With a triumphant grin, I waved the key before offering it to him. It should have been inherently obvious what I was asking him to do, but instead of taking it and freeing me from my prison cell on wheels, the man looked down with disgust.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said with a bitter laugh, the rubber soles of his crutches squeaking loudly against the linoleum floor as he turned away.
It wasn’t until he disappeared from view that I realized I’d been duped once again. I wasn’t holding a key. Just a piece of paper with the words K. Reed typewritten across the top.
Oblivious to my escape attempt, the aide reappeared and pushed my chair in the opposite direction the man had gone.
I was trapped.
Maybe it wasn’t the injury. Perhaps to an animal locked inside a cage, eventually, everything began to resemble a key.
Chapter Four
Killian
“It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.”
-A. Bartlett Giamatti
The Snap Heard ‘Round the World:
Is MLB’s Golden Boy Finished?
The Houston Hurricanes have acknowledged that center-fielder, Killian Reed was forced to undergo emergency surgery after suffering a torn ACL, MCL, and meniscus during a one-game playoff to advance to the ALDS.
Reed, 26, was hurt as he rounded toward second base after a fiasco of a play against the Kansas City Bears. This injury is considered career-threatening for Reed, despite this being his best year yet.
He set career highs with 37 homers, 32 stolen bases, and 103 RBIs for the Hurricanes and has been invaluable as a clubhouse leader for manager Burt Morosi.
Morosi still believes that Reed will be back next season, regardless of the injury. “You don’t want to see any of your players hurt, but if anyone can come back from this, it’s Killian. He’s a smart kid, and I truly believe he’ll make an impact in someone’s life while he’s recovering.”
Garrett Sanchez, the Bears’ third baseman who snagged Reed’s chopper, has other thoughts. “Look, he’s a fantastic player, and if he comes back, my guess is that he’ll be even better than he was before. But, if he doesn’t—and, I’m not saying he’s done—he might make an even bigger impact in his second career.”
Sanchez seems to believe that Reed could have his pick of jobs.
“He’s a guy with an amazing skill set. If he came back as manager or batting coach, I imagine he’d be very successful. He’ll land on his feet wherever he ends up.”
With Reed at the helm, the Hurricanes were favored to clinch the ALCS after making their first post-season appearance in eight years.
If Reed manages to return to the lineup next season, the Hurricanes can’t predict how productive he’ll be right away.
As you may remember, Los Angeles Rangers shortstop, Mike Cole suffered a torn ACL and meniscus two seasons ago. After undergoing surgery in July, he missed the remainder of the season. He returned the following year to one of his worst seasons yet—his .717 OPS was nearly 200 points lower than his performance a year before. After struggling through a rocky season, Cole hung up the cleats.
Reed is undoubtedly a more accomplished hitter than Cole—and nearly every other player in MLB history. And while no two injuries are alike, one cannot help but view Cole as a cautionary tale for the Hurricanes because, for the first time in years, uncertainty surrounds one of MLB’s most preeminent players.
Goddamn Sanchez.
I threw the magazine aside with a growl and dropped back against the pillows. Hinting I was done—as soon as I was out of this hellhole, maybe I’d pay him a little visit.
Let’s see if he backs up his statement when I’m in front of his smug little face.
“It seems bad,” my agent began, “But like I always say, any press is good press.”
I resisted the urge to tell him where to shove his press, and instead massaged the area between my eyebrows as if doing so might ward off the sudden headache.
“In what world would the end of my career be considered ‘good press,’ Theo?”
He tipped back in the plastic chair, balancing all of his weight on two legs before fixing me with one of his trademark grins. “Killian, you and I both know you’re not even close to the end of your career. So, you had a setback with the knee. There’s not a doubt in my mind you’ll be back next season, stronger than ever.”
“Are we just glossing over the fact that Sanchez happens to be your client, then?” I took a deep breath and lowered my voice. “Look, it is what it is, but the one thing we can’t ignore is where I go from here.”
His smile didn’t slip as he responded in an annoyingly even tone, “Look, we both know you weren’t happy with what the team was offering.”
In my infinite stupidity, I’d held off on signing a six-year contract with the Hurricanes—convinced another team would swoop in and offer more than three hundred sixty million.
Three hundred sixty million.
Clearly, I was a moron.
My mother had said as much when she saw me after my surgery. In fact, her exact words had been, “If brains were leather, you wouldn’t have enough to saddle a June bug.”
As far as southern niceties went, it ranked just slightly above a well-timed bless your heart.
I ground my molars together and released a breath through my nose. “All I’m asking, Theo, is what our plan is. The team wanted me here for rehab, which I took as a good sign, but after reading this? Fuck, I don’t know anymore.”
He might have faith it was all going to work out like a fairy tale, but I’d seen careers end over less. This industry changed on a dime, and if they saw me as damaged goods, I’d be hanging up the cleats permanently.
Theo brought the chair back down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I’m not going to lie, Killian. You’ve got a long hard road ahead of you. In my opinion, your best bet is to ignore the press and focus your energy on getting back on the field. The team has your back for now. The rest is just details.”
For now.
I glared first at him, and then, the magazine on the floor. Despite the ominous words, he was right. I couldn’t speed up my recovery process any more than I could make the sun rise.
“According to the doctor, I’m looking at six to twelve months of recovery time. Are they going to wait around until next spring or fill the roster?”
Theo’s phone vibrated from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He retrieved it and glanced down at the screen before returning his gaze to mine.
“You’ve shattered almost every Hurricane record. A blown-out knee isn’t the career-ending injury it used to be, and the team isn’t short-sighted enough to walk away now…” His phone buzzed again, and he paused to check the screen. “It just takes time to recover,” he mumbled distractedly.
“Am I keeping you from something, Theo? Maybe you and Sanchez have a nice picnic planned?” I hadn’t intended to raise my voice. I wasn’t a yeller by nature—well, outside of the dugout, anyway.
Theo glanced at his watch before standing up and buttoning his jacket. It was apparent I was treading on what little patience he still had reserved for me.
With a sigh, I pulled the ice pack from my knee and carefully shifted my weight toward the edge of the bed. “Now, just wait a second—”
He paused with an arched brow. “You finished with your little temper tantrum, Killian? Ready to discuss things like an adult again?”
I swallowed down the sharp retort and nodded before reaching for my crutches. “I just want to know I have a place on the field—any field at this point.”
“It’s about time for you to head down for therapy, but can I give you some advice?” Without waiting for a response, he continued. “You need to keep your head down and make
healing your number one priority. No outbursts or arguing. Nothing that might cause a scene. And for the love of God, keep your dick in your pants.”
Unable to help myself, I chuckled. “That’s it? Done. What else?”
“You’re agreeing? Did you hear a damn word I just said? No making trouble… no women. We all remember how the Cabrera thing went down. Your career is riding on this, Killian. If you want that contract, you’ll cross your i’s and dot your t’s.”
“I believe it’s cross your t’s and dot your i’s, but noted. I’ll be on my best behavior, Dad. Besides, I’m pretty sure there isn’t a woman in the joint under the age of sixty. I mean, the silver-haired look is in and all—”
“Christ, Killian,” he muttered as he turned toward the door. “You manage to keep your dick and your temper locked away, I expect the team will make another offer within the month.”
I was so hung up on the latter half of his sentence that I let the man whore insinuation slide. He could think whatever he wanted, as long as he got me a contract. Plus, after the way Bailey had reacted, I wasn’t keen on the idea of anyone else knowing my business.
Or lack of business.
“Theo,” I said, putting my full weight on the crutches and only wincing twice as the movement jarred my knee. “We’re still keeping my location under wraps, right? The last thing I need is the press breathing down my neck if my focus is on getting better, you know?”
“They’ve been told you’re rehabbing, but not where. The staff is bound by HIPAA laws, as well as the NDA they signed on your arrival. You’re good.”
Once he left, I began the long and arduous trek toward the door, lost in my own thoughts. With rigorous physical therapy, there was a chance I could be on the field within six months. I might miss most of spring training, but at least I’d be back for the regular season.
Clearly, I was living in a fairy tale world. One where happy endings existed outside of the massage parlors and the Hurricanes made me another offer. It didn’t stop me from briefly closing my eyes and envisioning myself signing the contract, though.
If you can visualize it, you can make it happen.
The exercise was one of my father’s more ‘out-there’ coaching strategies, but something I’d held onto over the years.
Unlike our relationship.
I briefly registered the flash of red hair and looked down at the woman in a wheelchair, frantically waving a placard with my name on it up at me. The smile on her face told me everything I needed to know.
Here we go again.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I snapped with a forced chuckle, before taking off for the elevators as fast as my crutches would allow.
Theo and I were going to have words.
Strong ones.
“You’re phoning it in, Killian,” my trainer, Rocky, noted from his crouched position beside me. “Do it again, but this time, hold for five seconds, okay? That brace is locked in position, it’s not going anywhere.”
I stared daggers at the ceiling above me before raising my injured leg off the mat a couple of inches. This trainer didn’t know a ball from a strike, yet was somehow my best bet for getting back onto the field.
Just keep your mouth shut, Killian, Theo’s voice warned from inside my head. Do as you’re told.
Two weeks in and I was starting to realize my goal of being back on the field next season was nothing more than a pipe dream. Non-weight bearing for six weeks meant I was stuck performing basic range of motion exercises for Rocky until cleared by a doctor.
I would have preferred any one of the team’s athletic trainers to him. Even grumpy old Takahashi, whose idea of rehab involved copious amounts of pain, and strangely enough, acupuncture needles. At least he knew me. He would have understood what was at stake and pushed my body to its limits.
He damn sure wouldn’t have me lying on a mat, raising my leg up and down like a trained monkey in the circus.
“That’s great! Now, hit it back to me!”
I lifted my head to watch the spectacle. Two of the other physical therapists were taking turns batting a balloon to the woman who’d accosted me for an autograph a week ago. As no one had approached me since, I could only assume Theo had done his job.
Rocky looked down to enter something on his tablet, and I took the opportunity to scrutinize the girl. For rehab—or classes, as we were instructed to call them, most everyone wore t-shirts and shorts.
Not her.
She always looked like she was heading off to Sunday service, and the green floral dress she wore today was no exception. The fabric fell to her knees with long sleeves that ended just above her wrists.
As if sensing someone watching her, she looked up and met my gaze. An intense blush stained her cheeks red and she immediately turned away as if she knew she’d been caught.
I’d seen all I needed to when she showed up outside my door. She was like so many women before her—on the hunt for a knight in shining armor to swoop in and rescue them from the monotony of their everyday lives.
Why else would she dress up for therapy?
Poor thing had probably been told she was a princess her entire life, to the point she actually believed it. She wasn’t looking for a husband—not really. No, this girl was after the large bank account and children who could be carted around like the latest accessory, while she mindlessly wandered the aisles at the local grocery store.
Unfortunately for her and every other Stepford wife in the making, I was nobody’s knight. And it was going to take more than a dress to distract me from my goal.
That wasn’t to say I hadn’t noticed her. With her auburn hair, she was a little hard to miss, as was the way her eyes seemed to follow me when I entered a room.
Like she was a puppy in a pet store window.
Not that it mattered.
I had more important things to focus on.
The girl nodded when the physical therapist leaned in to say something but kept her eyes trained on the floor. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was about the gesture that bothered me, but something in it left me wishing I could take it all back—the words spoken in frustration… every mean thought.
Guilt.
The feeling was almost foreign. Reed men didn’t spend time focusing on their list of regrets.
Why dwell on the past when you’re on top?
Every mistake had led me to where I wanted to be. Only now, my future wasn’t quite as certain, forcing me to consider that maybe I wasn’t the man I thought I was.
Are you good?
The mantra had come into existence after a particularly nasty concussion I’d suffered when I was sixteen. After getting into a fight with a kid from school over something I could no longer recall, I’d slipped and fallen off the dock. From there, the details had become a bit hazy. I came to on the beach and remembered seeing a girl hovering over me.
My mama, in her undying faith, firmly believed I’d been saved by an angel. Whether she was an angel or just a hallucination brought on by the head injury, those three words had been enough to keep me in line until the Hurricanes called me up. But by then, I’d given up the idea of being a good person in favor of being the best athlete.
Maybe that was where my guilt stemmed from, poking away at my consciousness until I paid attention. When I looked across the room, I no longer saw a crazed fan who’d hunted me down for an autograph. I saw a woman whose own future might have been as murky as my own.
The idea came to me as I was on my way down to the cafeteria for lunch after class. I’d apologize to the girl, maybe even offer to sign some things, and then get back to what I was here to do.
Heal.
I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and balanced on my right leg long enough to grab a salad from the salad bar. As I did, I envisioned one of the woman’s many nurses leaking the details of my good deed to the general public.
Killian Reed Befriends Woman in Wheelchair.
God, the press had been starving fo
r details of my personal life for so long they’d lap it up like a cat with cream.
Maybe Theo hadn’t been wrong, after all. The Hurricanes weren’t going to drop their star because of one little injury, especially not when they got wind of his charitable behavior off-field.
A staff member took my tray and gestured toward the crowded cafeteria. “Where to, Mr. Reed?”
Naturally, my crutches led me right to her table, already preparing for the good karma headed my way.
“Is this seat taken?” I asked with mock ignorance, only to find myself rendered stupid when she glanced up. My mouth hung slack, and whatever I’d planned to say next fell to the floor, completely forgotten.
The last time I’d been this close, I hadn’t been paying attention to her features. No, I’d been more than a little preoccupied with kicking Theo’s ass for lying to me about NDAs and HIPAA laws.
But it was her eyes…
Bright green eyes that felt familiar to me in a way that I couldn’t explain.
Chapter Five
Ariana
“Trouble with mice is you always kill ‘em.”
-John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men
“So, what’s he like? Does he just captivate you with his every word? Like, when I read This is the Life of Promise, I didn’t leave my apartment for three days. Three days. I was just like so lost in his words, you know?”
I nodded while poking at the peas on my plate. My assigned tech, Tiffani, was twenty-five, had grown up in Galveston, and never missed a single Sunday service at Eagle Lake Church.
Wait For It: A Houston Hurricanes Novel Page 6