Page 8 of Off Limits: The Firsts
“He does. I promise you I gave him an earful over this. But look at the positive, he listened to you and brought in Doc—hired him exclusively for your rehabilitation. That shows just how much the club wants—no, needs—you back to help them win that pennant he’s promised the city.”
“Perhaps. But if they wanted me back so desperately, it would be Doc here, not his daughter.”
“She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t qualified. You sound like a prima donna. You wanted a different physical therapist and you got one. Suck it up, Wylder. You’ve got less than three months to get your spikes back between the chalk lines, so use the resources they got for you and quit—”
“My bitching,” I finish for him as I scrub a hand through my hair and look out at the empty stadium. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“This is getting fucking old. I’m stuck on the DL, being pressured to return on a timeline by the club I’ve played for my whole career, and all because I decided to go for home and try to score the extra run? Santiago didn’t even have the goddamn ball when he blocked the plate. So what? He fucks over me and my arm both in one goddamn dirty play, and all the fucker gets is a hundred-grand fine and a four-game suspension? You want to know why I’m in a crappy mood? It’s because I’m getting the shit end of the stick here, with no damn clue why he did it.”
I know he’s heard it all before. My bitching and moaning over the injury. Over being taken from my game, my life, and forced to sit here on a daily basis and watch it play on without me.
“I can’t tell you why Santiago has a beef with you . . . but he does. That’s pretty damn evident.”
“No shit. Sorry,” I say for what feels like the tenth time. “I’m just having a pity party.”
“I get it, East. You want back out there.”
“Like fucking yesterday.”
“I know dude, but I can’t make your arm heal any faster. You’ve had the best surgeons, the best resources, and now you’ll have the best physical therapist there is in baseball.”
“But—”
“You think Doc’s going to risk his career by ruining yours? If he sent his daughter to rehab you, then no doubt she’s qualified to get you back. Just ride it out. Put your earphones on if you need to, listen to one of those damn audiobooks that I can’t for the life of me understand how you listen to, and tune her out . . . but put in the hours. Get better. And you’ll be back before you know it.”
Easier said than done.
“Yeah. Sure.”
I end the phone call, lean back into the hard plastic of the stadium seat, and prop my feet on the empty row in front of me.
And I dare to look at what I’m missing out on. The nets of the backstop fade away as I stare at the place where I’ve lived my life—between the chalk lines and behind home plate.
It’s fucking beautiful. A blessing and a curse. My pleasure and my pain.
The only thing I’ve ever known.
The only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.
I lose myself to my thoughts. Time passes, minutes ticking down to the next Aces’ game tonight that I won’t be playing in. And like every night my team plays without me, I fight the rage of helplessness that corners my mind.
I know he’s there. I can sense him before I hear the creak of the seat a few down from mine, followed by the clearing of his throat. I don’t glance his way—unsure if I want to deal with his bullshit just yet—so I nod instead of speaking.
“By the length of time you’ve been sitting out here, and the fact that you’re not in the team meeting right now, am I right to assume you haven’t gotten cleared to play yet?”
“Hi, Dad. How’re you doing today?”
“I take that as a no?”
“What do you think?”
“Don’t be a smartass.” There is no humor in his tone. No smile warming his voice.
“I’m not. I’m here. They’re there. And it’s been two days since the last time you asked the same exact question you asked me three days before that, so do you really think that I’ve miraculously recovered since then?”
Definitely not in the mood to put up with his shit.
