Page 21 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“When you run, you swing your arms without thinking about it. And swinging your arms moves your shoulder joint,” I say, placing my hands on his arm to swing it and demonstrate the point. “And when you move your shoulder without tensing up, you also break up any scar tissue that might have built up in the joint. And that scar tissue is most likely what is giving you that pinching feeling when we toss the ball around.”

“Huh.”

“That doesn’t sound like you’re convinced, but I don’t need you to be convinced, I just need you to not feel the pain.”

“I’m still sticking with the ‘you’re pissed at me’ theory.” He angles his head and takes a step closer. “Or at the world. I just haven’t decided which one you’re taking out on me right now.”

I bristle, hating that he can read me so easily when I’ve put an enormous amount of effort into trying to appear perfectly fine these past few days. But I haven’t been fine. I’ve been far from it. I’m pissed at my dad, angry that he’s shutting me out when all I need is to be closer to him. I despise that I have to hear secondhand from his caretaker, Sally, that the cold he’s caught has set him back a few steps. I hate that my brother’s birthday is coming up, another year gone by, making the memories even fuzzier.

So, yeah, Easton’s right; I am pissed at the world. Obviously, I’m doing a shitty job of hiding it.

“C’mon, let’s get you stretched out.” Conversation over. I turn my back to him and walk to the foul line on the outfield grass. I could have stretched him perfectly fine where we were standing, and yet I needed the distraction to avoid him looking at me more closely and seeing that he’s right.

“Classic avoidance. I get it.”

“No, you’re just the player.” The comment slips off my tongue, more a reminder to myself than meant for him. The disdain tingeing my tone is intended for my dad, but I’m taking it out on Easton instead.

How can you be mad at a man who is dying?

“The player?” Easton’s voice is right behind me, and I cringe. He definitely heard me.

Crap.

“Don’t ask.”

“No, please. I’m intrigued.”

“It’s just a classic Doc Dalton idiosyncrasy.” I keep my back turned to him as tears burn in my eyes. Moments ago I was mentally lashing out at my dad, angry at the world, and in a matter of seconds, I’m smiling bittersweetly at the quirk so representative of my father.

I can hold it together most days, push the grief aside, not believe the prognosis, but for some reason, this week it has hit me hard.

Clear mind. Hard Heart.

Shove it away, Scout. Not here. Not now.

“Isn’t that how all fathers are?”

There’s a surprising bite to his tone, and yet I’m too preoccupied with my own world to delve deeper into his. I clear my throat, push the emotion away, and turn around to face him.

“How does your shoulder feel?” Time to change topics.

His laugh rings out across the empty field and gets lost in the vastness of the stadium. “You really don’t like talking about yourself, do you?”

His smile is genuine when I meet his eyes, and I hate that it pulls on me to say more. But I can’t. I won’t. “No.”

Without another word, I begin his routine. I work in silence—my hands on his body, his heartbeat against my palm—feeling for the bunching of muscles as I pull and push and work through the tightness in his shoulder. The hiss of his breath is my only gauge to know when I’ve pushed him too far.

“How does this feel?” I position myself behind him, our bodies pressed against each other’s, enabling me to manipulate his larger frame.

“What’s bugging you?”

I ignore his question. “Is it tight? Sore? Is that pinch still up in the top part of the cuff?”

“You’re upset. That much is obvious.”

“I’m fine. Can we get back to you and your shoulder? To my job.” My tone is clipped. “What’s hurting you?”

“I don’t know. What’s hurting you?”