Luckily for him, I had a knack for it.
I was picked up by Houston right out of high school and spent a year with Quad Cities in the Class A league. I’d been cocky even back then. I knew I was better than half the guys in the majors. Unfortunately, it had taken the team a lot longer to catch on, and even then, they’d only moved me to Double-A in Corpus Christi.
When I was twenty, I was brought up to play for the Hurricanes thanks to center fielder, Austin Pineda’s injured wrist. I made my debut and snagged my first career Major League hit in the bottom of the fourth. After that infield single, I was convinced they were going to bring me up permanently.
Instead, they sent me back down—not to Double-A. No, I was promoted to Triple-A. It was frustrating—ESPN had ranked me number one in the top one hundred prospects. Everyone knew Pineda was done, but Houston hadn’t budged. Christ, I’d even been named Minor League Player of the Year but was stuck earning peanuts until my rookie contract ran out.
I’d started the next season in Fresno until, once again, Houston brought me up; this time to replace Tony Mack. He’d been slumping badly at the plate, and it was a huge opportunity for me. From there, I’d recorded my first career four-hit game and was named American League co-player of the week. I began breaking, not only the Hurricanes’ franchise records, but American League rookie records as well. I even managed to snag the AL Rookie of the Year award.
After that, I was in.
And when this season ended, I fully expected to be smashing some records off-field. With all the free-agent chatter, the Hurricanes were going to have to step up their offer if they wanted to keep me in cobalt blue and white. I was looking forward to watching the bidding war unfold.
“You ready, Red? It’s all you, baby!” Chavez slapped my back, and I fought back a grimace before nodding.
He’d been calling me Red since the day we met, said my name reminded him of the Irish beer. I’d almost slipped up and called him Limp Dick a couple of times, a lovely term of endearment I’d overheard his wife use when she thought no one was listening.
“Tie it up, and get us into the playoffs, man,” Chavez pleaded as he looked up into the stands, no doubt searching for Gabrielle. To my extreme regret, I followed his gaze and found her almost immediately.
I tried looking away, but not before she caught me staring. She winked and ran a hand down her chest as if brushing away invisible crumbs. I rubbed at the back of my neck and avoided making eye contact with Chavez, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
As her husband’s teammate, I shouldn’t have known her tits were as fake as a Nigerian prince offering up half his fortune via email. I should have been ignorant about the sounds she made when she was coming.
And the award for Biggest Douchebag of the Year goes to…
Killian Reed, ladies and gentlemen.
In my defense, I never set out to sleep with my teammate’s wife. At the time, I hadn’t even known she was married. Gabrielle approached me at a team after-party a year ago, and we fucked in a bathroom.
End of story.
When she’d shown up at the next practice, I’d chalked it up to another cleat chaser gone stage 5 clinger. I’d known exactly what she thought as I watched her saunter across the field house. It had been written all over her face. She’d convinced herself that out of all the women in the world, she’d be the one to tame me.
Convinced I’d known where things were headed, I actually opened my mouth, prepared to rattle off a speech I’d perfected over the years: “It’s not who I am… I thought you understood… don’t cry.”
Instead, she’d stalked past me, without so much as a fuck you very much, leaving a cloud of Chanel in her wake. I’d watched in utter confusion as she embraced Chavez before putting two and two together.
Only then did I realize just how badly I’d screwed up. If it had been the first time, I would have chalked it up to a minor mistake and moved on.
But it wasn’t the first time.
Before Gabrielle, there was Elliana, Carlos Cabrera’s wife. I hadn’t escaped that one unscathed either. I got a broken nose, and Cabrera got traded to Seattle.
Coming up to the majors was like being invited to an all-you-can-eat buffet. I had access to all the willing women I could ever want. Still, it had become increasingly evident my dick was only interested in the unavailable ones.
It was around that same time that I got the wake-up call I needed. Sports Illustrated had rated me number one in baseball. I could’ve waxed poetic about the subtle differences between a screwball and a circle changeup, but when it came to women, I was utterly lost. As I wasn’t willing to throw away my entire career on another instance of bad judgment, I was left with one option.
Self-imposed celibacy.
It was only supposed to be for a month, something that had initially seemed impossible. If I wasn’t dodging rabid female fans after the game, I was forced to endure heated looks from women almost everywhere else. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d gotten a cup of coffee that didn’t have a phone number hastily scrawled on the side of it.
In my infinite wisdom, I’d let it slip that my dick was on hiatus. Something Bailey, my teammate and best friend, found equal parts amusing and disappointing.
“Delayed gratification is for the poor schmucks who can’t do any better. Not us.”
He was right, of course. With the kind of money we made, the world was at our fingertips. But, instead of giving up my vow and going back to business as usual, his words had the opposite effect. I began to consider the possibility women weren’t throwing themselves at Killian Reed.
They wanted the player.
The money.
The fame.
Late one night, after a few too many beers, I made the decision not to take another woman to bed unless:
A) I could testify under oath that she wasn’t married, engaged, or otherwise spoken for.
B) I clearly saw a future with her.
Twenty-one-year-old me would have promptly choked on his beer and told me I didn’t deserve to own a penis.
Still, I held steady as one month stretched into two, taking matters into my own hands when the going got tough. That was over a year ago, and I’d still yet to meet a woman who didn’t see dollar signs or a tabloid story when she looked at me.
But, I was still on top where it counted.
My first love had always been the game, and we had a long life ahead of us. The rest was just details.
The ancient PA system crackled to life as the announcer informed the stadium I was up. The Hurricanes’ playoff chances rested in my hands. Completely in my element, I swaggered up to the plate with “Walk on Water” by Thirty Seconds to Mars blasting through the ballpark speakers.
This was it.
We were down by a run with Jimenez on second, and, thanks to Chris Harms chasing three straight pitches into the dirt, we now had two outs.
This was game seven against the Kansas City Bears—at home, for crying out loud. We’d dragged it out long enough. It was time to give the fans what they wanted.
Me.
I cut my eyes over to the dugout and got the sign from the manager to take the first pitch.
Dammit.
The Bears’ pitcher, Adam Coley, wound up and sent a fastball in on the inside corner. It was a good pitch, but I knew I could’ve turned on it and at least pulled it into the outfield.
Behind in the count, I had to watch for his curve. He had a good fastball with a bit of movement on it, but his curve was downright nasty.
Coley knew I could hit and, just as I expected after the first pitch, threw a curve way outside. The catcher kept it in front of him, preventing Jimenez from advancing to third. His next one was more garbage outside.
Another ball.
I was given another sign to take the pitch but decided to disregard anything other than a sign to swing away. My hunch paid off when Coley threw a hanging slider. I was already moving when I realized my error.
&nb
sp; That’s no hanging slider, it’s a goddamn breaking ball.
The momentum from my swing pushed me forward, and I ended up chopping it. Out of options, I began hauling ass to first, knowing the ball was fair without even looking.
It was identical to my first Major League hit, with the minor exception being I now had six additional years on my legs. My cleats pounded against the dirt, each steady thump matching my heart rate.
The crowd’s roar became deafening as the announcer shouted, “And he’s hit a high chop down to third. Sanchez bare hands it—”
Fucking Sanchez. For a rookie, he’d been killing it all season.
I could leg it out.
I’d almost hit it right off the damn plate.
If Jimenez made it to third, we still had a shot.
The wind whistled in my ears as I sprinted, drowning out the crowd. With each inhale, the scents of childhood flooded my nostrils.
Dirt.
Pine-tar.
Cotton candy.
I breathed them in, all while knowing that most people would kill to be in my cleats. Inside this chalk baseline, I was king, and there was no better feeling in the world.
It was going to come down to a bang-bang play at first. I just had to pray the ump ruled in my favor. I heard the smack of the ball on leather just as I hit the bag, but instead of being called out, it hit the heel of the first baseman’s glove and rolled back toward the dugout.
I risked a glance to my left and watched as Jimenez rounded third, heading for home. The first base coach threw up the sign and told me to stay, but I knew I could make it to second. One more base hit, and then I’d score the winning run—no extra innings needed.
I was the hero.
With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I planted my left leg to cut toward second base. For a fraction of a second, I thought I had it.
Then, I felt the pop.
The pain was like a freight train, stealing the breath from lungs and taking my legs out from under me. I exhaled a low groan, coming down hard on my left side.
“And Reed is down as he turns to second,” the announcer helpfully reiterated, on the off chance the fans had their eyes closed during the play. “It looks like they’re going to tag him, but he’s hurt.”
I tossed my helmet, gritting my teeth as I writhed in the dirt, worthless as a sidesaddle on a sow. The Bears’ first baseman, Kelly, somberly walked over and dropped down to tag me.
“Your knee?” He nodded toward where I held my leg in a death grip.
I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded, knowing I’d be making today’s edition of ESPN’s Not Top Ten. Thoughts of my father filtered through the haze of agony as the team closed in, rapidly firing questions I had no way of answering.
Not in my current state.
Unable to handle the sudden silence that had descended over the ballpark, the announcer continued his long-winded rambling. “There’s certainly some confusion over on first base. I think Reed thought he had an opportunity to make it to second—and it appears they’re calling for the stretcher. After reviewing the replay, it looks as if his knee goes inward. Killian Reed is down just after making the turn at first base, and it looks bad, folks.”
Asshole.
One of the trainers helped me into a sitting position, but the movement sent shockwaves of white-hot pain radiating throughout my leg, damn near forcing me back down.
I was just getting started—what if this was it?
2
Ariana
“I’m jus’ pain covered with skin.”
-John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath
I was dreaming of the boy again.
Over the years, the details had faded to little more than a shadowy figure with blue-gray eyes and sun-kissed skin, but I knew it was him.
The moment I went into the water, I broke the rules and found goodness where none should have existed. Coincidentally, it was also when I discovered there was truth in the old adage, ‘no good deed goes unpunished.’
My father hadn’t believed for one second I’d simply fallen into the fishing hole. Especially not after Brother Bradley—or Brad, as he’d insisted I call him—had informed him I’d been missing for hours. In the end, I accepted defeat and took my punishment in stoic silence.
I’d saved a life, and though the boy had never answered me, I wholeheartedly believed he was good. Perhaps if he hadn’t been, things might have played out differently.
Maybe then I would have been able to do as my father commanded and set my mind on things above, and not the things of earth.
But even ten years later, the boy with blue-gray eyes was still the one fantasy that hadn’t been tempered with a harsh dose of reality. Night after night, he haunted my dreams, leaving me aching for a life I could never have.
I was dreaming of him again, only this time we didn’t reach the shore. Angry waves battered our bodies and dragged us down into icy depths. The pressure was like a band around my chest, increasing until I was sure my ribs were going to snap. I inhaled the frigid water, desperate for relief from the ever-increasing pain.
Relief that was just out of my reach.
Instead of waking with a pounding heart and sheets soaked in sweat, I found myself in a living nightmare where my body remained suspended in a dream-like state.
Consciousness came to me in waves, piercing the surrounding darkness with flashes of color and the soft sounds of whispered conversations before dragging me back into the abyss.
I’d resigned myself to a life spent caught between two worlds when I discovered I could make my eyelids flutter by directing all of my attention to them. It took every ounce of focus, but I did it over and over again until, at last, my eyes opened. The sensation of drowning didn’t disappear entirely, but it was more bearable now that I was awake.
“Ariana, squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” a disembodied voice encouraged from somewhere above. “You’re okay, you’re safe. Right now, you’re at St. Michael’s Hospital in Houston.”
Fatigue weighed on me like a heavy wool blanket, but I managed to squeeze the hand wrapped around mine in response. The rest was harder to process, and I blinked slowly as if doing so might bring the words and the room into focus. A doctor was paged from somewhere nearby, but in here, it was quiet, allowing me to think.
Hospital.
I stiffened when the word permeated the fog surrounding my brain. Only sick people went to the hospital.
Was I sick?
The pounding in my skull gave a resounding yes, as did the persistent waves of dizziness and nausea. Even the scent of illness hung over the room like an unwelcome house guest, dragging long-forgotten memories of Mama to the forefront of my mind.
From somewhere nearby, machines began to beep loudly, each high-pitched tone a solemn reminder of how life could change in an instant.
During the holidays, the church held a toy drive for the local children’s hospitals. Minus a routine tonsillectomy, I couldn’t recall ever being a patient in one.
“Ariana, you are safe.” Each word was slowly enunciated as if I were hard of hearing. I wondered if they were trained to repeat things like that.
Were there patients who actually believed it was perfectly normal to wake up in a hospital?
Maybe I was the only one who rationalized that if I was bound to a hospital bed with a splitting headache, then the odds were probably pretty good I was about as far from safe as one could be.
The woman’s face finally came into view. I parted my lips to say something, only to be overtaken by a sudden coughing fit. The hoarse, soupy cough rattled my aching ribs and triggered my gag reflex. I blinked away the tears and swallowed until the urge to vomit passed, wondering where they kept the trashcans.
Just in case.
Incidentally, I also began to wonder why I’d fought against unconsciousness.
In the chaos of my hacking, something popped off my throat, flying across the room before landing with a solid ping.
“W
hoops, we’ve lost your speech valve. Let me grab another one.”
I waited until the woman turned her back before reaching for my face, feeling a thin tube protruding from my nose. Thinking it might relieve the excruciating pressure in my skull, I had the bright idea of tugging on it, which led right into another coughing fit
“Oh—no, no, no,” the nurse chastised as she pried my fingers away, forcing my hand back down to my side. “We don’t want to use the restraints again.”
Restraints?
What kind of hospital were they running?
And how had I ended up in it?
I remembered eating one of Sister Rebekah’s famous lemon pies, my lips puckering at the tartness. Maybe she’d poisoned it, intending to kill her grumpy husband, Brother Benjamin, but had mistakenly sold it to me. My temple throbbed like a drumbeat in response, and I scratched poison off the list.
Headache due to reading by the nightlight for years?
It didn’t seem severe enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. Maybe my horse, Pepper, had finally gotten her revenge after years of being forced to compete in equestrian sports. I couldn’t rule it out entirely. She had gotten rather sassy in her old age.
I shifted against the pillow beneath my head, needing to alleviate the ache at the back of my nose.
No, I couldn’t think about that now.
Having run out of clever ideas, I began to search the room for clues. A white piece of paper hung from an IV pole beside my bed, and I squinted at the blurred words until they shifted into something resembling a sentence.
Right bone flap out.
Which meant… absolutely nothing to me.
Moving on.
Wait, I had it. It was like that children’s song.
How’d that one go again?
Right bone connected to the—nope… still means nothing.
Obviously, my sense of humor had remained intact, or what passed for humor when it came to me. But I was still missing essential information explaining how I’d landed myself in the hospital.
Through The Water: Fairest Series Book Two Page 3