I sat in the cold and sterile examination room, waiting for Dr. Chen to grace me with his presence so I could head back home before anyone noticed I was gone. I hadn’t told Ellie about this appointment. I knew she’d find a way to come with me, and as much as I appreciated her support, this was something I had to do alone.

Finally, the elderly doctor with silver hair softly knocked and came in. “How is everything going?” He glanced at the file he held open in his hand, and then lifted his gaze to mine. His smile always seemed genuine, yet I couldn’t help but think his expression wouldn’t change no matter what information he had to give.

“Really good, Doc.” I flexed my left hand in a show of proof.

He moved to stand by my side and gently held my arm to extend it. Then, he pulled it back in and rotated it in a half-circle to test the range of mobility. I’d done this three times a week at physical therapy, so it was nothing new.

“Any discomfort in the neck and shoulder area?”

I started to shake my head, but when I realized this was my doctor, not my coach, I chose to go with honesty. “It’s sore in the mornings, but nothing I can’t manage.”

“What about your joints? Any stiffness?”

“No, sir.”

“And your fingers? Any tingles or feeling like the tips are cold?”

“Not normally.”

He nodded to himself like he’d done every time I’d seen him, and it made me wonder if he even listened to the answers before bobbing his head in silent response. “What about the burning sensation?”

“Only when I lay down at night on days I’ve had PT.”

“And what level would you say that pain is?”

I thought for a moment, my mouth twisted to the side. It was difficult to pinpoint the level of discomfort on a scale from one to ten. So many factors went into it. But I wasn’t about to go into that with him. “Around a two.”

Dr. Chen settled onto his stool and rolled himself closer. “Just a two? You were at a nine prior to surgery eight weeks ago.” He waited patiently while staring at me with his gentle, trustworthy eyes. If he thought I’d change my mind and give him another number, he’d be sitting here for a while. “Coby, it’s okay to admit to feeling pain. No one expects you to wake up from surgery and feel one hundred percent again.”

“I’m not saying I don’t have pain, Doc. It’s just easily manageable.”

“I just need to make sure you’re not hiding anything, trying to be some hero. You had a significant amount of damage to the nerves when we went in. I didn’t touch those. All I did was clean out the scar tissue so the nerves could heal, which means the damage was still there when you left the hospital. With that kind of surgery, it should naturally take time before you’re back to where you were.”

“I know. And I’m not hiding anything. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to, regular physical therapy, exercises at home—everything you’ve told me to, I’ve done. Season hasn’t started, so it’s not like I’ve been overdoing it or anything, and my coaches are aware I’ve been taking it easy.”

He seemed pleased, but then again, it was hard to tell. Suddenly, in an uncharacteristic change of expression, he sighed and glanced down to his hands where he had his fingers laced together in a prayer gesture. My heart began to pound relentlessly, the anticipation of what came next too much to handle.

“We spoke about this the last time you were here,” he said and glanced at me again, “but I need to make sure you fully understand the severity of your condition.”

I huffed, my shoulders dropping. “I do. I get it, trust me.”

“I don’t think you do if you’re here now, eight weeks after surgery, talking about the beginning of your next season. If you’re telling the truth when you say the pain has dropped that much, I can only assume you’ll jump back into the sport as if nothing has happened. But that’s a real problem.”

“You told me I wouldn’t have to stop playing,” I argued.

“No. That’s not what I said. I told you that you’d have to take it easy for the next year. Playing isn’t out of the question, but it’s something you need to ease back into.”

“I’m the starting pitcher…I can’t just ease back into that. How would I explain that to my coaches?” If I had gone to practice and told them I wasn’t back in full swing after months of therapy and resting my arm, they’d know something was up. And even if I did somehow get by without them finding out about the surgery or the severity of my injury, they’d bench me for not being a team player. All it would take was a new pitcher to fill in for me, and I’d be bumped out of my position. With my inability to actually hit a ball, that would leave me without active playing time, and my career would be over.

“Honestly?” he asked and tilted his head. “It’s my professional opinion that you come clean to them. Pretending like you didn’t just have corrective surgery on your pitching arm two months ago could do far more harm than good. They can’t make sure you aren’t overdoing it if they aren’t informed of the consequences.”

I appreciated his concern, but at the end of the day, it was my career. My life. Therefore, it was my call. The way I saw it, Coach was aware there was a problem, and Steve had anticipated a lighter load as we got ready to gear up for Spring Training. Dr. Chen made it sound like no one on the team had any inclination of an issue with my shoulder. But that wasn’t the case. As long as I listened to my body and rested when I needed to, I’d be fine, and before I knew it, I would be back to normal. No one the wiser to my time under the knife.

“Thank you, Doc. I’ll take your advisement into consideration.”

The way he slowly licked his lips told me he didn’t believe a word I’d said—more than likely assuming it was nothing but bullshit. But rather than argue with me, he dropped his professional mask back into place and smiled.

“Well, I guess my job here is done. Your range of motion seems fluid, your joints and muscles all appear to have suffered no recourse from the years of damage caused to the nerves, and from what you tell me, your pain level is low and manageable. So, I guess all we have left is to deal with any questions you may have for me.”

Rather than immediately dismiss him and end this appointment, I decided to give it some real thought. I may have made poor choices in regard to my shoulder in the past—such as not speaking up when the pain first presented itself—but I figured it wouldn’t be in my best interest to do that now.

“Realistically speaking—now that you’ve been in there, found the problem, corrected it, and have evaluated me post-op—how long do you think it’ll take to be back to a hundred percent?”

He checked the file again, flipping between a few pages, and scratched his chin in thought. “It’s so hard to give you an answer to that. You want realistic, to which I would tell you one to two years based on the average patient with the amount of extensive damage you had. But if I’m being honest, the average patient experiences pain at a higher level this soon after surgery than you say you are. So, it’s really a guessing game. I think the best thing to remember here is that you didn’t sustain this injury a few months ago in an accident. It wasn’t just one thing that brought you here. It began…” He glanced at the chart again. “Almost twenty-two years ago. That’s a lifetime of damage. The amount of scar tissue you had was damning.”

“I get that. But I was able to live without realizing anything was wrong until about a year ago. So what I’m asking is, if this went undetected for that long, and now that I’ve had surgery to remove the scar tissue—which as you explained will allow the nerves to heal—what are the chances I’ll have continued problems with it?”

“Again, Coby, it’s not an easy answer to give. You more than likely never recognized the problem when you were younger because you weren’t pushing your arm as hard as you do now. That’s the reason for the excess buildup of scarring. That was your body’s way of healing itself. Now that you’re older and use your arm every day in a way most people don’t, everything changes. Our bodies weren’t designed to handle the rigorous actions that come with professional sports. There’s a reason most athletes have a retiring age much lower than that of any other career, and it’s not because the pay is higher.”

This was all common knowledge to most players. After a doubleheader, I wanted nothing more than an ice pack and sleep. I could feel every minute of those games in every part of my body, and with my inspirational-level batting average, I hardly had to run. I couldn’t imagine how players of contact sports felt. Pitching didn’t come close to being tackled. Yet somehow, even with everything going on with my arm, I’d never given it much thought until now.

“From what I’ve gathered based on the information you’ve provided, as well as basic research on your career,” he continued, “you didn’t start playing competitively until you were fifteen years old. So even though you had been pitching for…roughly ten years, throwing a ball in your backyard when you felt like it doesn’t compare to the level of strain your arm, shoulder, and neck have sustained in the last few years since you’ve been in the League. To me, that would explain how you could’ve gone so long before the issue presented itself.”

“But if it were injured multiple times, why did I not experience any pain?”

“Well, if I’m right and the brachial plexus had been injured initially when you were born, it had weeks to repair itself while you were wrapped in a blanket, spending all day sleeping like most babies. I can’t tell you how many times since then it’s healed, or at what ages, but if I were to take a guess based on the lack of pain when you were younger, I would say they were minor instances. Nothing like what you experienced this last time. Possibly slight stretches of the nerves here and there that healed quickly due to the lack of constant irritation. But when you went from the casual play of a high school pitcher to the extreme training regimen of a professional athlete, it didn’t have the opportunity to heal the way it always had before. Which would explain the absence of pain then, and the presence of it now. When did you say the onset of the burning sensation started?”

It had gone on for so long, I had to stop and think about when I’d first recognized it. “Near the end of my first contract…so a year and a half ago, I guess.”

His brow knitted together in thought, more than likely doing the math in his head. “Which would mean we’re looking at roughly eighteen months—give or take—of active play before it consistently became a problem. So to answer your question…providing you take all the necessary steps to ensure the brachial plexus heals completely and you don’t reinjure it before then, with caution, you may never deal with future complications. But again, that would all depend on how well you take care of yourself now and for the rest of your career. However,” he added with a pointed stare, “I don’t foresee that being a realistic outcome if you keep your coaches in the dark.”

I nodded, aware I had a lot to think about. Either way, it wouldn’t be an easy decision. Telling them could cause grave risks to my contract, as well as my future in the League. No one would want a pitcher with a bum arm on top of a visual impairment. I’d be labeled a liability—no team would be willing to put money on a player with a sketchy expiration date. But if I didn’t say anything and kept going along with my story of it simply being a strained muscle, I ran the risk of pushing too hard too soon.

We shook hands on the way out of the room, and within minutes, I was in my car, heading back home. I spent the entire three-hour drive with the radio off, nothing to keep me company other than my thoughts. Naturally, I wanted to discuss this with Ellie, but I knew exactly what she’d say after hearing Dr. Chen’s opinion. She wouldn’t think twice before advising me to confide in one of the coaches. The only problem was, the logical person to inform about it would’ve been Steve, and there’s no way he wouldn’t have taken it higher. And if I didn’t listen to her and kept my mouth shut, I wouldn’t have put it past her to take matters into her own hands.

Now that Ellie was a student teacher at a local high school until her graduation in May, she finally had a regular schedule. And with it being off-season, that meant I got to see her more often—providing she wasn’t with her Beastie Boy. She usually got home around four thirty, so I’d made my appointment in Atlanta for eleven that morning. That would guarantee her gone before I had to leave, and home after I returned. Yet somehow, when I pulled into the driveway and lifted the garage door, I found her car inside.

“Where’d you go?” She was in the kitchen when I walked through the door, her purse on the counter indicating she hadn’t been home long.

I checked the time over the stove, having no idea how long I’d been in the car, and noticed it was just past four. I’d waited a while at Dr. Chen’s office, and then spent however long talking to him, but I hadn’t guessed it’d taken two hours. Either that, or I’d been so lost in my thoughts on the way home that I drove well below the speed limit.

“Oh, I had a…a thing.” I tried to keep moving, heading toward my bedroom in the hopes she wouldn’t question my evasiveness. And even as I stepped around her, I knew I had a higher chance of making it past third base than I did her not prying.

“A thing?” She followed behind me, and when we made it to my room, she leaned her hip against the doorframe with her arms crossed. She’d practically mastered this stance with me over the years. “What aren’t you telling me, Coby? Don’t pretend I can’t read you like a book.”

With cautious movement, I reached over my head and tugged at my shirt, pulling it off. “It doesn’t matter.”

Her eyes lit up in understanding, just before the faint pink invaded her cheeks. “Oh…you were with a girl. You don’t have to keep that from me. I’m fully aware the big, bad professional pitcher has a life off the mound.”

I thought about being honest with her and telling her she was wrong, but that would only cause her to keep digging until she had me confessing everything. And as I’d exited the interstate, entering Tuscaloosa, I’d made up my mind to keep this from her.

“Why are you home so early?” It was obvious I tried to change the subject, but she didn’t seem to mind when she moved into my room and settled herself on the edge of my bed while I changed in the closet.

“It’s really not that early, especially considering school ended almost an hour ago. I didn’t have any reason to stay behind, so I figured I’d come home and enjoy an easy night with my best friend.”

I was aware that things between her and Ryan had been rocky since the end of last year, but I hadn’t wanted to meddle too much. She’d come to me if she needed someone to confide in, so I figured I’d sit back and wait. But over the last two months, it seemed she’d spent more time away from him than with him, and I wondered if this was her way of getting me to pry.

“No plans with Ry-Guy again? That’s like every day this week.” I grabbed a T-shirt from my drawer and turned to face her.

She shrugged, her eyes downcast, a dejected shadow covering her expression. “Practice starts back up next week, and I would like to spend as much time with you as I can before you’re back on the road again. Not to mention, Ryan and I both work regular hours now, so a Wednesday night date isn’t anything special.”

Deciding to accept her lie as truth, I pulled the shirt over my head and shuffled my feet along the carpet until I stood in front of her. Without speaking a single word, I reminded her that she was the most important person in my life by holding out just one finger. Finally, she laughed, and the emptiness in her eyes vanished when she pressed her fingertip to mine. Then I grabbed her hand, pulled her behind me, and set out to have a fun, carefree night with my best friend.

* * *

I’d managed to take it easy during practices. Steve kept an eye on my pitch, breaking when he noticed the telltale sign of my arm dropping too soon. Aside from asking about physical therapy, he hadn’t inquired too much about my arm. Much like with Coach, he’d noticed the drastic improvement since the end of last season and concluded it’d simply been a pulled, overworked muscle that needed time to heal. They agreed to gradually increase my practices, but it was my job to inform them of any setback or pain.

Other than that, I continued with physical therapy and ice packs, coupled with anti-inflammatory supplements. And by the start of Spring Training, I felt a million times better. I still had the occasional tingle in my fingers and burning sensation down my arm, but it was nothing like before. The discomfort was expected to last for a while after surgery, so I didn’t think much of it. I paid attention to my body, and at the onset of the slightest pain, I backed down and followed through with Dr. Chen’s recovery directives—except for the part about not playing ball.

The night before our first home game of the pre-season, the club held our annual family day celebration. It was a way for everyone to get together and kick off another year of baseball, comprised of food, games, drinks, and time on the diamond for fans to mingle with their favorite players.

“Hey, Kyler!” Darren, one of the guys on the team, shouted from the fence as he made his way to me. A tall kid flanked his heels, and as soon as I saw his face, I assumed he had to be Darren’s son. Like so many other players who had come from somewhere else, Darren didn’t live in Tuscaloosa. Rather than uprooting their families, many of the guys split their time between here and wherever they had put down roots.

“I see you brought the boy.”

The kid groaned and rolled his eyes, but his dad just laughed. Everyone on the team referred to his son as “the boy,” because no one knew his name. That’s what Darren had always called him, so we did, too.

“Yeah, let him miss a few days of school to come down here and meet the guys. He’ll be a senior next year, and we’re all keeping our fingers crossed for a baseball scholarship.” He turned to his son and grinned from ear to ear, full of pride. It reminded me of the way my dad had looked at me. Even to this day, I had no doubt in my mind how highly he thought of me.

When Darren turned back to me, he landed his giant paw on my shoulder and squeezed, causing it to drop with the unexpected force. A sharp pain stabbed me in the muscle between my neck and my shoulder, leaving behind a numbing tingle that settled into my elbow. I clenched my jaw, trying to fight off the pain and hoping I didn’t call attention to it.

Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice. Almost as quickly as he’d slapped me, he pulled his hand away and continued speaking as if he hadn’t just unintentionally set back my recovery. “But the boy has dreams of being the next Coby Kyler. He’s dead set on entering the draft and leaving with the first pick and a spot in the Majors.”

“Oh, yeah?” I rubbed my arm, feigning a chill. I only needed to pacify them long enough not to cause suspicion when I left the festivities to regroup in the locker room with ice. “You pitch?”

The boy nodded eagerly, not a hint of shyness to him. That in itself would prove him incapable of being the next me. Unless he was a virgin who hadn’t even so much as kissed a girl yet, he was already ten steps ahead of where I was at his age.

“He wants to throw a ball with you, if you don’t mind.”

I glared at my friend, wondering if he’d lost his damn mind.

It was enough to make him realize the problem, and he laughed, lifting his arm to slap me again but stopping short of doing so. “No, Kyler. Not back and forth. He’s fully aware how dangerous it is to throw a ball at you and expect you to catch it. We wouldn’t chance you getting a concussion the night before a game.”

“So what would you like me to do?”

“Pitch side by side, one ball.”

My arm told me to say no—in fact, it screamed at me like a little bitch. But this was Darren’s son, and the whole purpose of tonight was to mingle with friends, fans, and families. So I gave in and agreed to one ball, figuring I didn’t have to throw a game-night pitch.

Darren handed us each a ball, and his son threw first. I watched his form, impressed at his stance, and tossed out a few pointers—which he seemed incredibly thankful for. After kicking the clay and falling into position, I gripped the ball and bent at my hips. My heart thundered the entire time at the feeling of more than two sets of eyes on me. Before the ball even left my hand, a roaring pain tore through my arm and reverberated through my chest, up my throat, and past my taut lips, carried out with a deep growl.

I hadn’t bothered to see where the ball landed—I didn’t need to. There was no way I’d completed the follow through on my pitch, let alone released my grip at the right time. I had zero control once the pain shot through me. In fact, I’d been so absorbed in the bright lights bursting behind my closed eyelids, I hadn’t realized I’d been taken to the locker room until I found myself on a bench with Steve coming toward me.

“What happened? I thought you were doing better?”

Pulling in air through clenched teeth, I attempted to calm down enough to respond. “I was. Darren asked me to throw a ball with his son, and I couldn’t say no.”

“So what happened? What hurts?”

“I didn’t do any stretches or warm-ups today, wanting to take it easy so I would be ready for tomorrow, and I guess the muscle was too tight. I think I might’ve aggravated it again.” I’d been too out of it to come up with a lie on the spot, and I didn’t have enough sense to watch what I said. Lucky for me, I didn’t throw myself under the bus, and conveniently, I hadn’t lied, either. I’d meant the nerve, but he didn’t know that, assuming I had referred to the “pulled muscle” being aggravated.

“I’m sure Coach will get you checked out.”

“No.” I adamantly shook my head. “I just need some painkillers and ice, and I’ll be ready to go in the morning.”

“Like hell you’re playing tomorrow.” Steve walked away and then came back with an ice pack and two orange pills. “You were doing so well, too. I’m worried there’s more to this than we think.”

I wasn’t given an option, though. When it came to injured players, the coaches called the shots. Rather than fight it, considering that would only make things worse, I sat in the empty locker room and waited for Steve to return with Coach and the team physician.

After a quick exam, he once again concluded it was the muscle.

Considering this had been an ongoing thing, they made the call to bench me for the entire pre-season. Granted, Spring Training was more of a fun way to get the fans pumped up after the winter break, with the games not holding any value, but that didn’t matter to me. No player wanted to sit out, regardless of the time of year. But I didn’t have much of a choice.

* * *

For the next six weeks, I traveled with my team, but I had to watch the games from the dugout. Although I’d used my time off the mound to heal, I hadn’t made a full recovery by the start of regular season, so Coach had to make the tough call to keep me sidelined on a game-by-game basis. A little over a month in, I was called to the coaches’ office and prayed this was the good news I’d been waiting for.

Oh, how wrong I was.

When I walked in, I noticed Coach behind the desk with Steve perched on the side. Leo, the Titans’ owner, sat in a chair opposite the two men and gestured for me to sit in the empty one next to him. And with my heart in my throat, I did.

“Kyler, thanks for meeting with us.” Leo’s voice was husky, which only made the tension thicker. “How’s the arm treatin’ ya?”

I slid my glasses higher on my nose and nodded. “It’s much better. Thanks for asking.”

“What did you say was wrong with it again?” Something about the way he asked in a slightly lilted tone sent shivers racing down my spine. It was like he was already aware of the truth, even though that was impossible. I’d paid a lot of money for anonymity, so unless Ellie had said something—which would’ve never happened—he was bluffing.

“Pulled muscle.”

His thin lips curved into a frown while he stared at me through squinted eyes. “Seems like an awfully long time for a pulled muscle to heal. Weren’t you dealing with this last season, too? And you missed the entire pre-season, as well as the last six weeks of our current schedule.”

“Yes, sir. I was ready to play, feeling back on my game, but at family night, I’d thrown a ball with one of the guys’ sons. My arm must’ve been stiffer than I thought after not working it out at all that day in preparation for our game, and I ended up reinjuring it. Had that not happened, I wouldn’t have had to sit any game out. I know it looks like it’s taking forever to heal, but realistically, I’d suffered two injuries back to back.”

“Coby,” Coach called, pulling my attention away from Leo. By his furrowed brow and flaring nostrils, I could tell this wouldn’t end in my favor. “It has come to our attention that this is more than what you’re saying it is.”

I paused for a moment to let the earth quit spinning out of control. “I’m not sure where you heard that from, but you were there when the physician checked me out. He said it was a pulled muscle. Last year, you made me see a specialist, where I had an MRI. Even that checked out and came back clean.”

“So you’re telling us you haven’t sought out medical care on your own? That you’ve relied solely on the advice given to you by our team of doctors, and per orders, attended physical therapy and nothing more?”

This was the fork in my road—lie or come clean. Every cell in my body begged me to lie, but Ellie’s voice in my head urged me to tell the truth. It seemed I’d already been caught, and this was their way of confronting me. I closed my eyes briefly and took a few gulps of air before uttering the words I’d never be able to take back.

“I saw a specialist in December.”

“Behind our backs,” Steve finished for me.

“It was the off-season, and I just wanted to get a second opinion.”

“And what did they find?”

“Well, they ordered a second MRI.”

Steve glared at me for so long it started to feel like the world’s worst staring contest. But then Coach slapped the top of the desk, causing everything on it to rattle and nearly had me out of my seat at the harsh intrusion.

“Coby, the gig’s up. As I’ve said, we were informed of everything. About the doctor in Atlanta and the surgery you had before Christmas to repair damaged nerves.”

I slumped in my seat, defeated, weighted down with months’ worth of deception. I should’ve known everything would catch up to me eventually. And for some reason, the very first thought that crossed my mind as I sat there, faced with my shortcomings, was how if I’d just told Ellie the truth after my follow-up with Dr. Chen, she would’ve convinced me to come clean from the start.

“We’re going to send you for a battery of tests—with a doctor of our choosing. Then, and only then, will we decide what the rest of your career looks like. The fact you went behind our backs to someone we’re unfamiliar with—for surgery on the arm we own—pisses me off.”

Disappointing Coach was the same as letting my own father down. It was something I didn’t handle very well, and instead of complying, I tightened my fists and fought back. It didn’t happen often. I wasn’t an angry person who’d lash out when things weren’t going my way. But the idea of upsetting someone who I held on a pedestal left me defensive.

“He’s a renowned surgeon who has specialized in sports medicine longer than I’ve been alive. He’s hardly the back-alley doctor you’re making him out to be.”

“I don’t care if he delivered baby Jesus, he’s not part of our team. And the fact that he sees other athletes does nothing to pacify me.” Coach’s face was red—his eyes narrowed and shot daggers through me from across the desk. But he didn’t stop there. It seemed my need to defend myself was enough to knock him off his rocker. “For all I know, there’s a player, a pitcher, a coach, or a club owner with deeper pockets than you who might’ve swayed him to do something other than what you paid him for.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him that wouldn’t have happened. It was confidential, from beginning to end, not even my insurance company had been aware of it, so I doubted another team had caught wind of my appointments to see Dr. Chen. But instead, I kept my mouth closed and let him release his aggression while Steve and Leo just sat back and watched.

“You have no right to take such drastic actions on an arm we’ve paid almost thirty-million dollars for. Did you happen to think about that? Or about the consequences of something going wrong? How would you have explained it?” He seethed across from me, but I could tell he wasn’t done. “We owned your arm the second you signed on the dotted line, and I don’t take kindly to someone fucking with my property.”

Unable to control himself any longer, Coach stood up, his chair falling backward, and stormed out of the office. Silence surrounded me, even though I wasn’t alone. But I couldn’t look at either of the two men still in the room, shame keeping my chin dropped and my gaze on my lap.

“I’ll leave the rest to you,” Leo said to Steve before he made his exit.

“You will fly out with the team in the morning, and then a car will escort you to the appointment. You’ll stay there while they run tests, and once we have the results, we’ll inform you of the team’s decision.”

“Don’t you guys have to talk about it first?” I asked, finally making eye contact with him.

He solemnly shook his head. “We’ve already discussed the options. Which one we choose will depend on how much damage you’ve caused by not speaking up and waiting so long to do anything about it—not to mention, seeking the help of a doctor who might not have had our best interests at heart.”

“How did you guys find out?” Out of everything, that seemed to be the one thing I couldn’t wrap my mind around. Anytime I was in Dr. Chen’s office, no one else was there. No one could’ve possibly seen me come or go through the private entrance, and the appointments had been made under Ellie’s name.

“We’ve already told you…someone brought it to our attention.”

I refused to believe it was Ellie. I knew if she were backed into a corner and it was for my benefit, then she would have. But she didn’t have a reason to go that far. I hadn’t even told her about the most recent setback. I’d lied about why I’d been benched, saying they were giving the new guy a chance to prove himself on the mound while I continued to recover.

“Who?” I begged. “At least give me that much. You guys got your chance at confronting me, can’t I get the same? Don’t I have that right, too?”

I could tell that if it were up to Steve, he’d give me answers, but it was just as obvious he didn’t have the freedom to do so. “Some ex-ballplayer with a vendetta against you, it seems.” And with that, he left the office, as well.

And then I was utterly alone.

* * *

I didn’t get any sleep last night, unable to let my mind rest long enough to submit to unconsciousness. And as soon as the plane touched down in Arizona, they carted me off with Steve as my chaperone.

Test after test was performed, separated by long bouts of waiting. Shots of burning pain radiated down my left arm, reminding me of why I was here—in case I’d forgotten. The longer we sat, the worse it got until my fingertips grew numb.

Even when the results were in, I did nothing but wait. Although now, it wasn’t for another test, but for my fate. I felt doomed either way. In the off chance they’d decide to keep me on the roster, it wouldn’t come without punishment. Regardless, my career would be over by the end of my contract. No team would want me—especially after the stunt I’d pulled.

Steve came back into the room just as he disconnected a call on his cell. He had no doctors or nurses with him, just himself with a somber expression on his face.

Too much damage.

It could be permanent if you don’t stop.

Another surgery won’t help.

Your career is over.

That was all I’d been able to retain from everything Steve had said. Apparently, when throwing that last ball, I’d stretched the nerves too far, and they were dangerously close to snapping. Surgery was out of the question, considering how much damage had already been done, and I was left to let it heal on its own, but my time on the mound had come to a close.

Feeling down, angry, and cheated, I called for a taxi to take me from the hotel to a bar down the street. I just wanted to drink it all away. So as soon as I settled onto a stool at the end, I ordered a Crown and waited for it to numb the rest of my body.

Across from me, I couldn’t help but notice a redhead and wondered if tonight was the night I’d finally make it past third base. But before I gave that any more thought, I glanced at the two men next to her, questioning if they had come together. Not that hitting on another man’s woman could’ve possibly made my day any worse.

The guy on the end turned his attention my way and then nudged his friend. It wasn’t a crowded bar, like the ones I was used to, so I was able to hear him when he said, “Dan”—or “man,” I wasn’t sure—“do you have any idea who that is?”