Wild Pitch: (Love for the Game Book 1)

by Remi Grey

  “The only way I’ll work with him is if he breaks a body part and honestly – I can’t tell if I want that or don’t want that to happen. Both have their pros and cons.”

  “Hey. Don’t shit on Weeks.” Molly gave a deep sigh. “He’s a beautiful muscly God with those piercing blue eyes that could undress yo-”

  “Knock it off.” I laughed. “You didn’t even know who he was until I started bitching and until you pulled up that picture of him leaning against the fence where his muscles are bulging out.”

  “You know me so well.” Molly laughed. “How’d you know that was the picture I was looking at?”

  “Because that’s the picture everyone looks at.” I groaned. “And because I know you.”

  “I also have the game on.”

  "Yeah. I do too." I pushed the button to my recliner and leaned back. It was nice to finally have furniture again, but even so -- I couldn't get too comfortable. It was the 9th inning, and I had to stay awake until the very end should anything happen.

  "They're down by one, and it's the bottom of the 8th."

  "Molly, I'm watching." She was my best friend. Although she was in California, it was our tradition to watch games together even though she usually didn't give a crap about sports. She was always multitasking during games. I could picture her right now, knitting these petite dresses for her niece's baby dolls.

  I clicked the phone over to speakerphone, placing it next to me as I let myself be engulfed by my pillows. I was exhausted. I had been putting in extra hours volunteering at the local center seeing as how, as a physical therapist injury specialist – I wasn't as needed as much as the others thus far. My eyes began to drift shut, lulled to sleep by the soft clunks of Molly's crochet needles, hitting each other on the other end. I couldn't have been asleep that long when a scream pierced through the phone.

  "Holy shit." Molly shrieked immediately after. "I will let you go." I heard the line click dead as I groggily picked up the phone, staring at it. A second later, a push alert from a local news station filled the screen -- I squinted to get the jumble of letters into focus.

  Shawn Weeks leaves the game with an oblique tear.

  I turned the volume back up on my TV, and a repeat was showing -- Shawn throws and immediately doubles over in pain as athletic trainers on my team raced to help him.

  I knew it was a matter of seconds before I got paged, and sure enough – my phone buzzed right on cue with someone to fill me in, as if I wasn't glued to the television like the rest of the world. The city's star player was injured.

  "I'm on my way," I said into the phone immediately as I was already looking for an acceptable pair of scrubs. I liked to meet with the players as soon as possible after they saw the doctor and surgery if necessary.

  Shawn Weeks had an injury, one that would likely put him out for a good chunk of the season. As a specialist who focused on pitching injuries, I was forced to help him. That didn’t mean, however, that I had to like him.

  Chapter 5

  Shawn

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I was so stupid. I had been ignoring the sharp pain, the bruising, and now, I couldn’t even breathe without this hurting. This wasn’t my first injury, but it was definitely up there. The shooting pain was returning but duller this time as the pain meds were starting to wear off. I was now sitting in the office, waiting to be seen by the physical therapist.

  I had an oblique strain, but someone could have told me I was stabbed, and I wouldn't have questioned it. That's how bad the pain was, but unfortunately, there was no one I could really blame. It was a cruel injury. Still, it was one that happened, especially considering that I had been overtraining against my better judgment. I was looking at 7 weeks of being out – hopefully, less if the physical therapist could get me on a good recovery plan. I was hoping it was Curtis – I had heard good things about him.

  “She’ll be right with you.” An assistant told me before leaving the room. She? So, it wasn’t Curtis. The assistant was kind enough to put the news on silent before she left since it seemed to be on an endless loop of so-called experts analyzing my injury and how long I would be out for. Not to mention – we ended up losing the game as well.

  "Shawn Weeks." The physical therapist entered, wearing pale pink scrubs, and her hair thrown up in a bun where a few stands fell delicately around her face. It was that face I knew instantly, and I gulped.

  “I know you.” I squinted my eyes, still a little groggy from pain meds. “You’re that volunteer.” Shit, as soon as the word volunteer was out of my mouth, I remembered what I had said about her.

  "That I am. You can follow me." She was short with me. Not ready to clearly forgive my comments or waste any time on small talk. I followed her back to her office, a comfortable chair that reminded me of one that would belong to a therapist was set up. She commanded me to sit and deliberately avoided my gaze. I knew instantly that she wasn’t a fan of me. Even so,

  “So. I’m sorry to see that you’re injured.”

  “Me too.” Her words seemed empty, but I wasn't going to do anything to upset her.

  “First time with this type of injury, I see.” She looked over at me from my file, her perfect eyebrows raised in an arch.

  “First and last.” She wasn’t asking questions. Instead, she was talking to herself, but I felt compelled to respond each time anyways. I didn’t want to admit it, but I would be dependent on her for the next two months, and I knew how important it was to have a good relationship with your sports therapist. I heard the horror stories from other guys. As long as she took excellent care of my body, I shouldn't care if she liked me as a person or not.

  “The first week is rest. I don’t want you doing anything that will put stress on that. Got it?”

  I shifted my eyes downwards. I wasn’t just one that could lie around and do nothing even if it was early in the season.

  “Understand?” She asked again since I didn’t respond, and she nodded. "You’ve got to listen to me. Just relax for a week before we dive into your plan, which will be therapy and resistance exercises. Do some hobbies that don’t involve stress this week?”

  “Like what?” I laughed. “I literally have nothing other than baseball. I don’t even know what a stress-free hobby is.”

  She studied me -- likely trying to figure out if I was serious or not. “Watch movies. Go for slow walks. Read a book. Take a nap.”

  “I don’t take naps.”

  “Ever?” She smiled for the first time now. I forgot how pretty she was when she wasn’t shooting daggers at me.

  "Ever," I said firmly.

  "Well, do your best. You need this week for rest. I never thought it'd be hard for someone, especially with such a busy and stressful life, to just take a break for a week." She laughed. "But athletes' resilience is beautiful, so that’s why I have a job.”

  “Thanks?” I couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult. It fell somewhere in the middle. I stood up, placing the bag she had stuffed full of binders and papers for our plan over the next few months for recovery over my back on my good side. I made my way towards the door.

  “Hey?” Sydney called as I stepped through. “Would you like to come back to the Maverick Mercy Center tomorrow? I can pick you up.”

  “Sure. It’s a date." It was a joke, and after I said it, more than likely, a poorly planned one after our last incident.

  “Not in the slightest.” She said, her expression not changing. “Lionel asked for you.”

  Lionel? The grumpy old man from the facility? She must have noticed the sour expression that inadvertently crossed my face.

  “That’s the one.” She said firmly. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon.”

  Chapter 6

  Sydney

  I studied the cream-colored bricks and the bright red door of the condo. It was modern and trendy. A single potted plant looking desperately in need of water. It wasn't precisely the living situation I had pictured for Shawn. Most of these players had
these expansive homes with more bedrooms than they knew what to do with and swimming pools for decoration since they hardly had time for that.

  I guess with the major leagues -- everything was temporary and transient. I knew that as much as the players did. I was five minutes early to pick up Shawn, and like most men -- he'd probably be 5 minutes late.

  My phone rang. The bright, bold word of Restricted flashed across the screen. I turned the car off and answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. Sydney Baker?”

  "Hey, it's Aidan Walsh." Despite me having had several contacts with him via the phone, he still insisted on identifying himself with both his first and last name.

  "Hi, Aidan. I'm literally parked outside of Shawn Weeks' house as we speak."

  "Oh, good, good." He sounded relieved – as if he didn't believe that I would actually follow through with what he was asking of me.

  “And where’s today’s stop?”

  “The same assisted living facility you had him go to a few weeks ago.” I looked towards the door, nervous Shawn would be coming out, but as expected -- he was a few minutes late. I wasn’t doing anything sketchy or wrong. Instead, I felt just like the mom in grade school who paid her kid to be friends with the loser of the class. Shawn wasn’t a loser by any means – just injured.

  As was his reputation. He was the main one on the team where controversy seemed to surround him. Typically, it wouldn’t be an issue. Baseball players were known for having a reputation – it came with the game. But, The Bluff Bruisers were hoping to build a new stadium. To build a new stadium, however, they needed sponsorships from the city.

  I hadn’t been here long enough to understand how the hierarchy works, but I did know there were a lot of powerful people in this city, and a lot of them didn't really like Shawn. That was because this was a tourist city. When someone had the potential to tarnish that reputation and create a loss in revenue – they weren't happy.

  Aidan hung up abruptly, and I was left listening to the dial tone. I had forgotten he was on the phone for a second.

  “Hey.” Shawn slid into my car, causing me to jump so high I would have clonked my head against the roof of the car if it wasn’t for my seatbelt keeping me stuck in place.

  “Jesus. Do you often just get in stranger’s cars like that?” I asked.

  "Only the ones I know." He was so tall he had to bend himself practically in half to fit in my tiny car, which was easier said than with an oblique injury. “Why are you so jittery?”

  “I’m not.” I shot back immediately, and we began to drive. I didn't like it when people commented on how I was feeling – especially someone who didn't know me.

  "You don't like me." He said after we rode in silence for 10 minutes, still not even halfway to our destination, which was on the opposite end of the city.

  “I never said that.” Again, I was annoyed that he was trying to figure me out.

  "Yeah, but you implied it." He was fiddling with his phone until I braked hard for a yellow light, causing it to fly under the seat in a place he couldn’t get it.

  “Shit. Sorry.” I said when I noticed that it was beyond both of our grips. I wasn’t actually sorry, and I could have totally made the light.

  For the first time – this guy who normally exuberated confidence seemed kind of nervous.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him.

  “Yeah. I was in the middle of reading an article, though.”

  “About yourself?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  He nodded in response. For someone who had a reputation for being a cocky asshole, he seemed to care more about what others thought of him than I thought. I guess that was good news for both me and Aidan.

  “I thought you didn’t care about any of that?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I normally don’t. When I was in college, I was accused of some things I didn’t do, and everyone developed this opinion about me being this asshole. I guess it kind of stuck.”

  I remembered some scandal briefly during his college days, seeing as how we both were from the same place. Something he didn’t even know. He was accused of doing something by a girl. It later came out that she made the whole thing up to get back at him and his frat-mates. It was hard to actually picture him as a regular guy who faced problems just like everyone else. Most people used their money to make those problems go away, but Shawn seemed to respond with defiance.

  “So, why are you an asshole now?” I asked flat out, in a joking manner, but some with a truth inquiry behind it.

  "Because I had to be." He didn't laugh, and he didn't elaborate, but it didn't matter anyway. We arrived at our destination. I pulled into a parking space, and I double-checked to make sure that my phone was fully charged. I gave the local news station a tip that he would be here, but in case they didn’t show up -- I needed to have a backup.

  “Local 7 News is here.” Shawn nodded towards the camera. “Someone must have tipped them off that I’m here.”

  “Are you mad?” I asked as I saw the photographer head towards us.

  “Nah. It’s cool. Surprised there’s not more here to get an update on my injury. You want to talk to them as my physical therapist?”

  I shook my head, no. "Contract and all that." It was a half-truth. The other half was that we wanted them there for publicity coverage.

  I watched him as he approached the photographer. Another one had shown up, as well as someone with a recorder and a notebook -- likely from the newspaper. I watched from a distance as he spoke with reporters, laughing and turning to the side to show them his injury.

  “You got the hots for that man?” Lionel had rolled up next to me. I knew it was him before I even looked down.

  “No.” I laughed. “He’s actually kind of a jerk.”

  “I could have told you that.” Lionel sighed. “But, things aren’t always as they appear on the surface -- especially with celebrities.”

  “When did you get so wise?” I smacked him lightly on the shoulder as I watched Shawn make his way back over. The crews were leaving, which wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to be here for his volunteer work. I was willing to bet that they hadn’t even got a single shot of the place.

  “Where are they going?” My voice was an octave higher than what it should have been,

  "Oh. They just had a few questions. I told them I'd be back to normal in just a few months thanks to the wonderful plan of my physical therapist." He winked at me, and I nervously looked away.

  “Excuse me. I have to make a phone call.” I walked away and dialed Aidan’s number, but it was no use. His calls were going straight to voicemail, and he was likely in meetings all day. He told me to get it done -- fix his star pitcher and fix his star pitcher’s image. I had always blended into the background, and as a physical therapist -- I didn’t expect any sort of recognition. This was a lot to ask, however, but luckily it still allowed me to stay in the shadows.

  I found Lionel and Shawn sitting in front of the TV, not saying anything. I couldn’t help but notice that Lionel’s cap, which I had never seen him without, was on Shawn’s lap.

  On top of Lionel’s head was the cap Shawn was previously wearing. The one I had seen him wear during all the times I caught him outside of practice – his favorite.

  Maybe it was possible that by fixing Shawn on the surface, it would run so much different.

  Chapter 7

  Shawn

  "Did you really have to wear that sweatshirt?" I looked down at Lionel, who, outside of the assisted living facility, seemed brighter, more alive. Although, his sweatshirt was bright green and featured a frog that said, ‘I can croak anywhere.'

  Sydney laughed. I had felt uncomfortable, but in the end, we were all at a little league game in a twisted hodgepodge of a family that we had formed. I was getting used to more movement every day, thanks to Sydney.

  For the past few weeks, she had come up with a plan, made herself readily available to me, and even had b
een keeping me company. I think I was starting to grow on her and also caught her checking me out while I was doing core strengthening exercises on the mat. That or she was just making sure I was doing everything correctly. Either way, I was enjoying every second of being next to her,

  I knew as much as anyone that players were susceptible to depression when watching their season go by without them. And without me -- we were still doing okay, which I was happy for, albeit a bit jealous.

  "It's hot," Sydney said. “We should probably go under the shade.”

  I followed Sydney as she pushed Lionel underneath a nearby tree. She was a trooper, pushing the wheelchair, and lugging two chairs over her shoulder as she moved through the crowd. I found myself, more often than not, watching her and yet -- I still couldn't get a read on her. She was short and often snippy with me, which a lot had to do with her taking her job seriously.