The Perfect Game: A Complete Sports Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  I laugh at her calling me out. “I’m a fantastic multi-tasker, Rylee.”

  She rolls her eyes at me before asking about my pain level. Then she positions my uninjured arm several different ways and takes measurements. Then she tests the strength of both my hands by having me squeeze her hands.

  She stares me down. “Don’t hold back on me, Brady,” she says, nodding to my right hand. “I can take it. I need to have a good baseline on both your hands and arms, not just your injured one.”

  I squeeze harder with my good hand, but I still hold back a bit. She’s just so small.

  “If you underestimate me, it will only hurt your recovery.”

  I give her all I’ve got, squeezing hard with my right hand and not being able to squeeze much at all with my left.

  “That-a-boy,” she says, finally accepting that I tried my best. But I don’t miss how she has to shake her hand out and flex it a bit and it makes me feel bad.

  My eyes automatically drift to the ring finger of her left hand, noticing how it’s free of matrimonial hardware. Not that it matters much, but it reduces the likelihood of hassles. I hate hassles.

  She must follow the movement of my eyes because she quickly uses the hand to close her laptop before she gets up and opens the door. “Let’s get started then.”

  She leads me out into the main PT room that looks somewhat like a weight room. One of the walls is lined with training tables for patients to lie on. In the middle of the room, there are all kinds of machines including treadmills, stair climbers, and shoulder presses. There are weights and rubber balls of all sizes. There is a wall with carabiners attached to bands of different colors. There are pulleys and levers and switches. You name it, if it exists in the world of rehab, they have it in this state-of-the-art facility. It’s why they send us here.

  We do have a rehab facility back home with most of this stuff, but it’s smaller and is for minor injury rehab and day-to-day stuff. As pitchers, we basically rehab every day that we play. But here, they rehab all four Hawks teams, from the single-A team that is based here in Tampa, to the double-and-triple-A teams in Tucson and Las Vegas. Basically, if you’ve been sent here for rehab, it’s mission critical. If you’ve been sent here, all bets are off.

  If you’ve been sent here, the odds of getting back in the game are reduced dramatically.

  And everyone knows it.

  Including Rylee Kennedy.

  She directs me to sit in a chair and she pulls up a rolling stool next to me. I look around the room and see a few other people. A guy who looks familiar from when I was here for spring training is working on someone. And a young woman, probably a PT intern or an athletic trainer, is observing them.

  Rylee hands me a squishy stress ball and asks me to squeeze it, watching me closely as I wince when I do.

  “Does that hurt your elbow or your hand?”

  “Both, but mostly my hand.”

  “Your elbow pain will decrease a lot this week and next. And while some nerve pain could be present until it regenerates, it will subside – although numbness, tingling and a burning sensation will persist.”

  “Wonderful,” I say, squeezing the ball with less intensity than a goddamn baby.

  She hands me a resistance hand grip – a device that looks like an oversized clothespin. “Try this.”

  As a pitcher, I’m no stranger to this exercise. Some guys will sit around and squeeze these to strengthen their hands whenever they watch television. I take it knowing I won’t even be able to get it to budge.

  She covers my injured hand with hers when she takes it back from me. “It’s okay. You’ll get there. This is only day one. I don’t expect you to be able to do all these things.”

  She has me flex and extend my wrist which are both very hard to do to any degree. Then after a few more failed attempts at other exercises, she hooks me up to a TENS unit. I’m no stranger to this, either, and she doesn’t have to explain that its purpose is to deliver electrical stimulation above and below the injury to help reduce my pain.

  “We’ll do ten minutes today,” she says, opening her laptop to record some notes as the intensity of the stimulation increases to a certain point and then works back down before starting again.

  “Are you writing in there that I grip like a girl?”

  She laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself, Brady.”

  I laugh with her, enjoying her smart-assery while at the same time trying to hide the true depth of my emotional pain.

  “I know we didn’t do much today. It will be like that for a few days, but if you want manual therapy, we can do that after the TENS.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her suggestively. Manual therapy – it just sounds so filthy.

  She rolls her eyes, obviously reading my dirty mind. “Massage, Taylor.”

  I don’t let my eyebrows fall.

  “Oh, my God, do you want a damn shoulder rub or not?” she asks.

  I laugh again. “Yes, Rylee Kennedy, I’d love a shoulder rub.”

  Chapter Four

  The hotel I’m staying in is only a few miles from the training complex. It’s the same one we use when we come in the spring. I’m in a suite with a small kitchen since I’ll be here for Lord knows how long, but at least six to eight weeks. Maybe longer.

  I’m the only one from my team who is here now. While that is a good thing for the team – it’s not so good for me. Dylan Buckley, one of our outfielders, was down here for a few months recently after breaking his arm running into the wall while trying to catch a fly ball. Shattered his forearm in three places. He just got back to New York two weeks ago. He seems good to go and he played well last week, but in all honesty, the throwing arm of an outfielder is not as finely tuned as the pitching arm of a starting pitcher.

  There are a few other players from the double-and-triple-A teams here in rehab, and of course the entire single-A team pretty much lives here. I’m sure I could find a few of them to hang out with, but it won’t be the same.

  I pull on a pair of sweats and very carefully remove my arm from the sling and slip it through the arm of a t-shirt. I guess the best part of being in Florida in October is that it’s pretty nice down here. It’s still beach weather and it never gets too cold, even in the winter. And with nothing to do most hours of the day, I plan on hitting the beach for some bikini-watching.

  Tampa is the one place we visit where I don’t have a girl. This was intentional as we are here for long periods of time each spring and I didn’t want the hassle of dealing with the same girl for that long. I like it better when we’re in and out of a city in a few days and then we may not go back for months. No hassles. And it’s not enough time for one of them to get attached to me. The last thing I need is for someone to fall for me and to think there is a chance in hell I could ever return those sorts of feelings.

  My phone pings, alerting me that my ride is here. Normally I’d run to the complex to get in some exercise, but I’m not allowed to jar the arm for a while, let alone the fact that it hurts like a bitch when it gets bounced around.

  I make my way down the elevator and through the lobby. When I get in the car, the driver’s eyes go wide. “You’re Brady Taylor,” he says.

  “It appears so.”

  He looks at my sling. “Ah, man – tough break. How long will you be out?”

  I shrug. “Few months maybe.”

  We’ve been told not to discuss our injuries outside of the organization. Jason, the team owner, would kick my ass if I said anything to anyone that would lead them to believe I have anything more than a simple break.

  “Damn, the rest of the season? That sucks. I’m a huge Hawks fan. I know I should be a Rays fan and all since I live here, but my cousins Stu and Sammy, they still live in Jersey, where I’m from, and they send me stuff all the time to keep me a Hawks fan.” He pounds his heart. “For life, man. My name’s Lenny.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lenny.”

  I get out my phone and mess with it so the driver won�
��t try to make more conversation. But it doesn’t take long to get where we’re going. Although the ride is paid for, I tip him anyway. I’ve never been one to be tight with my money like some – okay, one – of my teammates. Caden is always saving for a rainy day. He thinks that one day he could wake up and this will all be over. I look down at my arm before I get out of the car.

  Shit. Maybe he’s right.

  I have two years left on a five-year contract. So even if I never make it back, they still have to pay me. But what happens then?

  The driver hands me his card. “I’d be glad to drive you wherever you need to go while you’re here, Mr. Taylor. The fewer people who see you injured the better. Especially the bookies.” He laughs. “My uncle is a bookie. But he doesn’t live in Jersey, he lives in Vegas with his new squeeze, Gemma. He dumped Stu and Sammy’s momma a few years ago. It’s okay though, she’s better off without him.”

  Lenny talks too much, but he has a point. I take his card. The fewer people I have to deal with, the better. If it got out that I have extensive nerve damage, it could hurt the organization. Hell, I probably shouldn’t even talk to the other guys in rehab about it. They are still wet behind the ears. They don’t understand what it takes and how things work at the elite level. Damn – this could be a very lonely few months.

  I walk through the complex, this time not stopping to peek through the fence. I’ll be here for a long time. No need to torture myself unnecessarily.

  “Mr. Taylor,” the receptionist greets me when I walk in. “Nice to see you again. I’ll buzz Rylee and let her know you are here.”

  “Thank you, uh …”

  “Margaret.”

  “Thanks, Margaret.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Ten minutes later, Rylee opens the door and lets through a guy who is wearing a leg brace and using crutches. He raises his chin at me in greeting. I silently greet him as well and then watch Rylee follow him to the main doors to help him out.

  “Sorry,” she says, coming back to where I’m sitting. “I was helping him get his brace back on and it was giving us trouble.”

  “It’s no bother. It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

  I get up and we go back to the large room where she directs me to sit on a training bed. “You’ll be able to do more and more each day. And Tampa is a beautiful place. But of course, you know that since you come here every spring.”

  I laugh. “I know all the best drinking holes if that’s what you mean.”

  “Seriously? You’ve been down here for five straight years and all you do is bar hop? Surely you’ve been to the aquarium, or the bay front, or Pier 60.”

  “Spring training isn’t spring break, Rylee. We work our asses off during the day and then we let loose a little after.”

  She winces. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know you didn’t.” I sigh. “Shit. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.” I nod to my arm. “I guess this is affecting me more than just physically.”

  “Injuries tend to do that to anyone, but especially athletes.” She examines my fingers. “How’s the pain level today?”

  Man, I feel like a douchebag for snapping at her like that. Now she’s all business.

  “My elbow feels a bit better. I didn’t have to take a pain pill this morning – just ibuprofen. The lower arm and fingers still hurt and tingle like a mother, but I’m not about to get hooked on Oxy to manage it.”

  “That’s smart. But if you really need one occasionally, it’s okay not to be so tough, big guy.” She smiles at me and I feel like maybe she’s forgiven me for my asshole comment. “Can I send you back to the hotel with a portable TENS unit so you can use it to help manage the pain?”

  “Already have one. I’m a pitcher, in case it doesn’t say so in my file there.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Good. Use it as much as you need to in thirty-minute increments. You can ice the elbow if the pain is bad, but not too much, we need your blood circulating to help with healing.” She carefully removes my sling. “The bruising looks good, it’s fading quickly. And the swelling has gone down noticeably since yesterday.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that too when I was in the shower this morning.”

  She looks horrified. “You’re taking showers?”

  “Uh … yeah. Unless you want my ripe ass to reek to high heaven.”

  “Of course you should be bathing,” she says. “But you should take baths so you can lay your arm on the side of the tub and there is no risk of a fall.”

  I try to imagine myself fitting in the bathtub at the hotel. I guess it’s bigger than most tubs, but still. I’m 6’5” and my feet would likely stick out one end. “Believe me, Rylee, you don’t want to see me try to get in a bathtub.”

  Her eyes go to my feet and work their way up my long body. I know she isn’t doing it with any sexual intention, but seeing her eyes on me like this, especially when we’re talking about bathing and shit, it’s hot.

  “You could take sponge baths,” she says. Then she laughs at herself. “Okay, fine. Just be careful, alright? We don’t need you falling and breaking your other arm.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  She puts me through my paces, getting out squeeze balls of various density and rubber bands I’m supposed to try and stretch between my fingers. I’m disappointed that I can’t seem to do squat.

  After a half hour or so, she tells me, “Okay that’s enough work for today. I know you can’t see it, but I can – you are making small improvements, Brady. And in about a week, you’ll be making larger ones, at least with the elbow anyway.”

  The familiar-looking guy from yesterday comes over and Rylee introduces him. “Brady Taylor, this is my boss, Alex Burke. He’s the one you’re not going to tell about any screw-ups I make,” she jokes.

  I shake his hand. “I remember you from spring training.”

  “Good to see you again,” he says. Then he nods to my elbow. “I wish it were under different circumstances.”

  “You and me both.”

  He whispers something in Rylee’s ear, making her look irritated. She shakes her head at him and then smiles at me, embarrassed.

  Alex walks back across the room, but then he stares at us. At her. I don’t like the way he looks at her.

  She wheels over a machine and gels a small wand. “We’re going to use the ultrasound today to help bring blood to the elbow and promote healing. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  I watch as she gingerly rubs the small wand methodically in circles, taking care not to touch the area around my bandage. “Are you getting your stitches out later this week?”

  I nod. “I see the facility orthopedic on Friday.”

  “Good. I’ll be interested to see his report. Hopefully he’ll give the green light to start range-of-motion exercises in about a week. Your elbow will improve rapidly after that. In fact, let’s get you on the schedule next Monday to see Matt, the strength and conditioning coach. He’ll want to get you started on a daily workout and conditioning routine.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be happy to get back to it.”

  There are a few awkward moments of silence. Physical therapy is normally a lot like social hour. Maybe not so much here, where I’m one of the only guys in the room during the time the A-team is practicing, but back home, after practice and games and even on the off days, you might have ten guys in the rehab room who will all be talking and joking.

  But Alex has left the room and the athletic trainer from yesterday is nowhere to be found. Right now, it’s just Rylee and me.

  And the growing silence between us.

  I look up at the television in the corner. It’s tuned to ESPN, of course.

  “Do you want me to turn up the volume?” she asks.

  She doesn’t look uncomfortable at all. Maybe she doesn’t even want to talk. She does this day after day so I suppose she’s used to it.

  “Only if you want to. I’m fine wi
th conversation.” I shrug my right shoulder. “Or not.”

  She smiles brightly. Maybe she was waiting to see if I wanted to talk.

  “So, why number three?” she asks, wanting to know why I wear that particular number on the back of my uniform.

  “Because number one and two were taken,” I snap at her quickly.

  She laughs, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. It’s like she can see through me and my lame answer. But I’ve practiced it enough. Nobody needs to know the real reason I chose number three when I came to play for the Nighthawks.

  “I’ve heard about you, you know,” she says, looking at me out of the corner of her eye as she watches the ultrasound wand. “Your reputation with the ladies precedes you. You’re what, twenty-seven? Do you think you will ever settle down?”

  “Are you always this direct?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “We’ll be spending a lot of time together over the next few months. Might as well get the obvious stuff out of the way.”

  I might not like the questions she’s asking me, but I do like her style.

  “I’m sick of talking about that crap, you know? People ask me all the time about my personal life. What do you say we stick to other subjects and skip the usual bullshit?”

  “I get that,” she says, sympathetically. “It must be hard to be in the limelight day in and day out. But if we’re doing it this way, that goes for me, too. No personal details.”

  “Deal,” I say happily.

  She goes back to her task, studying my arm as she works the wand around. She chews her lip like she’s thinking hard. After a few minutes of this, we lock eyes and start laughing at the growing awkwardness of our silence.

  “Um … what are we supposed to talk about then? We’re going to be together every day for months.”

  “We can talk about plenty of things.” I look around the room. “The weather?” I say, jokingly.

  She laughs again and I realize how much I like hearing that sound. Rylee is a very pleasant person to be around. She’s soft-spoken yet gets her point across. She’s easy on the eyes. And I get the impression she’ll take a backseat to no one.