Physical therapy with Rylee has a whole new meaning now. We share secret glances, heated gazes and private jokes. If it wasn’t already the highlight of my days, it sure as hell is now.
We’ve succeeded in pissing off Alex more than once with our laughter. He shoots me a dirty look every time our eyes meet. There is something about him that just rubs me the wrong way. What kind of boss asks his subordinate out in front of a patient? What kind of boss asks his subordinate out at all?
Then again, he could say the same thing about me.
Maybe we’re both assholes.
“Stand up,” Rylee says before she hooks me up to the TENS. “I want to measure your progress.”
She has me flex and extend my elbow as she takes measurements and records the numbers in her laptop. “Squeeze,” she says, holding her hands out to me. “Don’t be a wimp about it.”
I squeeze her hands as hard as I can. Well, maybe not with my right hand, because I don’t want to crush her delicate fingers. But I try my hardest with my left.
“Good,” she says, making some notes. “Despite what you think you are making progress.” She picks up the stress ball on the table and hands it to me. Then she walks ten feet away. “Throw it to me.”
I roll my eyes at her. “You’re kidding, right? I’m used to throwing hundred-mile-an-hour fastballs to a guy who is sixty feet away from me.”
“You have to start somewhere,” she says. “Come on, just an easy overhand toss. We don’t want to stress the elbow too badly, or the shoulder.”
I toss her the ball.
She catches it and smiles.
“Did I pass the test?” I ask.
“It didn’t fall out of your hand, so, yes.”
“It’s a stress ball, Ry, not a baseball. Big difference. I need to throw a baseball. I need to throw it at something. At someone. I’m dying here.”
It’s been five weeks since I’ve pitched. That’s four weeks longer than I’ve ever gone in my life. I strained my arm badly a few years ago and had to lay off for eight days, but other than that, it’s only a day or two of rest between games I start in. Even in the offseason you can find me at the pitching facility every day.
If I’m not throwing a damn baseball, who the hell am I?
I need to pitch. I need it like I need food. Like I need water. Like I need air.
I need it or I’ll die – just like I told her.
Rylee is looking at my arm, lost in contemplative thought.
“What is it?” I ask her.
“Just a thought,” she says. “A way to give you what you want and have a little fun, too.”
I raise my eyebrows suggestively. “Give me what I want?”
She looks around to make sure nobody is listening. “Not that, you animal.”
“I thought you liked my animal, Ry.”
She shakes her head at my witty banter, but she’s smiling, so I know she likes it.
She pulls out her phone and it looks like she’s sending a text. A minute later, it seems she gets a reply. Then she looks up at me. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“A Tuesday? Wow, Rylee, you want me so badly you can’t even wait until Friday.”
“Are you free or not?” she asks, pretending to be annoyed.
I stare at her and wonder why she had to send the text. Was she moving around plans again? Making excuses not to see the boyfriend perhaps?
“I suppose I could be. What do you have in mind?”
“I’ll pick you up at six.”
I give her a cheeky grin. “You aren’t going to tell me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I like surprises,” I say with a wink.
Wait. No I don’t. I hate surprises. I always like to be in control and know what, where, and when. Surprises suck.
Unless, apparently, they come from Rylee Kennedy.
~ ~ ~
“What happened to letting me drive sometimes?” I ask when she picks me up on Tuesday.
“You can drive home,” she says. “This way I don’t have to tell you where we’re going. You’ll see it when you see it.”
“Are you taking me to see more animals, Ry?”
“Hmmm. There might be some animals there, but that’s not what we’re going for.”
“Are we going to the circus?”
She laughs. “Not exactly.”
I watch her as we drive out of the city. She loves playing games with me. And damn it if her games don’t turn me on. Her face is lit with youth and exuberance. She’s excited to be going wherever we’re going. Or maybe she’s just excited that she’s going with me.
She turns to see me staring. “What is it?”
“Nothing. It’s just that you’re always taking us on these adventures. I really think you’re just a big kid.”
She laughs. “I guess I am.”
“I like big kids.”
Her smile falls and she stares straight ahead. “Just don’t like me too much, Brady.”
Never in all my years as a player have I had a woman say those words to me. I suspect there is more to Rylee Kennedy than I know. More than the mother in the memory care facility. More than the boyfriend or fuck-buddy named Stryker. More than her desire to get back to New York.
Something is preventing her from wanting me too much. From needing me for more than just sex. And for the life of me, I can’t figure out why I want to know what it is.
“You’re preaching to the choir, Rylee,” I gaze out my window. “You’re preaching to the choir.”
Ten minutes later, something comes into view and I laugh. “Are you taking me to the fair?”
I see a tall, lighted Ferris wheel in the distance along the country road we’re driving on. I think about what she said yesterday about giving me what I want and then I realize what they have at county fairs.
“Oh, hell yeah! They have baseball target games here, don’t they?”
“Calm down. We may not work up to those.” She pulls into the parking lot and we’re directed down a dirt lane to another guy with an orange vest on who shows us where to park. She turns off her car and looks me in the eye. “I’m your physical therapist, Brady. You have to listen to me and trust me with your rehabilitation. They have lots of things here that we can use. Ring toss, dart games, and yes, ball throws. These things will not only help your elbow, but the dexterity in your fingers. But you have to only go as far as I say. I can’t have you hurting yourself and impeding your progress. Agreed?”
I smile at her. I smile big. I feel like a kid on Christmas. I’m practically bouncing with excitement as we approach the ticket booth. I buy the book with the most game tickets and Rylee laughs at me.
She leans close and says, “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” I follow her eyes to the Ferris wheel.
“And two tickets for the Ferris wheel,” I tell the guy behind the glass.
Rylee nudges me with her elbow.
“Better make it four,” I say to him.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Rylee says as we enter the fair. “You can pretty much buy any food you can think of and they will put it on a stick and fry it.”
“Salad?” I say, poking her in the ribs.
“Smartass.”
I laugh. “Games first. Food later.”
“How about one or two games first, then food, then if your arm can take it, more games?”
“Are you always this demanding?”
She starts to protest, but I cut her off and lean in close. “I like it, Ry. I like you bossing me around. Maybe when we’re done here, you can boss me around back at the hotel.”
The Cheshire-cat smile that takes over her face makes me want to scrap this whole plan and get right back in her car. I love how she tries to be all professional with me at work, but here, she’s just herself. No boss in the other room. No appearances to uphold. And by the look in her eyes, I can see I’m in for one hell of a ride – and I don’t mean on the Ferris wheel.
We take our time walking around and assessing all the booths. She finally settles on the ring toss. I hand the guy some tickets and Rylee picks up the rings. “These are lightweight, but they’re small and you might have a hard time gripping them.”
“Hand them over,” I say, motioning for them. I toss one and my wrist goes limp and the damn ring barely makes it over the first bottle. “Fuck.” I look around hoping no kids heard me.
Rylee takes a ring from me. “Try using your whole arm instead of your wrist. You still don’t have great flexion and extension in your wrist, but if you make this an elbow exercise …”
I watch her demonstrate how she wants me to do it, still pissed that I can’t even flick a four-ounce ring over the top of a bunch of soda bottles. She lands a ring on a bottle and wins a small stuffed prize.
“Is that beginner’s luck, or do you bring all your patients here?” I tease.
The guy tries to give her a yellow duck, but she points to something else instead. “You want the hawk?” the guy asks, plucking another stuffed toy off the wall. “This ugly thing?”
“Yes, please,” she says. She holds it up. “How apropos is this? And to answer your question, you are the only patient I’ve ever brought here. You’re the only patient I’ve ever brought anywhere.”
Why that makes me feel like pounding my chest, I don’t know. I shouldn’t care what she does when she’s not with me.
“Now you try it,” she says.
I toss the ring just like she said and, just like she said, it goes much farther when I use my elbow instead of my wrist. But I still don’t ring the neck of a bottle. Not even after a dozen tries.
“Okay?” she asks, nodding at my arm.
“Bring it on,” I tell her. “What’s next?”
The booth next to this one has milk bottle pyramids that people are trying to knock down with softballs. I look at Rylee. “Not a chance,” she says. “You know they weight down the bottom row with lead, don’t you? You’d probably have to throw your fastball to get them down.”
“I could probably do it with my right arm,” I tell her.
“I don’t doubt it. But you’re not here to show off, are you?”
I look at the game. “I guess not.”
“Good. Because the only two people here that matter are the two people who know how good you are.”
“Were,” I correct her.
“And will be again,” she says. She pulls on my good arm. “Come on, let’s do this one over here.”
I hand over more tickets and the woman gives us each three bean bags. You have to throw them through the clown’s mouth to win a prize.
“Ever played Cornhole?” Rylee asks.
“Not even when I was drunk,” I say laughing.
“Well, you’re missing out. This is kind of like it. I’ll show you.”
She proceeds to make all three. “Underhand?” I say. “You throw like a girl.”
“Do you want to try for a larger prize?” the woman asks her, holding out a small plastic whistle.
Rylee appraises it. “No thanks.” Then she whispers to me, “This is what you get for spending three dollars on the game?”
I crank my arm back to throw, but Rylee stops my motion. “No, Brady. Underhand.”
“You have to be kidding.”
She scolds me with the raise of her brow and I feel my pants getting tighter.
“Damn, woman, you really are bossy. Maybe we should make a stop on the way home and get you a whip and some leather.”
“Throw the stupid bean bag, Taylor. And use your shoulder and your elbow. Not your wrist.”
I make two out of three. “Better luck next time,” the woman behind the booth says.
“I get nothing for making two?”
She shrugs and points to the rules.
“Well, that’s a stupid rule.”
Rylee hands me the small plastic bag with her whistle in it. “Here, you can have mine.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Let’s do that one now.” She points to the balloon dart throw.
I get my three darts, attempting to throw one, and it all but falls out of my weak grip. Rylee arranges my fingers so I’m holding the dart between my thumb and my ring finger instead of my thumb and my first finger.
“I know it feels strange to hold it like this,” she says. “But your ring finger is unaffected, so it may allow you to squeeze the dart better if you do it this way. And don’t flick the wrist.”
My thumb is still weak and numb, but using her strategy, I’m able to pop one of the balloons. And it’s an overhand throw, so it feels damn good.
“Nice!” she squeals when I pop all three on my second try.
The bearded guy who runs the game hands me a rubber snake. I look at it and then fake an attack on Rylee’s hawk. “Who do you think would win?” I ask.
“The hawk. Definitely the hawk.” I don’t miss how she’s looking right at me when she says it. She clears her throat. “Let’s get something to eat and then see how your arm feels.”
We settle on a funnel cake and some kind of meat on a stick. We find a bench and do some people-watching while we eat. When we’re done, I notice the line for the Ferris wheel isn’t long at all.
“What do you say?” I ask, motioning over to it.
“Sure, why not?”
While waiting in line, some teenage boys notice me.
“Aren’t you Brady Taylor?” one of them asks.
“I am.”
“I told you,” he says, punching one of his friends in the arm. “Can I get a picture with you? Nobody’s going to believe it.”
“Sure. You follow the Nighthawks?” I ask, as Rylee grabs his phone and snaps a picture of me with all three boys and then individually with each of them.
“Well, I like the Rays because I live here, but the Hawks are cool, too,” he says, looking guilty.
“It’s cool,” I tell him. “You should root for your home team.”
“You’re on the DL, right? I saw footage of that ball hitting you. It looked painful.”
“It was. But I hope to be off the disabled list soon. I’m improving every day.” We’re called up to the ride. “Nice to meet you guys. Enjoy the fair.”
We sit in the chair and the worker pulls a bar down over us. Rylee looks scared. She shoves the hawk into my hands and holds onto the safety bar for dear life.
As our chair rises, she starts squealing – and not in a good way.
“Uh, Rylee, are you afraid of heights?”
She closes her eyes. “Terrified.”
“Then why in the hell are we on this thing?”
“I thought it would be fun.” She peeks out of one eye and then grabs onto my arm. “Oh, my God. This is horrible. Do you think the guy would stop it and bring us back down?”
I laugh. “Oh, we’ll go back down all right, after we go up and over the top.”
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”
I scoot closer and wrap my arm around her, pulling her tightly against me. “Is that better?”
“Marginally. But, as strong as you may be, you couldn’t save both of us if this thing tips over. What was I thinking?”
I laugh quietly. “The ride isn’t going to tip over. But I promise you if it did, I’d save you.”
She takes a hand off the bar momentarily to squeeze my hand.
The ride stops when we’re at the very top. She tenses even more. “What the fuck!” she yells.
This time I can’t help my boisterous laugh. “Why, Rylee, you do have a dirty mouth after all. I’ve wondered.”
“This isn’t a time for jokes, Brady. What if it doesn’t start back up? What if we get stuck up here?”
“They are probably just letting a special needs person on the ride – that can take longer.” I scoot to the edge to look over.
“Brady!” she squeals, her eyes still closed tightly as one of her arms tries to grab me. “Don’t rock us.”
I reposition myself next to her and put my hand on her thigh. “I wish you would open your eyes and see how beautiful it is. You can see the coastline from here. The way the lights line the shore is fascinating. I think I might even be able to see Pier 60.”
That does it. She opens her eyes into a squint. “Don’t look down. Don’t look down,” she mumbles to herself.
I rub my hand along the inner seam of her jeans.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m trying to help you relax. Is it working?”
She shrugs. “Maybe a little. And you lie – you can’t see the pier from here.”
“You can’t?” I squint my eyes like I’m looking to find it.
“No. But it is beautiful. And worth seeing.”
“I agree,” I tell her, enjoying a totally different view.
She turns to find me staring at her.
My hand has traveled higher and higher and is dangerously close to being publicly indecent. “You know, I think it’s tradition that if you get stuck on top of a Ferris wheel you have to kiss.”
“Oh, it’s a tradition huh?”
“Actually, it’s bad luck if you don’t. And you know how superstitious baseball players can be.”
She smiles. “Well, I’m not about to be your bad juju.”
I lean closer and twist my body a little before my lips find hers. Kissing her is something I’ve wanted to do all night. I thought I’d have to wait until we made it back to the hotel. Maybe I should tip the ride operator.
“Don’t rock the car,” she mumbles into my mouth.
We laugh into each other and then I deepen the kiss, hoping to make her forget her worries.
A minute later, the ride starts again and we reluctantly pull apart. “Tell me about your superstitions,” she says. “Anything to keep my mind off this.”
“Mine are pretty tame compared to some others I know. Did you know that Caden plays with Murphy’s engagement ring in his back pocket?”
“I think that’s romantic.”
“If you’re into that shit.”
“Tell me about yours,” she says.
“Mine are boring. I eat carrots.”
“Carrots?”
“Yeah, they are supposed to be good for eyesight, so I eat a small bag of those miniature carrots every day I pitch.”
“What else?”
“I never step on the foul line when I take or leave the field.”
“I’ve heard of that one before,” she says. “Anything else?”
I sigh. “I wear the same t-shirt under my uniform.”
“Every game?”
I nod.
“It must be atrocious.”
I nod again.
“What t-shirt is it?”
Why did I say anything? “Just some old thing I got when I was in high school.”
“Oh. Well, it must mean a lot to you.”
“It does.”
We reach the bottom and the guy is asking people if they want to stay on or get off. I look at Rylee in amusement as she does everything she can to get the guy’s attention. We step off the ride and I start dragging her back in the direction of the throwing games when a group of girls stops our progress.
“Are you Scott Eastwood?” one asks.
I look at Rylee who is doing her best to hold in a laugh.
“The actor? No.”
“But those boys took pictures with you. You must be famous,” another girl says.
“I play baseball,” I tell them.
“Baseball?” The girls look at each other. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure I play baseball, or am I sure I’m not Scott Eastwood?” I joke.
“Can we get a picture with you just in case?” one of them asks.
“Just in case I’m Scott Eastwood?” I laugh and look at Rylee who happily takes one of the girls’ phones to snap a few pictures.
The girls giggle as they walk away.
I pull a laughing Rylee in the direction of the games until I see something and stop. Rylee bumps into my back and it’s now that I realize I’ve been holding her hand. I look down at them just as I pull mine away from hers.
I don’t hold hands.
I look at the game booth and then at Rylee.
“No way,” she says.
We stand there and watch a guy pitch baseballs to a life-sized cutout of a catcher with a hole where his glove is. I can’t take my eyes off it. I want to walk up there and pick up every ball. I want to hold one in my hand and feel the intricate stitching with my fingertips. I want to feel the glory of releasing the perfect pitch knowing it will be a strike even before the batter does.
“Fuck,” I say, turning my back on the game.
A woman walking by with a young boy gives me a dirty look.
“Sorry, ma’am. Wait – here.” I hold out all the stuff in my hands. “Does your boy want these?”
Rylee quickly plucks the hawk from among the other prizes we accumulated. “Not this one,” she says.
I didn’t think I could smile after what just happened, but damned if I don’t.
I hand the boy the rubber snake and the packaged whistle and then I give his mom two tickets. “For the Ferris wheel,” I say. “With my apologies.”
“Thank you,” she says as they walk away.
I eye the small dime-store stuffed animal Rylee is holding and question her with my brow.
“What? I wanted something to remember tonight. It’s been fun.” She looks hesitantly over at the Ferris wheel. “Well, mostly.”
I laugh and grab her hand, pulling her away from the baseball toss and towards the parking lot. “Come back to the hotel with me,” I say. “I’ll give you something to remember tonight.”
She looks up at me and swallows. “I thought you’d never ask.”