by Shae Connor
By the third inning, shadows were creeping across the field, and Toby knew the batters would have a hell of a time for the next hour, until the sun fell completely behind the stands. Twilight games weren’t just a bitch for the off-the-field staff to deal with. They didn’t have to try to track a 95-mile-per-hour fastball from the bright sunlight streaming on the pitcher’s mound to the darkness enveloping the plate. As if those pitches weren’t hard enough to follow under perfect conditions.
Toby didn’t see the play when it happened. Atlanta was leading after four and a half innings, and even in the typical July heat, the contrast between sun and shade was enough that the starting pitcher asked for his jacket to keep his arm warm in the dugout. Toby jogged down to the clubhouse to get it and was on his way back up the ramp to the dugout when he heard the crack, followed instantly by a collective gasp from the crowd.
He ran the last few steps until he could see the field, and then it took him a few minutes to figure out who was lying on the ground next to home plate, his helmet spinning slowly in the dirt a few feet away.
Holy shit.
It was Caleb.
Toby had to grab the railing next to him to keep from following the manager and trainers, who’d sprinted out onto the field. Caleb wasn’t moving, and that, combined with the sickening sound of what Toby now knew was ball hitting skull that still echoed in his head, did not bode well. The last time Toby had seen a player down this long, he’d never stepped foot on a baseball field again.
Toby watched, leg bouncing impatiently, as Marty and Joe, the head trainer, checked Caleb over. Somebody took the jacket Toby still held, but he barely noticed. At one point, Marty shifted enough that Toby could see Caleb’s mouth moving, so at least he was conscious, which gave Toby a few seconds of relief. Unfortunately, the next thing he saw was blood, and that sent him right back over the edge into sheer terror.
At almost the same moment, the home plate umpire and Lou, the manager, motioned toward the outfield. Toby’s heart sank further. They were calling in the cart to take Caleb off the field, which meant his injury was bad enough, or risky enough, that either he couldn’t walk off under his own power or the trainers wouldn’t let him. Toby heard the murmurs from the crowd and the low chatter of the players around him, but it was only so much white noise. His mind was racing, trying to figure out if he could follow Caleb to the hospital or if he’d need to hang around until after the game before heading over.
The next second, he discarded the question. If Caleb was going to the hospital, then Toby was going too, and damn the consequences.
Mind made up, Toby took the last few steps to the field and jogged over to home plate, trying to make his choice look casual. “Hey, guys, need a hand?”
Marty glanced up at him. “Yeah, great, Toby. Can you steady his legs while we get him on the backboard? We don’t think his neck is injured, but we gotta take precautions.”
“Sure.” Toby moved down to grip Caleb’s ankles, happy to be able to touch him somewhere, at least. Joe held Caleb’s head still while Marty and the two medics that came in with the cart rolled him to one side and slid the backboard in place. Toby didn’t move until Marty had the straps buckled across Caleb’s body, and then he moved down to grip the bottom of the board instead, helping lift it up and onto the back of the cart.
Toby stepped away then, but just long enough to catch Marty’s eye. “I’m going with him.”
Marty grunted as he tightened down a strap. “I know you guys are friends, Tobes, but….”
“I’m going. No buts. If there’s no room for me in the ambulance, I’ll drive on my own.”
Marty looked at Toby again and then nodded. “Okay. I’m riding with him. Joe’s gotta stay with the team. You can meet us at the ER. It’ll help having someone else there.”
Toby nodded and turned away without another word, heading straight for the dugout and down the ramp to the clubhouse. He darted inside just long enough to grab his phone and keys from the lockbox near the door, and then he was on his way to his car.
The hospital was too damn far from the ballpark. Toby felt like he’d been driving for hours by the time he finally turned off Peachtree and into the parking lot. He found an empty space and jumped out of his car, hitting the key fob to lock it behind him as he took off at jog toward the emergency room’s walk-in entrance. He’d been to the hospital only a handful of times, but he knew where to go to find Caleb.
Inside, he ignored the check-in desk and looked around until he saw Marty standing off to one side. He hurried over. “How is he?”
“Still awake.” Marty nodded toward the curtain a few feet away. “Not entirely coherent, and his eye looks like he got hit with an anvil. But he was talking on the ride in, and I don’t think he passed out. They’re checking him over, and he’ll be going for X-rays soon.”
Toby bounced on his toes, overflowing with nervous energy. “When can I see him?”
Marty gave him a long look. “They’ll probably let us in when he gets back from radiology. Don’t know how long it’ll take for them to get him into a room.” Marty paused. “You seem awfully anxious about all this. He’s only been here a couple of weeks. When did you find time to get to be such good friends?”
Toby nodded, gaze glued on the curtain hiding Caleb from him, hoping for a glance. “We, um, yeah.” He caught himself and shot Marty what hoped was a casual smile. “We had dinner the night he got here and again the other night. We’ve talked some. Nice guy.”
Marty didn’t say anything else, though Toby could tell he wanted to. Marty knew Toby better than anyone else involved with the team, his grandfather included, but even he didn’t know Toby’s biggest secret. Toby had almost blurted it out more than once, but now he was glad he hadn’t. Not for his own sake, but because if Marty knew Toby was gay, he’d be more likely to draw conclusions about Caleb, and the last thing Toby would want to do would be out Caleb to anyone. That had to be Caleb’s choice.
Before either of them said anything else, the curtain moved and a nurse stepped out. She gave Marty a nod and a quick smile.
“Hey, Carla,” Marty said. One side effect of being a trainer for a Major League Baseball team was being on a first-name basis with a lot of medical staff. “How’s our boy?”
“Stable,” she replied. “They’re prepping him to move to Radiology now. Looks like a broken cheekbone, but the nosebleed stopped, and his eyes are responding well, so we’re hopeful that’s all we’re dealing with.”
Marty nodded. “Any idea how long they’ll keep him?”
“Probably a couple of days, if he doesn’t need surgery.” Carla glanced at Toby but turned her attention back to Marty. “They’ll want to keep an eye on the swelling and make sure there’s nothing else. He’ll probably get a room in an hour or two. We’ve got some empty beds today.”
“Sounds good.” Marty turned to Toby as Carla walked away. “You hungry?” Surprised by the question, Toby shook his head. “Well, I am,” Marty said. “Missing the postgame feast. Let’s hit the cafeteria before it shuts down.”
Toby opened his mouth to argue that they should wait there, but Marty had already headed down the hall, so Toby jogged to catch up. “Marty, I really think I should—”
“—get something to eat while you can. We don’t know how long we’ll be here, and trust me, you don’t want to be stuck with nothing but vending machines when you’re starving in the middle of the night.” He glanced at Toby. “Eat now. Worry later.”
“Yeah, right,” Toby muttered. As if he’d stop worrying. But he shut up and kept walking.
Marty led him to the cafeteria, through the line, and to a table. Toby had no idea what they were ordering; he just followed Marty’s lead and ended up with meatloaf and mashed potatoes covered with brown gravy, a small pile of green beans, and a glass of sweet tea.
“Dig in,” Marty instructed once they sat down, and Toby began eating on autopilot. Some part of his brain noted that the food was actually pretty good,
for a hospital cafeteria, but most of his mind was still back in the ER, focused on Caleb.
Halfway through his meal, Toby stopped eating. He set down his fork. He looked at Marty, and he said the one thing he knew he shouldn’t: “I’m gay.”
Marty stopped chewing for a few seconds and then started back up again. He swallowed, took a sip of his tea, swallowed again, and looked Toby straight in the eye.
“Thank you for telling me, but I already knew.”
Toby’s jaw dropped, but Marty wasn’t done. “I’ve known for years, Toby. All the time we’ve spent together? I’d have to be pretty clueless not to figure it out. And no, before you even ask, you don’t give off a vibe or ‘act gay,’ whatever that even means. I couldn’t even point to one thing that made me say, ‘oh, okay.’ It’s just…. I know you. Okay?”
Toby sat back, stunned. He’d had no…. “I had no idea. You could have said something.”
Marty snorted and forked up another bite of meatloaf. “Yeah, and if I happened to be wrong, you might’ve bit my head off about it. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”
He popped the bite into his mouth, and Toby watched him chew, his own jaw working from side to side as he considered what Marty had said. “And it doesn’t…. You don’t care?”
Marty stopped chewing again, and then swallowed. “Well, yeah, I care.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. “I care that you’re happy, and that you’re not dating some asshole who beats you up or something. But whether that’s a guy or a girl or whatever?” He waved a hand dismissively. “I couldn’t give a rip about that.”
Toby sighed and picked up his fork to poke at the remains of his mashed potatoes. “What if it was a ballplayer?”
Marty stayed silent long enough that Toby looked up to find out what he was thinking. Marty’s brow was furrowed. “Is that why you’re here? Is it…?”
Toby lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “We kind of hit it off, you could say. And I freaked out about it.” He returned his attention to his plate, though he’d lost interest in eating. “Not just because of the gay thing. It’s, well….” He laid down his fork and sat back, meeting Marty’s steady gaze. “I’m almost his boss, you know? And even if I wasn’t, we work in the same place, and that’s never a good idea.”
Marty nodded. “It can be a problem, yeah. But it doesn’t have to be. I mean, maybe it’s too much when you put it all together like that. The gay thing, the boss thing, the work thing. Three strikes?” He copied Toby’s one-sided shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. That’s up to you to decide.”
Marty reached for his tea glass and drained it. After setting it down, he pushed back his chair. “Now. We have food in our bellies and a patient to see about. All the rest can wait.”
Toby couldn’t agree more. He followed Marty’s lead again, thankful Marty didn’t mention his still half-full plate as they dropped off their trays and headed back down the hall.
“Ow.”
It wasn’t exactly what Toby expected would be the first thing out of Caleb’s mouth, but he’d take it. He laughed, knowing the sound had an edge of hysteria to it.
“Yeah, pain kind of comes with the territory when you take a fastball to the face.” Marty’s voice might have been dry, but Toby could see the relief in his eyes.
They stood on either side of Caleb’s bed in the ER, where he’d just been wheeled back from having X-rays. Caleb had an IV line in the back of one hand, his eyes were taped shut, and the left side of his face looked like someone had injected grape juice just underneath the skin. The color was particularly vivid considering that the rest of his skin was several shades paler than his usual light tan.
“You’re gonna have quite a shiner, son.” Marty reached out to tap two long fingers on Caleb’s forearm. “Gotta learn to duck faster.”
Caleb’s face moved in what probably started out to be a smile but ended up in a wince. “You should see the other guy,” he murmured.
Toby snorted. “The other guy is a five-ounce ball made of cork, yarn, and leather.”
“Yeah, and he was speeding.” Caleb turned his head in Toby’s direction. His lips quirked, like he’d thought of trying to smile again but reconsidered. “Hope you saved it. Need that one for the trophy case. Maybe a T-shirt. ‘I Survived A Beanball.’”
He reached out a hand, and Toby took it, lacing their fingers together. Caleb relaxed for a moment but then jerked, tugging a little. “Is Marty still—?”
“Right here, Caleb,” Marty cut in. “Not a problem. Already had a little talk with Toby.”
Caleb didn’t relax, though. “It’s just….”
Toby stepped forward and wrapped his free hand around both of theirs. “Caleb. Shut up. It’s fine, okay?”
Toby swore Caleb rolled his eyes behind his closed eyelids. “‘Shut up’? Really? This is how you treat a man who’s been hit in the head with a fastball and lived to tell the tale?”
“So far, he has,” Marty intoned. “Watch yourself, or we might start thinking of ways to change that.”
The clips holding the curtain behind Marty to the ceiling squeaked, and Toby released Caleb’s hand instinctively. The cloth moved to admit a tiny young woman who didn’t look a day over fifteen but wore a white coat with a badge proclaiming her to be Madeline Grace, MD. “All right, Mr. Browning,” she said, stepping adroitly around Marty to stand next to the bed. “The X-ray showed only a hairline fracture, so surgery won’t be needed. We’ll be admitting you overnight to monitor the swelling in your brain—”
“Hold up a second,” Caleb cut in, lifting one hand. “Can you back that up and slow it down a little? I just woke up, and…. Did you say swelling in my brain?”
Dr. Grace glanced at Toby and Marty, who’d moved to the far side of the bed. “You’re the family?”
“Marty Boynton, assistant team trainer.” He tilted his head to the side. “Toby Macmillan, grandson of team owner. This is official business, of a sort.”
Dr. Grace narrowed her eyes for a second but then turned her attention back to Caleb. “Mr. Browning, is it acceptable to you for me to discuss the details of your condition in front of Mr. Boynton and Mr. Macmillan?”
Caleb nodded. “Yeah. Saves me from having to tell them later. Not sure I could do that all that clearly with this headache.”
Dr. Grace nodded. “Mr. Browning, you’ve suffered a rather serious blow to the head that’s caused some degree of swelling and a mild concussion. As I said, the X-ray showed only a hairline fracture of your cheekbone, so you will not need reparative surgery. You have extensive bruising and some swelling around the impact point, as well as the blurry vision you described earlier. None of this is particularly serious, but we do need to monitor you in case you develop bleeding in or around your brain. A subdural hematoma is always a risk after an injury such as yours.”
Toby couldn’t be sure how much of that Caleb got, all things considered. “So he’ll be here overnight, and if everything looks okay tomorrow, he’ll be able to go home?”
“Or the day after.” Dr. Grace turned to the computer sitting in the corner of the cubicle and signed in, then pulled up a screen with row after row of data, none of which Toby could read from where he was. Dr. Grace clicked and typed for a couple of minutes, pulled up another screen showing an image that had to be Caleb’s X-ray, and then typed a few more notes before clicking out and, apparently, logging off.
She turned to face Toby and Marty. “He’ll need to be monitored pretty closely even after he goes home,” she told them. “Head injuries can be tricky.”
Names flashed through Toby’s head, players who’d lost seasons, careers, even their lives to nasty beanballs. He shuddered and resisted, barely, reaching out to take Caleb’s hand again.
“We’ve been through this a time or two,” Marty said. “We’ll have the team doctor in to check him out while he’s here, too. He’ll be the one handling the follow-up.”
“Good.” Dr. Grace held out a ha
nd, and Marty and Toby each took a turn shaking it. She turned back to the bed. “We’ll get you in a room and settled soon, Mr. Browning.”
“Thanks.” Caleb almost got a real smile out this time, though he favored the injured left side. Dr. Grace stepped back out and pulled the curtain back into place, and Toby let himself grab Caleb’s hand again once she was gone.
Marty cleared his throat. “Look, guys, I need to head back to the ballpark, let everyone know what’s up. The guys’ll be asking. I doubt any of them will try to come up tonight, but you might get some company tomorrow.”
Toby heard the unspoken warning: play it safe if you don’t want the world to know about this. He gave Marty a half smile. “Thanks,” he said. “For, well, everything.”
Marty clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave it a shake. “No problem, kiddo.”
He stepped around the curtain, and Toby heard his footfalls fading as he walked away. He moved closer to the bed and lifted his free hand to brush Caleb’s uninjured cheek.
“You’re gonna be just fine,” he murmured, and Caleb turned his head into the gentle touch.
“Stay?” Caleb’s voice was low, like he was a step away from sleep, and Toby couldn’t have denied him even if he’d wanted to.
“Not going anywhere,” he promised.
“Jesus Christ, this headache won’t quit.”
Caleb had been griping most of the day, first about how he couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep with nurses waking him up every couple of hours to check on him, and then how they gave him bland food because he kept having bouts of nausea from the concussion. Toby had let him rant, knowing he was in pain and feeling rotten, but now the pain itself had become the focus of Caleb’s dissatisfaction.