Page 45 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“The guys miss you, too. The Aces don’t quite feel right without a Wylder on the field.”

My dad laughs and slaps me on my good shoulder. “Keep up the good work, son. I have no doubt you’ll be back to fighting form soon enough.”

“Neither do I,” I say.

“Make sure to tell Ms. Dalton that I’d like a report in the next day or two on your progress.”

“Will do.”

I watch them leave and blow out a breath as I try to figure out what the little visit was all about. I don’t want to care but have to. He’s my boss.

“Everything good in here, Easy E?”

My smile is automatic, the irritation vanishing in a heartbeat at the voice I’ve known since I was eight years old. I turn to find the familiar face of our clubhouse manager, the man who used to entertain me with stories and jokes when my dad was too busy being the public persona.

“Hey, Manny-Man,” I say in the same exchange of nicknames we’ve done for over twenty years. “How’re you doing today? You staying to watch the game tonight?”

“Pretty damn good. And nope. You know me. I only stick around when the greats play.”

“Are there no greats playing today?” I ask with a shake of my head.

“Greats are few and far between, son,” he finishes his typical retort and surprises me when he continues. “I’ve watched enough baseball in my life to hold off watching another game until it’s someone who’s going to dazzle me with his talent.”

“Picky. Picky.”

His grin just widens, and I love that even though I’m injured, he’s still Manny-Man.

“I see the old man is still as hard on you as ever,” he says with a knowing nod, just like he used to do when he’d find me alone in the locker room, sniffling away tears in secret after I was hurt by something my father would say.

“Yeah, well. Why change now, right?”

He just nods, never one to be disrespectful, but a man I’m glad to have on my side.

“True.” He laughs, contrary to the gravity in his eyes as he searches to make sure I’m okay. “Look at me—forty years, and I’m still doing the same goddamn thing.”

“Taking care of us pretty boys?” I tease.

“There’s nothing pretty about you, son.” I bark out a laugh at the good-humored dig. “But that tough cookie who’s been working you over? Hoowee. Now, she? She’s definitely pretty.”

“She sure is,” I murmur before I catch myself, and wonder why nearly every conversation of late seems to come back to her.

Because she’s the one in charge of the decisions.

And the one currently clouding up and fucking with my head.

My lungs burn.

My legs ache.

And all I can think is one more side of the stadium before my nerves are calm and emotions dulled enough to be able to face Easton today.

Because how do I keep things professional when every time I have to touch him, I’m going to be reminded of the other night?

So, running the stadium steps I go. Up one section. Lower loge to loge to upper loge, across the top row of empty seats, then down the other side.

I replay my meeting with Cory. His insistence that I answer whether I think Easton will be up to speed by mid-August. His pressure on me to say if he’ll be back to one hundred percent, or if he will slowly slide down the slope of injured and irreparable that sometimes happens despite all rehab efforts.

Frustrated with their businesslike attitude when it comes to a human being—to tendons and muscles and soft tissue you just can’t superglue back together—I push myself harder. To the next section, to the upper loge, to the loge, to lower loge, and then to the next.