There are some advantages to not having a phone. Such as not being able to call my douche of an ex and scream at him. And not being able to text Kirsten and tell her what a slut she is. And not stupidly calling my agent, begging for any scrap of a job they would throw my way, even after she told me not to call until I was completely healed. In all those cases, I’m sure I would have said things I would later regret.
I still can’t wrap my head around what has happened to my life in a matter of two days.
I still can’t believe in a few hours, I have to go home and face my roommates. Maybe even face him—the douchebag ex.
Dr. Benson said I’m free to go today. He wants to see me again on Thursday to see how much the swelling has gone down, then he’ll decide on when to do my surgery. So, I’m pretty much out of commission for the next two weeks. What little savings I have will be quickly eaten up.
I was sure to keep enough money on hand for a plane ticket back to Iowa if I ever needed it. It was a crutch. A safety net. And, ironically, if I ever needed a crutch, a safety net, or a plane ticket out of here, it would be right now.
But something Caden said last night reminded me of what Kelly used to say. He said most people would never have the courage to go after their dreams. Kelly was the one who was always encouraging me to move to New York. She told me to not wait, because you never know what might happen in life. And in some sick, twisted, prophetic way, she was proven right.
Maybe this is my test. The hurdle I have to overcome to get what I want out of life. Maybe I need to give up the crutch and commit myself one hundred percent to making it on my own in the city I’ve always dreamed of.
A phone rings, plucking me from my thoughts, and I turn towards the sound to see Caden standing in my doorway. He looks at his phone and says, “Your mom is calling.”
He hands me the phone and I look down at it to see my mother’s face on the screen. I look up at him, confused. “What?”
He nods to the phone. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“Uh, no,” I say, looking at him like he’s crazy. “And why is my mom calling your phone. And why do you have her listed as ‘Mom’?”
“She’s not calling my phone. She’s calling your phone.”
“My phone?” I look over to the corner of the room where I threw my phone last night and see that it’s missing. “I don’t understand.”
“I took your broken phone in and had it replaced. Luckily, they were able to transfer all your contacts and data.”
My jaw drops. “You got me a new phone?”
“It was the least I could do, Murph.”
I try not to smile at his use of my nickname. “But I can’t possibly pay you back right away. Those things are expensive.”
“It’s my treat, considering I’m the reason you broke it in the first place.”
I scold him with my stare. “Caden, I wish you’d quit saying that. It wasn’t your fault.”
He shrugs off my words. “I hope you don’t mind, I added a new contact.”
I look down and scroll through my short list of contacts to see one labeled ‘#8.’
“What’s number eight?” I ask.
He walks over to the pile of gifts he brought me on Friday and pulls out the jersey, turning it around. On the back, it has Caden’s last name and under it, the number 8.
“Oh,” I say, embarrassed that I didn’t even pay enough attention to realize that was his jersey, and number eight was his number.
He chuckles. “You really do hate baseball, don’t you?”
“I don’t hate it, I just don’t understand it. It’s like physics—another subject I don’t know anything about but also seems complicated and useless.”
“Are you calling baseball complicated and useless? I think Mickey Mantle and Jackie Robinson just rolled over in their graves.”
“Who are Mickey Mantle and Jackie Robinson?”
A rich, throaty laugh bellows out of him. “Oh, Lord. I guess I have a lot to teach you.” He walks over to put the jersey down and pick up the tickets. “And I’m going to start teaching you on the 29th. That’s when you’ll come to a game.”
He hands me the tickets and I look at them as if they will bite me. I vehemently shake my head back and forth until my face protests in angry pain.
He must see the horror in my expression. He puts a hand on my arm to calm me. “Don’t worry, Murph. These are VIP tickets. You’ll be in a suite. Behind glass walls.”
I breathe out an audible sigh. “Oh, okay.” I shrug. “I’ll have to see.”
“What’s there to see?” he asks. “There will be free food, free booze, and no possible chance of getting hit by my home run ball.”
My lips turn up into a small smile. “You sound pretty confident. Do you hit one every game?”
“Ha! I wish. Let’s see, we play about one hundred and sixty-two games a season. This season is almost over and I just hit my twenty-sixth home run. That’s far from hitting one every game. Even the best home-run hitters don’t usually hit more than forty to fifty a season.” He smiles proudly. “And there you go, your first baseball lesson.”
“Lesson?” I ask.
He nods. “I’ve made it my mission to make you a fan. And to do that, you need to learn the game.”
“Isn’t that what Google is for?” I ask.
He furrows his brows. “Learning baseball from the internet? No way, you have to do it in person.” He points to the tickets in my hand. “And you can start in three weeks.”
I study the tickets. The game will be a couple weeks after my surgery. Dr. Benson said my face will be much better by then. And I’ll probably need the free food considering I’ll be living on ramen noodles until I can find a job. But then I realize there are two tickets. I don’t have someone I can take with me. Not anymore. There is not a single person in New York City that I can call my friend.
I am so pathetic.
I hand the tickets back to him. “It would be too awkward. I don’t have anybody to bring with me.”
He gets out his phone and taps on the screen a few times. Then he pours me a cup of water. Then his phone vibrates and he reads his text and smiles.
“I have a sister, Lexi. She’s two years older than me and she loves baseball. She’ll go with you.”
“Your sister? What? No, I couldn’t possibly—”
He shoves his phone at me and makes me read the text. “It says right here she would love to. Trust me, you don’t want to disappoint my sister. She’s married to a doctor and has two little kids, so you can believe it when I tell you she needs a night out.”
“I … I guess. If you really think it wouldn’t be a bother.”
“There’s not a doubt in my mind. You’ll love her. Lexi is great.”
“Lexi is a beautiful name. How old is she?”
He gives me a cocky smile. “It’s short for Alexa. And is that your way of asking me how old I am, Murphy Brown?”
“Uh, no,” I say, sure a blush is creeping up my face.
Maybe.
Okay, yes.
But only because he’s the only MLB player I’ve ever met and I’m curious.
“And who’s Murphy Brown?”
“You don’t watch many reruns, do you?” He laughs. “Anyway, Lexi is twenty-seven and that makes me twenty-five. And now that you know my age, you have to tell me yours.”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“Good to know,” he says. He points to my new phone. “I want you to text me and let me know when you get scheduled for surgery. I’m heading out of town this afternoon and won’t be back for almost a week.”
“You want me to text you?” I stare at him like he’s crazy. Even though I don’t like baseball, I understand that he must be somewhat of a celebrity. I mean, after he left the past few times, the nurses were going crazy over the fact that he was here. Why would he want me to text him? Doesn’t he get texts from hundreds of people every day?
“Yes. I do.” He taps his pocket where his phone resides. “If you don’t, I’ll just have to call you. Or get my brother-in-law to break the rules and look at your records for your home address.”
I blow out a sigh. “Fine. I’ll text you.”
He shakes his head in wonder.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re different,” he says, studying me.
“What do you mean?”
“Normally, girls are begging for my phone number, and here I am handing it to you on a silver platter and you don’t want to use it.”
I nod in understanding. “Maybe that’s because I don’t want to sleep with you, Kessler. I’ve had my fill of narcissistic pigs, thank you very much.”
“Ouch,” he says, looking melodramatically dejected. “For what it’s worth, I’m not a narcissistic pig. And further, I don’t want to sleep with you either, Murph.”
“Good. Friends then?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” he says.
I smile. I smile so big my face hurts.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Nothing. It’s just that you have the unfortunate distinction of being my only friend in New York at the moment.”
“Not unfortunate,” he says. “Lucky. And when you meet Lexi, the number of friends you have here will double.”
He looks at the clock on the wall like he has to be somewhere and I remember he said he’s going out of town.
“Don’t you have a plane to catch or something?”
“Actually, yes. We’re playing in Phoenix and San Diego this week.” He looks like he’s about to turn to leave. “Oh, hell, I almost forgot.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a brochure to give me.
It’s a gym brochure. I open it up and stare at it, confused. “Uh, Caden, the doctor said I can’t lift anything for a while. Not only that, I have no job and no money. This place looks expensive.”
He points to the number on the back of the brochure. “Call Jayden, she’s the gym manager, tell her Mason Lawrence offered you a job and that you’ll start a few weeks after your surgery.”
“Who’s Mason Lawrence?”
He laughs. “You don’t watch football either, do you?”
I shake my head.
“Mason is one of the owners of the gym and a personal friend. When you told me you worked at a gym for a few years back in high school, I decided to call him. There’s a position coming open. It’s not anything special, just a front desk job. But I thought maybe during your recovery, that would be just what you need.”
“Are you for real?” I ask him.
He shrugs.
“Are you repenting for something, Caden? Did you need a charity case this week? Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Because all of this is—”
“Your fault,” I complete his ridiculous thought. “For the last time, it’s not. Now, go or you’ll miss your flight.”
He winks at me and turns to walk away.
“And Caden?”
He spins around in the doorway.
“Thank you.” I hold up the phone and the brochure. “For everything.”
“No. Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“I don’t know. For not hating me for what I did. For being so darn nice. For not wanting to sleep with me.” He gives me a wave before walking out the door. “Later, Murphy Brown,” I hear him say as he strides down the hall.
And for the first time since Friday night, I feel like maybe my life isn’t so pathetic after all.