by V.K. Sykes
* * *
Nate woke up early. His head pounded with a sickening beat, and he had a possibly terminal case of jungle mouth, too.
Way too much beer.
But at least he’d been forced to think outside his comfort zone. He’d wanted to wallow in cold beer and buddy-to-buddy sympathy, but Jake had made him snap out of it. Forced him to face up to the tangle of feelings he’d wanted to push right out of his head. Made him realize that things with Holly weren’t going to go back magically to where they were twenty-four hours ago. She’d made a decision, and he had to adapt if he wanted to be with her. Plain and simple.
And he did want. Very much. But whatever happened, he had to adapt.
Before he left the bar last night, he’d already decided that he’d have to be the one to make the call. Doctor Gorgeous was as proud as he was, and for sure too proud to make the first move. He’d call her right after his physiotherapy workout. Ask her to meet him somewhere, anywhere, anytime—whenever she could cut herself loose from the hospital. Then they’d talk it through. She probably missed him.
Women always did.
For the first time, that fact made him feel like a jerk.
Despite his sorry condition, he had to be at the clubhouse at nine. He’d pushed his luck by cajoling the doctor and trainer into agreeing that he could work out on his own down in Florida. If he tried to skip out today, they’d be all over him and he’d probably end up with a fat fine. He didn’t give a damn about that, but he gave a huge damn about getting healthy again and getting back out onto the field. So, he turned the shower onto hot and stripped out of his tee shirt and briefs.
Forty-five minutes later, he hurried into the Patriots’ clubhouse, only ten minutes late. Jed Jones tapped his watch with his index finger as Nate dropped his sports bag at his locker.
“I’m not your personal trainer, hotshot,” Jones said with a frown creasing his ruddy forehead. “Nine o’clock means nine o’clock.”
Nate shrugged. “Sorry, but it’s not a real good day to bust my balls, Jonesy.” He knew Jones was just ribbing him, but he was in no mood for kidding.
“No surprise,” the grizzled veteran shot back. “You look like a big sack of shit. If that’s what a Florida vacation does to you, stay the hell home next time.”
“Long story,” Nate muttered.
Jones ran a hand across the top of his bald dome. “Doc’s in the examination room. You’re keeping him waiting, too.”
Nate started down the hall, not wanting to keep Morehouse waiting any more than he already had been. “Didn’t know he was coming,” he said over his shoulder.
Morehouse eyed him suspiciously as Nate walked into the small examination room. “Whoa. I thought Florida was supposed to do you good?”
“Jesus, maybe I ought to just go back to bed,” Nate snapped.
The doctor’s grin indicated he was ribbing him. “Strip off the shirt, Grumpy.” He motioned to Nate to hoist himself onto the examination table. “Bad night?”
“Women,” Nate muttered. “They drive a guy to drink.”
“Ah, would it be that new doctor friend?”
Nate nodded as he undid the buttons and shucked the shirt off.
“I have to say I can’t remember any students who looked that good when I was in med school.”
Nate made a non-committal grunt.
“I presume you took her on your little jaunt to Florida?” Morehouse said. “Things didn’t go well?”
Nate glared at him. “What is this, Doc? Twenty questions? Why don’t we focus on the shoulder?”
Morehouse’s grin disappeared and his body went stiff. Nate felt instantly guilty. “Sorry,” he said. “I know you’re just making conversation. I’m all screwed up. First the shoulder, now Holly…” He let it trail off.
Morehouse gently put both hands on the injured shoulder. “Well, I can’t help you with your love life, so let me see what I can do with the shoulder.”
He gave Nate a thorough examination, putting the shoulder through a full range of motions, pushing and probing for what seemed like an eternity.
The shoulder had felt better to Nate every day, and the pain was now fully under control. But he still worried about what the doctor would say. He especially dreaded the thought of hearing the words we’re going to send you to Birmingham to see the specialist. That was equivalent to saying: see you at spring training next year. Or even worse.
“You can put the shirt back on.” Morehouse picked up his pen and started to write.
Nate gritted his teeth. “So, what’s the verdict?”
Morehouse looked up and smiled. “I’ve never seen anyone with this injury heal any faster.”
Nate realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it go in a rush. “Jesus, that’s a relief. How soon?”
The doctor knew exactly what he meant. “I’d say four or five more days of physio and aquatherapy, and then we can get you out on the field for some soft tossing.”
Nate almost choked with relief. “Thank God.” There would be at least a couple of rehab starts in the minors after that, but it looked like he’d be able to pitch again for the Patriots in a couple of weeks.
It felt like a miracle.
But his elation subsided quickly as he returned to the clubhouse for his physio session with Jones. He should have been dancing on air. Instead, his mind had turned immediately back to Holly, and what he was going to say to her when he called. What she would say to him.
It felt like a drawbridge had gone up and an iron gate had slammed down on their relationship, leaving him standing on the wrong side of the moat.
Chapter Twenty-Four