Page 32 of Draft Pick
“I do. She might lead you to drink more often than not, but if that’s your biggest concern, I think you’re doing just fine.”
Crew nods, and it’s not at me. It’s as if he’s reassuring himself. Encouraging him to believe that he’s done well as a father. So well that even an outsider can tell.
“I’m considering retirement,” Crew divulges, and I’d like to think this is the moment we actually become friends. “I plan to finish out the season, but I want more time with my daughter. I live with a lot of regret. I’ve missed out on too many big milestones in her life because of the game.”
“I see,” I say. “That can’t be an easy decision. Even I can see how much you love baseball.”
Another nod. “It’s who I am. It’s who I’ve always been. But it’s not everything. My little four-foot-nothing six-year-old with an ungodly number of princess dresses is my everything. She deserves the best of me while I’m still young. Well, kind of young. Doesn’t help that I've got an elbow injury, either.”
I’m no orthopedic, but I’ve been around my fair share long enough to know how serious injuries can be with professional athletes. Without proper care and therapy, long-term effects can play a vital role. It’s nothing to mess around with. “What’s the injury? Is it treatable with therapy, or have you consulted a specialist?”
A smirk crests his lips, and I know I just went into full-blown doctor mode. “Down, Doc. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
I roll my eyes. “So, what’s the verdict, then? I expect an answer valued at more than chump change.”
“I know nothing about this chump change you speak of. Doesn’t Bonnie speak for herself?”
Bonnie is a pretty badass Suburban, but she’s subtle compared to the cars I’ve seen people on Crew’s pay grade drive. Myself included.
“I’d never disrespect Bonnie babe.” I run my hand across the passenger door, gazing at her unique design with awe. “The silver stitching against the all-black just makes her feel so elevated and expensive,” I tease. “Must have cost you a fortune.”
“Oh, the pretty doctors got jokes.”
I hear nothing past him calling me pretty.
“Pockets full, Suburban Daddy. Stuffed fucking full. Now, answer the question.”
Taking my question with seriousness, I can’t look away as Crew lifts his backward hat off his head and sweeps his thick hair back before placing it down again. I remember noticing that same gesture on him at the opening season game, and it might be my new obsession.
He’s so youthful despite pushing forty.
“This week, I start rigorous physical therapy. It’s gonna be brutal, and I’ll be more sore than normal. I’ve already been warned. If after a few months there are no signs of improvement and mobility, I’ll need surgery. At least, if the orthopedic recommends, which I know he will.”
“Pitcher’s elbow?” I ask, assuming that’s his injury.
“Yeah. I don’t pitch but play?—”
“Centerfield. I saw you out there,” I recall honestly, and don’t miss the way his eyes focus a bit more on my words. “Pitcher’s elbow isn’t just for pitchers. You overextend your arm probably more than a pitcher actually does. Long-distance throwing accumulated over time can be really damaging to all those tendons and ligaments that make your arm function normally. I’m assuming you’ve been playing all your life?”
“Since I was eight.”
I nod. “It’s catching up with you. I’m sorry, Crew. That’s unfortunate for a player as talented as you.”
He shrugs. “It is what it is. At this point, I just want to feel better. The pain keeps me up at night sometimes. Hopefully, therapy will help.”
Just as I’m about to say more, Crew’s phone rings and he pulls it out of his pocket. Tapping the screen, he answers, “This is Crew.”
I can’t hear who’s on the other line, despite the quietness of the car, reminding me it’s nearing midnight. We’ve been talking in front of my house for nearly thirty minutes now. I lost track of time.
“Meat delivery is scheduled for 6 a.m. tomorrow. Liquor at 4 p.m. Just make sure someone’s there to sign off on the delivery. I should be in before the dinner rush.”
Meat delivery? What is he talking about?
“Anytime, Troy. I’ll see you then.” And he hangs up. “Sorry about that. The restaurant is getting a big delivery tomorrow. Bar manager needed to make sure he was good to close up for the night.”
“Restaurant?” I question with interest, slowly gathering my things and swinging open the door beside me to step out. I straighten my skirt, and I shouldn’t notice the way Crew doesn’t miss it, his eyes drawn to my legs unconsciously.
His sights lift. “Boone. Urban restaurant and bar downtown. It’s fucking jam-up.”
