by Mindy Klasky
The Rockets’ trainers were vocal enough to get Tucker into a curtained examination area, and a doctor ordered the start of an IV drip, along with something for the pain. After that they were all reduced to a long wait. The kid just stared at the wall, sweat soaking through his uni with the stink of despair. Despite Zach’s best efforts, Cody had seen the damage. He knew what he was in for.
The rest of the team started showing up around eleven, showered and subdued by a brutal loss to Philadelphia. They paced and swore and demanded that the docs change their priorities. Just breathing, the guys shrank the emergency room waiting area. Seething with impatience, they made the entire hospital seem smaller than a postage stamp.
Zach steeled himself to go play team captain, to knock the guys into order. Just as he ducked under the polyester curtain, though, Anna Benson strode into the room.
In any other context, he might have taken her for a fragile child. She was thin as a greyhound, poured into her skinny jeans and a curvy Rockets T-shirt. She’d pulled on a hooded sweatshirt against the nighttime chill, but she’d pushed the too-long sleeves up to her elbows, exposing wrists that looked like they might snap in a strong wind. Her wide eyes, ocean-blue beneath the fluorescent lights, made her look like one of those animated heroines from some kids’ cartoon. Her cheekbones seemed sharp enough to slice open his palm.
But Anna Benson wasn’t a little girl any more.
She took about fifteen seconds to locate the triage nurse. Crossing to the desk with a minimum of fuss, she engaged in a quick, efficient exchange of information. Her jaw tightened. The nurse obviously didn’t have good news.
But that didn’t stop Anna. She turned back to the chaos of the overflowing waiting room. The guys still hadn’t noticed her; they were too busy devouring all the oxygen in the space. Anna raised her hands above her head and clapped three times. “Enough!” she shouted, her voice sawing through the fug of locker-room speculation.
She pressed her advantage with the instinctive drive of a shark. “Gentlemen! Thank you for coming to Raleigh Memorial. My grandfather and I appreciate your showing support for Cody. I just spoke with the nurse, and she confirmed that Cody’s in good hands. But it’s going to be hours, maybe days before we know anything specific. It’s after midnight, and you have to report to the park in less than twelve hours. Show your respect by giving the doctors the space they need to do what’s best for Cody. Go home and get some sleep, so you can put Philly in their place tomorrow!”
She hit the perfect tone. She let the guys know they were valued. She made them understand that she was worried—as much as they were, maybe more. She gave them a way to fight back, to get a ballplayer’s professional revenge.
And the team gave way before her leadership. One by one, the guys filed past her. She spoke to each of them, touching a shoulder here, shaking a hand there. She met each man’s eyes, assuring him his contribution was noted and appreciated.
And when the last ballplayer slipped out to the parking lot, Anna turned that cool intensity back to the triage nurse, demanding to know where Cody could be found, what Anna could do to expedite getting him out of the emergency room and into a less hectic standard room. As the nurse bent to her task, Zach ducked back into the curtained alcove, finally believing that this godforsaken night might be taking a turn for the better.
* * *
Anna leaned her head against the window in the hospital waiting room, finding solace in the touch of the cool glass. When she closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, she teetered on the edge of sleep. Reluctantly, she pushed herself upright. Delaying wasn’t going to make this phone call any easier. She wished Gramps hadn’t made her swear she’d report in.
Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she realized it was nearly 2:30 in the morning. She’d better wait. Gramps needed his sleep.
Who was she kidding? Marty Benson wouldn’t be asleep. He constantly complained that he never got more than four hours of sleep—on a normal night. And this was hardly a normal night—not when Cody Tucker’s career hung in the balance. She steeled herself and made the call.
He answered on the first ring. “What does the fu— fussbudget doctor have to say?”
The familiar, commanding tone was a balm on Anna’s frayed nerves. She stood up straight and reported, “It’s too soon to know for sure. The orthopedist won’t have a full plan until Tuesday at the earliest. They need the initial swelling to go down.”
“But they took their god— blessed X-rays?”
“It’s definitely broken. The tendons and ligaments are fully compromised.” She took a deep breath, knowing the blow she was dealing to her grandfather. Cody was one of the Rockets’ key pieces—the team’s not-so-secret weapon for making it to the post-season. “No one at the hospital is saying anything for certain, but our trainers looked at the scans. It’ll be a miracle if he plays next year. More likely, it’ll take him two to get back on the field.”
And there’s no telling if he’ll ever be the same. She didn’t add that last sentence. She didn’t have to. Silence stretched long enough that she had to ask, “Gramps?”
“I heard you,” the old man said peevishly, sounding every one of his eighty-one years.
She pressed on, trying to make it all better. “I phoned his family. They were watching the game; they saw it happen. They’ll be on the first flight out from Boston tomorrow morning.” She waited, wishing there was something more she could say, anything she could do to make the world slip back into order. Finally, she whispered, “I’m sorry, Gramps.”
At least his familiar snort of disdain made her feel a little less lost. “It’s not your fault, Anna-cakes. But you’re the one who’ll have to clean this up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sit down with Gregory tomorrow to figure out what the team is going to do.”
What they would do? They needed a new first baseman, immediately. The kids in their farm system were great prospects, but there wasn’t anyone ready to step up to playing full time. They needed a man who could make up for Cody’s bat in the order, along with his amazing fielding skills. The Rockets needed an MVP-calibre player, whatever premium it cost to get him.
That would be a tall order under ordinary circumstances. But this year? With the team already up against its salary cap? Her grandfather was asking for the impossible. “Gramps, the team is really shaken up. They need to see you out front on this.”
“Nonsense. The team needs to know there’s continuity. A firm hand on the reins, now and in the future.”
“But who do you think we can possibly get for—?”
“Anna, that co— cobbler-headed night nurse you insisted on hiring for me is giving me the stink-eye. Get some sleep. You’ll have this all figured out in the morning.”
Dismayed, she managed to make a few polite noises, wishing her grandfather a good night, for whatever was left of it. After he hung up, though, she slumped into the nearest chair. How could he possibly put her in charge of a disaster like this? She might have the Rockets’ best interest at heart in everything she did, but she was a twenty-five-year-old woman who had never done battle with the big boys in the major-league salary wars.
She stretched her legs out and rested her head on the back of the upholstered seat. As soon as she closed her eyes, the room began to whirl around her.
God, she was tired. She’d nagged the emergency room staff until they transferred Cody upstairs, to a relatively quiet room here on the orthopedic floor. Once her player was wheeled upstairs, she’d watched over the polite debate between the Rockets’ trainers and the Raleigh Memorial doctors and their eventual agreement on the best way to keep his foot elevated, making him as comfortable as possible while they waited to assess the full extent of the damage. She’d checked in with the major media websites, made sure that the injury and ensuing brawl were being covered in as fair a light as possible. Speed-typing on her phone, she had fielded all thirty-four of the URGENT emails in her inbox and a dozen t
exts that insisted they couldn’t be ignored.
Now there was nothing left to do but wait.
Aside from a quick conversation in the emergency room, she’d managed to avoid actually looking at Cody, seeing the forlorn expression of loss in the injured player’s eyes. She couldn’t afford that luxury any longer, though. It would be cruel to leave the man alone until his family arrived. She’d sit with him for what was left of the night. With any luck, she’d have time to grab a shower before she had to meet with Small.
Taking a deep breath, she forced herself down the hallway. This would be difficult. Exhausting. Emotionally draining. But it was the least she could do for a man who had given his best for the Rockets. One last fortifying breath, and she pushed open the door to Cody’s room.
And she nearly cried out in surprise when she saw Zach Ormond sitting beside Cody’s bed. That was better than a dose of caffeine to jolt her back to full wakefulness.
The catcher looked up, obviously as startled as she was. The lights had been dimmed for whatever passed as a restful night in the hospital, and the soft fluorescents barely glinted off the silver strands at Zach’s temples. His eyes looked black in the darkness. His sudden movement shifted the cotton-wrapped ice pack that slouched over the knuckles of his left hand, but he caught it before it slipped to the floor.
She rolled her eyes and hooked a finger, gesturing for him to accompany her into the hall. The monitors spun out their placid lines for the sleeping Tucker’s heartbeat and respiration as Zach complied. She led the way back to the waiting room, surprisingly conscious of the burly man who shadowed her.
“How you doing, Rocky?” she asked when they got back to the familiar window. She kept her voice low in deference to the deserted hallways behind them.
His smile was rueful as he flexed his fingers into a fist. “I’m fine,” he said, shrugging.
“At least you remembered to hit him with your left fist.”
“The first thing they teach in spring training.” This time, the smile actually reached the fine lines beside his eyes.
She tried to think of something else to say, something to keep that amusement on his lips. There really wasn’t anything laughable about the night, though. She settled for jutting her chin down the hall, indicating Cody’s room. “What were you doing in there?”
“Someone needs to stay with him. With that much morphine on board, he won’t wake for a few hours, but when he does, he’s not going to remember where he is, or why he’s here.”
“Spoken like a man who knows.”
He glanced down at his knee, at the ACL he’d torn his fourth year in the majors. She still remembered Gramps ranting about that one, so upset he’d actually neglected to clean up his speech, despite the fourteen-year-old granddaughter working quietly on her algebra homework in the corner of his office. “Yeah,” Zach said. “I’ve been there a few times. I’ll keep an eye on him till his family gets here. I’ll call them around seven. No reason to wake them with bad news when there aren’t any overnight flights.”
She shook her head. “I called them from the park, before I came over here. Even then, it was too late for them to grab the last plane, but we got them on the 6:00 out of Logan tomorrow morning. I have a driver picking them up. He can take them straight here, then deliver their bags to the hotel, one of the long-term suites. They’ll want the kitchenette once the immediate crisis is over.”
His eyebrows raised. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
Something about the simple warmth of his question unlocked the emotions she’d sequestered away since that sickening moment when she’d seen Cody slide. She was astonished to find tears in her eyes, threatening to spill onto her cheeks. What the hell was going on? She wasn’t the type of girl who cried. Ever.
“Hey,” Zach said, and he brushed away one treasonous drop of water with his thumb.
And that gesture broke her.
Her sobs rose from somewhere deep inside. Horrified, she raised her hand to her lips, trying to push back the weakness. That simple gesture wasn’t enough, though. She gasped for breath, stunned by her sudden emotion. Rocking beneath the shock, she felt her eyes go wide as Zach stepped closer and folded her into his arms.
That embrace was permission. She didn’t need to be the strong one. She didn’t have to coordinate doctors and trainers and a dozen unruly ballplayers. She was freed from playing the controlled business executive, the commander who could crank a publicity machine into overdrive even as she arranged for the transport, care, and feeding of stunned bystanders.
Sheltered by Zach, she could be a person, a witness terrified by a sickening injury. She could let herself imagine Cody’s pain, the agony of his ruined foot barely touching the torture of the fear that he might never play again.
She had enough presence of mind to keep her sobs quiet. Burying her face against Zach’s chest, she managed to smother the sound, biting back the wail that howled in her own mind. She clutched at the fabric of his shirt, and his arms only tightened, silently telling her she could rely on him. She could show him her weakness, and he would only draw her closer.
He smelled of soap and shampoo, and she realized he’d taken a shower between stalking from the game and coming to the hospital. The shirt beneath her palms was soft cotton, a blue workshirt that had been laundered countless times. She clutched it between her fingers, gathering him even nearer.
It felt so good to stand there. So safe. She was desperate and frightened and endlessly sad, but he was holding her, and she was going to survive.
Slowly, she became aware of his stroking her back. His palm was steady, and his touch was light. She turned her cheek against his shoulder, and she felt him shift, adjust his stance to better support her. His hand rose to the nape of her neck, and his fingers found the pressure points at the top of her spine. He pressed gently, steadily, and she relaxed against him, letting the tension flow away, seeping down her back.
Tears still leaked from beneath her eyelids, but her gasping sobs had died. Now, she felt exhausted, as if she’d been up for five days, instead of five hours past her normal bed-time. With her eyes closed, the room began to spin again.
Zach slipped his hands down her arms, supporting her by her elbows. He guided them both to the nearest bench, easing down beside her. He reached around her and corralled one of the flimsy boxes of tissues that stood sentinel around the waiting room. He plucked two and slipped them into her hand.
God, he must think she was an idiot! Her embarrassment was enough to shock her away from the last of her tears. She glanced at him, just quickly enough to see that the front of his shirt was soaked.
Mortified, she mopped at her face. He fed her another tissue, and she pretended it was possible to be delicate while blowing her nose. A fourth white square let her swipe beneath her eyes, issuing grateful thanks to whatever deity was on late-night hospital duty that she never wore mascara.
Appalled by her behavior, she balled up the tissues and shoved them into the pocket of her jeans. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what that was all about.”
She felt him shrug, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. His voice was perfectly noncommittal as he said, “We all react to stress differently.”
She laughed awkwardly. “That was a pretty extreme reaction.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Some of us get into fistfights. Start a bench-clearing brawl.”
Despite herself, she laughed. She felt him shrug again, and this time the easiness of that gesture gave her the courage to meet his eyes. Here in the full light of the waiting room, they looked more green than brown, a forest color that belonged far away from the antiseptic white hallways.
His gaze was steady. Infinitely patient. Infinitely calm. Her fingers itched to touch the soft lines beside his eyes, the crow’s feet that were his right after so many years of staring out at a pitching mound.
Instead, she curled her fingers into fists. She had no right to be touching Zachary Ormon
d. Not beside his eyes. And certainly not anywhere else—no matter how much the thought made her belly swoop.
She raised her chin and pretended like she was the successful heir-in-waiting for the Raleigh Rockets empire. “Thank you,” she said.
“Any time.” His smile was amused. Tolerant.
“Go home,” she said. “I’ll sit with Cody.” He shook his head, but she cut him off before he could protest. “You need a new shirt, at least. You’re soaked!”
“I’ll dry.” As if to demonstrate, he plucked the cotton shirt from his chest.
“It’s ridiculous for both of us to stay up all night.”
“You’re right. Go home.” But he smiled as he said it, and she knew he wasn’t really ordering her away. Instead, he fished his wallet out of his back pocket and nodded toward the vending machines on the far wall. “How do you take your coffee?”
She wrinkled her nose. “As ice cream, or not at all.”
“Soda, then?”
“Coke, please.”
When the bright red can clanked free of the machine, he tapped the top twice before opening the tab. She blushed as he handed it to her. Something about the gesture felt too intimate, as if he’d just ravished her in the shadowy confines of his man-cave, instead of letting her ugly-cry against his chest in the center of the very public hospital waiting room.
She wondered if he could read her mind, because he said, “There’s no shame in being tired, Anna. Go home. I won’t think any less of you.”
Reflexive defiance stiffened her spine. “I could say the same to you, prizefighter.”
He winced. “Yeah. Sorry about that. More crap to deal with tomorrow.”
She shrugged off his chagrin. “We’ll brush it under the carpet when we issue an update about Cody’s status. Tell everyone we’re appealing your suspension, and you’ll play for the interim.”
He nodded, and she sensed that her measured reply had pulled them both back from an edge they hadn’t meant to approach. This was business, after all. They might be stranded together in the middle of the night, caught up in a strange sea of exhaustion and emotion, but they worked together for a common, professional cause.