury, but there’s no way we can tell for sure without tests.”
Spinal cord injury.
The words sent a chill through his body. Baseball players didn’t come back from that kind of injury.
“They’ll do all kinds of tests at the hospital. You should know more in a few hours.”
Panic screamed louder than the sirens clearing their way through the Dallas traffic.
I’m here. No matter what happens, I’m here. I’m so damned sorry. We’re going to get you through this. I won’t leave you.
In sock-clad feet, he paced the emergency waiting room for what seemed like an eternity. Belatedly, he understood why Doyle had taken the time to change out of his uniform. Everyone recognized him. Some knew why he was there, had seen him on TV getting in the ambulance with his teammate. All wanted his autograph. Some wanted news about the condition of the player he’d accompanied.
He’d never been so glad to see his team manager as he was when he arrived carrying a familiar duffle. Doyle brought his civilian clothes from his locker. Such a little thing, but once he was dressed, he felt more in control. Miserable, but more in control.
Team management threw their weight around, getting them moved to a private waiting room. They all looked at him with questions in their eyes. Why was he here? Didn’t he hate Flannery? Of all the players on the team, why was he the one who refused to leave?
There was an answer to all their unspoken questions. He wanted to tell them, but he had to talk to Sean first. He had to make it right with him before he told these people what they wanted to know. Until then, he kept his own council, quietly praying for the man to recover soon.
“Why don’t you go home,” Doyle asked late in the night when they still had no answers. “There’s nothing you can do here.”
“Maybe not, but I’m not leaving.”
“Don’t you have a fiancée to go home to?”
For the first time since he’d seen his lover tumble into the dugout, he thought about Ashley. He searched his pockets for his cell phone. “I’ll call her. She’ll understand.”
“Just so you know, you don’t have to stay. We aren’t going to leave him alone.”
“I know. He doesn’t have much family.” One of the many nights, exhausted from a game then sex in his hotel room, they’d lain in bed talking about their families.
“We called his sister. She’ll be here in a few hours.”
Bent nodded. “That’s good. He likes her.”
“She saw it on TV. Said she was halfway out the door when we called.”
“He’ll be glad to see her. Siobhan, right? Lives in D.C.?”
Doyle nodded. “I didn’t know you two were close. After the brawl in the clubhouse….”
“Yeah, well, that was old business.” Business he didn’t want to discuss. “I’ll call Ashley.” He held up his phone. “Let her know where I am.” With the help of a friendly nurse, he found the nearest exit not swarmed by the media and powered up his phone. He had half a dozen missed calls—all from his fiancée. He hit redial on the latest one then pressed the phone to his ear.
“Bentley!” she screamed in his ear. “Where are you?”
“At the hospital. Sean….” His throat closed up, and he couldn’t continue. Damn. He needed to get a grip.
“I saw it on TV. Is he all right? The news people are saying how awful it could be.”
“I don’t know anything yet. They’re still doing tests. He was still unconscious when we got to the hospital.”
“I’m sorry. I really am.” She paused, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to fill the silence. “When are you coming home?”
“Not until I see him. We had another fight, a verbal one this time, right before the game. I can’t leave him…not until we talk.”
“I understand.” Her voice was softer, almost sad. But what the hell did she have to be sad about? “Look. I’ve been getting calls from the network. They know we’re engaged. They want information. I promise, I won’t tell them anything you tell me. If you need to talk, I’m here.”
“Thanks.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I appreciate it. I’m sure he will, too, when he comes to.”
“Bentley…I’m sorry. Tell Sean, I’m sorry.” She disconnected before he could ask her what she meant. Sorry? For what? As long as she didn’t feed private information to the press vultures, she had nothing to be sorry for.
If only you could say the same for yourself. You’re a grade A asshole, Bentley Randolph.
He was unraveling, one silent minute at a time. When the team of physicians treating the first baseman stepped into the waiting room, he was one taut rubber band away from snapping.
“Gentlemen.”
Bentley recognized Ph
illip Sanderson, the Mustangs doctor. Of course, he would be at the hospital—it was his job to keep the players healthy. He introduced the others—an orthopedic surgeon, a trauma specialist, and a neurologist. From the introductions, it sounded as if they’d called in the best, but impatience ate at him. He didn’t want to hear how many Board certifications they had.
“How is he?” he interrupted.
Dr. Sanderson glanced at him, blinked as if he was seeing things then stammered. “Uh. He’s…well…there’s a lot to discuss.” His gaze traveled over the group. “Does he have family here?”
“His sister is on the way,” Doyle said.
“Okay, then. I can tell you he’s awake. He knows what happened to him. He’s in a lot of pain from a variety of injuries. I’ll let the others here tell you, as they’re treating him within their own specialties.” He looked at the orthopedist. “Dr. Williams, why don’t you go first?”
Dr. Williams didn’t look more than thirty years old. Bent wanted to ask if they had anyone with more experience but held his tongue. There’d be time for that later, if need be. He’d move whatever mountains stood in the way to see Sean had the best care possible.
“Mr. Flannery has two cracked ribs he sustained in the fall, as well as a broken hip. The break is severe and will require surgery, but we’ve elected to postpone it for a few days so other issues can be addressed first.”
“What other issues,” Bent asked.
The shorter doctor stepped forward, clearing his throat. “I’m Dr. Schmidt,” he said. “Mr. Flannery has some bruising along his spinal cord, and a CT scan revealed a minor concussion. Because of the concussion, I’ve advised against surgery until we know more. There doesn’t appear to be any permanent spinal injury. He has use of all his limbs, and he responded appropriately to stimuli. For the time being, he’s on mild pain killers to be increased as needed once we’re sure he’s out of danger from the concussion.”
Dr. Schmidt stepped back to allow the last of the team to come forward. “I’m Dr. Hollowell,” he said. “I get to deliver the best news. Mr. Flannery doesn’t appear to have any damage to internal organs, but we’re going to keep a close watch on him over the next few days. It appears he landed hard, and there could be internal bleeding we can’t detect right away. But, all things considered, his injuries appear to be more skeletal than anything else, and bones heal.”
“When can I see him?” Bent asked.
Dr. Sanderson stepped up, taking charge once more. “His family is on the way?” he asked the general gathering.
“It’s going to be a few hours, at least,” Doyle said. “Bentley knows Sean as well as anyone on the team. I don’t see why he can’t go in.”
The doctor nodded. “Okay.” He turned to Bentley. “Let him sleep as much as possible. Try to keep the jokes to a minimum. It’s going to be a while before he feels like laughing.”
The medical team left with promises to keep Mustangs management informed of Sean’s progress. Bent was aware of the curious glances as he left the waiting room with Dr. Sanderson, but none of it mattered to him any longer. All that mattered was seeing the man he loved.
He was asleep when they entered his private room. The doctor checked the monitors hooked up to his patient then with a whispered reminder to let the man sleep, he departed.
Bent stood for a few minutes, watching his chest rise and fall, reassured by the steady rhythm. Every once in a while a grimace would pull at Sean’s face, and he’d moan a little. His color was better than it had been when he was lying on the dugout floor, but he was far from having a healthy glow. There was a scrape on his left cheekbone, and bruises were rising to the surface along both arms. Christ! He must have bounced around like a pinball before he hit the ground.
Satisfied he was sleeping as comfortable as possible given his injuries, Bent pulled a chair up close to the bed and sat. Sean’s hand was outside the covers, a clothespin style heart monitor clamped to one finger. He placed his palm over the back of his hand then closing his eyes, dropped his forehead to the edge of the mattress.
I’m so fucking sorry. Everything you said before the game was true.
His back ached like he’d slept in the back seat of a Volkswagen Beetle. Strange sounds stirred his consciousness. He opened his eyes. His eyeballs stung, and he had to blink twice to make sense of his surroundings. A nurse in flower print scrubs stood on the opposite side of the bed, writing something on a clipboard.
Bent sat up, rubbing both palms over his face. Damn, he needed a shave.
“Good morning,” nurse flowers said.
“Mornin’.” He glanced at the man in the bed. He appeared to be sleeping, which was a good thing. Every couple of hours through the night someone had come in, woken him, asked stupid questions, looked at his pupils then told him to go back to sleep. At least he knew Bent was there. They hadn’t exchanged more than a few words all night long. They would talk later.
“Mr. Flannery’s sister is here. She’s in the waiting room talking with Dr. Sanderson.”
He took the hint. “I guess I should go talk to her, too.”
“I’ll look out for him while you’re gone. He’s doing well. No signs of complications from the concussion. We should be able to give him something a little stronger for the pain in a few hours.”
“I’m glad.” He covered Sean’s hand with his, reassuring himself the man he loved was alive. “If he wakes up, tell him I’ll be right back?”
“I will. There’s coffee at the nurses station. Grab a cup if you want. It’s better than the stuff in the waiting room.”
“Thanks.” He smiled at her kindness. “I appreciate it.”
Coffee in hand, he stepped into the waiting room. Dr. Sanderson, freshly shaved and wearing a lab coat over crisp chinos with a blue shirt, was talking to a dark haired woman Bent assumed was Sean’s younger sister, Siobhan.
“Good Morning,” he said, approaching. The woman turned. He knew he’d been correct. She was a full head shorter, but the sibling resemblance was striking. She was a female version of her brother, which meant she was beautiful. “I’m Bentley Randolph.”
She shook the hand he offered. “Siobhan Flannery. Dr. Sanderson said you haven’t left my brother’s side. I appreciate you sticking by him.” Her gaze seemed too astute then he remembered she knew about Sean’s sexual orientation.
“I couldn’t leave him alone, but since you’re here….”
“Dr. Sanderson assures me my brother is going to be fine, eventually, but it’s going to be a long road for him, especially with the hip injury.” She didn’t correct Bent’s assumption she would want him to leave, nor did she acknowledge it. He took it as a good sign.
“I figured as much.” He turned to the doctor. “This will end his career, won’t it?”
“It could. It’s a bad break—worse than the one he suffered a few years ago. As I was telling Ms. Flannery, the hip socket and pelvic bones are shattered. He could come back, but it’s going to take time.”
He wondered if they’d told Sean or if he remained unaware his life had irrevocably changed when he caught that pop up.
“At least he caught the ball,” he said.
Siobhan smiled. “He did. He’ll be glad to hear, if he doesn’t remember.”
“He isn’t going to want to hear the rest,” Bentley said.
“No, he’s not. He loves baseball. Not playing is going to take some adjusting if it comes to that.”
“Let’s just focus on getting him through the surgery for now,” Dr. Sanderson interjected. “We can deal with his post-baseball life once he’s back on his feet. He may play again. It’s possible, if he wants it bad enough.”
“Good to know,” Bentley said. “I won’t mention it then, unless he brings it up.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Siobhan said, “but he’s going to bring it up.”
“We’ll deal with it when we have to. From the way it sounds, he doesn’t have much choice but to have the surgery, right?” He t
urned to Dr. Sanderson for his answer.
“No. Not if he wants to walk.”
A chill ran down Bent’s spine at the realization of how serious the man’s injuries were. “Then that’s our primary goal.”
Having done all he could for the time being, Dr. Sanderson excused himself to see to his patients from his private practice.
“You should go home, get some rest,” Siobhan said.
“I don’t want to leave him.”
“I’ll be here. If he wonders where you are, I’ll tell him I sent you home but you’ll be back. You will be back, won’t you?”
“I will.” He shifted his feet, looking around the empty waiting room. “Look, you should know….”
“No need to explain. I can tell. He means a great deal to you, doesn’t he?”
“I love him.” He was surprised at how easily he spoke the truth to a complete stranger, even more surprised she didn’t appear in the least taken aback by his declaration.
“Then go home, get some rest. He’ll still be here when you get back.” She smiled at her joke. Bent couldn’t help it, he smiled back.
“It’s not like he’s going to walk out of here, is it?”
“No. He may try to wheel himself out, but I’ll stop him before he gets far.”
“Come on,” he said, leading the way. “I’ll show you where his room is, then I’ll go get cleaned up. I need to make some arrangements with the team, then I’ll be back.”
Chapter Sixteen
Things hurt he didn’t even know he had. How was that possible? Even the slightest movement brought on more pain, enough sometimes he thought he might pass out. But nothing hurt worse than seeing Bentley hovering over him, suffering right along with him.
Damn him.
The man had been there every time he opened his eyes—except the last time. Siobhan had sent him away. Thank God. He could always count on his sister to have his back. Not so for the rest of his family, but Siobhan loved him the way family should—unconditionally.
They’d given him some better pain meds, allowing him to sleep for longer stretches of time. Though he was getting more rest, waking up took more effort.