Memory foam. That’s the first thing that pops into my head when I blink away the sleep that has crusted up in the corners of my eyes. Freaking memory foam that cradles my aching body, plummeting me into the deepest sleep I’ve had in years.
Fucking Anniston and her ridiculous self-help ideas. Try these kale smoothies, I hear they are wonderful for the immune system. That may be true, but without sugar and a whole bunch of other ingredients mixed in, they taste like puke. Really. But memory foam? That is the shit right there. Who would have thought that a piece of packing material would have me in dreamland for eight solid hours?
Like a turtle that has toppled over, I roll ungracefully to the edge of the bed and push myself into a seated position. I learned pretty quick that my ab muscles do not appreciate being utilized this soon after surgery. Stabbing sensations of pain won’t hesitate to chop into my right side if I do as much as a sit-up. Yeah, I tried. I know. That mistake nearly had me breaking down and begging Ans for a pain pill last night.
However, there was no need when she slid under the covers next to me, her warm breath blanketing my face as she kissed the aches away. I don’t think she has ever nursed me like she did last night. Something’s changed, and don’t think I won’t exploit the hell out of the situation and use it to my advantage.
The stitches pull and tug against the fresh scar, the pain localized now from radiating over my entire stomach to this new raw, angry mark. I don’t think I have ever felt pain like that before.
At first, I thought it was the Thai food Brody and I had for lunch but when the pain started to seize my breath, I knew something was really wrong. I tried to work through the pain, something you’re taught in college ball. If you want to make it in the pro-business then you play through pain. Being on the disabled list gets you a one-way ticket to the minors, something I don’t want to do again. Don’t get me wrong, I would love a career change but not at the expense of a demotion. If I’m going to leave the MLB, it’s going to be on my terms.
So, as the searing pain radiated up my right side all I could think as I stood on the mound was: three strikes. I needed three strikes to get to the dugout and some Pepto.
Those three strikes never left my hand. The wild pitch, which still has me pissed off, was my last coherent moment until they pumped IV pain meds into me. Then, I remember feeling scared.
I never go to the doctor without Ans. She is always my “bad cop” when they want me to try a new med instead of giving an injury time to heal on its own. Ans is more of a conservative doctor. She will try meds, but usually she will try holistic medicine before pumping me full of chemicals. So, when my stretcher was being maneuvered through the operating room without her, I freaked. Full-out freak mode. It was not pretty and if we are being honest here, slightly embarrassing now that I think about it.
I was pushed down, my hands restrained as a nurse tried to soothe me into relaxing. I fought and pleaded for them to wait for her but the words “emergent” were on everyone’s lips as a doctor pushed something into my IV, rendering me unconscious.
I had only been conscious for a little while before my girl barreled through the door with Cade’s ugly mug hot on her heels. Relief just didn’t cover the feeling. Even with my brother and parents huddled around me, I still needed her. And by the look on her face as she took in my disheveled state, she needed me, too.
The pain doesn’t feel too bad as I try rolling my shoulders, stretching the neglected muscles there. When shooting pain remains dormant, I continue to stretch, pleased with my recovery. The doc said I should be up and around in a couple days. I’m an overachiever so I’m guessing about one will do the trick.
Ans’ side of the bed is made up, having left earlier this morning. She’s usually an early bird, getting up with the guys at five a.m., killing them slowly through horrific training regimes.
I take in her room, neat and tidy, just like her. Her shoes aren’t strewn across the floor like mine are at the penthouse. Her clean clothes are hung, unlike mine that stay folded in the chair until I wear them again. The sheets on her bed smell like fabric softener, not sweat and deodorant like mine do.
Ans has tried for years to convince me to hire a housekeeper but I couldn’t. Truth is, if I let it go long enough, it will drive her mad and she’ll come clean it while I’m away at games.
Nothing feels better when coming back to a cold, empty apartment than lying on sheets that smell like her. Or finding my clothes that have been washed, ironed, and hung neatly in my closet with a note on the door that says, You’re welcome, pig.
Yeah, I’ll pass on the housekeeper. It may seem shitty of me but the desperation for having this girl in my life is real. I never stay there much anyway. I would much rather be here, junking up her room.
Like a new fawn, I force my way to the bathroom with only a few stumbles. I’m rather relieved Ans isn’t here to see this show of weakness. She’d be all over it.
After handling my morning business, I slowly ease down the stairs to the kitchen where I hope a hot little blonde has left me some feel-better pancakes with a side of bacon.
“What are you doing up? Commander left orders for you to rest.” Like there’s a bad taste in my mouth, I scrunch my lips at Cade, who stands with his hip against the counter, staring at me over the rim of his coffee cup like he owns the place.
Careful not to stumble in his presence, I grab my own cup.
“You see, Cade, the difference between you and me is that I don’t take orders from,” I make air quotes with my fingers, “Commander.” I grin, rather pleased with my dig at Cade.
He shrugs and concentrates on taking a slow sip of his coffee. “Hayes caught sight of Lou last night, in front of the house.”
I whip my gaze to him, in shock that he is just now disclosing this piece of information.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” I move closer to him before I realize what I’m doing and take a healthy step back at his daring expression.
He cuts me an annoyed look like I should be ashamed for asking such a stupid question. Right. I was out of it with the surgery and all.
Still.
Not wanting to fight with him, I pull open the fridge, scouring the inside for my homemade buttermilk pancakes. With my head still in the fridge, I continue with my debriefing. “Are you sure it was Lou? It could have been paparazzi or something.”
It’s not like a celebrity, aka moi is here rehabbing from a brush with death. Okay, maybe not a brush with death but a serious injury that required surgery and my own personal physician to rehab me.
It’s not out of the question that paparazzi could be lurking in the bushes, waiting to snap a picture of my pretty face. Just because it hasn’t happened here doesn’t mean it can’t. Let’s not narrow our scope.
After coming up empty-handed, I shut the fridge, my expectant gaze on Cade. His asshole grin says all I need to know. It wasn’t paparazzi.
Ooo-kay. Fuck you very much. It could happen.
“What’s for breakfast?” I ask on a huff of annoyance. I’m desperate, okay? Hospital food tasted of cardboard and that clear liquid diet is for the birds. I want food. I want meat. I want some damn calories! And if I have to come down from my high horse and beg—eh, maybe not beg—ask Cade for some food, then I will. We all make sacrifices.
Cade makes this amused sound in his throat like he knows something I don’t. He strides over, reaching behind me into the fridge and drops a small container with a note attached to my waiting hands. I stare down at it, confused, before I raise my gaze to his vicious smile. Something like fear squeezes my insides. Suddenly, I’m not so hungry anymore. Taking my sweet time, I unfold the note.
Theo- Clear solids for today. I better not catch you on your feet!
XOXO
A.
I scoff so Cade doesn’t sense fear in the air. “She’s ridiculous. Where’s the food?”
His eyebrows are tented high as an arrogant smile pulls at his lips. “I told you, you had orders.”
I’m clenching the snack-sized Jello in my hand, debating if I should throw a fastball or a change-up at Cade’s stupid face, when I hear keys jingle in the front door.
“She’s due back any second from the store,” he says smugly, taking another small sip of his coffee.
Let’s get one thing straight, the reason I launch clear across the room and hurl myself over the back of the sofa is not because I’m scared. No. I merely decide to take all the advice handed down and stay off my feet. You know, before the door opens. Before Anniston walks in with her arms full of groceries. Before Cade doubles over laughing.
“Theo…” she trails off, suspicious. Her eyes dart between Cade and me, attempting to figure out what the hell was just going on as she blows a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes.
Snorts and heaving, broken cackles echo from across the room. Someone found his humor this morning. Fucker.
My stitches pull in a burning flame of oh-my-that-was-not-a-good-idea as I try and fail to find a comfortable position. I remain stoic, plastering a fake smile on my face to lead one Anniston McCallister on a journey full of deceit.
“Dr. McCallister.” I push out a cocky lip tip, trying my best to ignore the snorting pig, aka Cade, in the kitchen. It wasn’t that funny. Doesn’t he have a toilet to go clean?
Anniston, not the idiot I would like her to be right now, cocks a hip, eyeing me warily.
I will not show fear. I will not show fear.
Cade, who seems to have gotten himself under control, approaches, taking the bags from her straining arms. His eyes are red and glassy as he sniffles back a laugh, cutting his eyes at me before smothering another.
“Thanks, Gorgeous.” Her smile is genuine as she smoothes her palm down his arm in a thoughtful gesture. “What have you boys been up to?”
Trailing behind Cade, she turns back, her eyes narrowing to slits as she tries to extract the truth with her voodoo.
I blink. Lies are just not coming as fast as they usually do. What the fuck did they give me in the hospital?
Never the loser, though, I dig deep into my vast vault of sarcasm, popping off with the first thing that comes to mind. “Just shooting the shit. Cade keeps trying to convince me to watch The Bachelorette with him, but I don’t know…I mean, how good can it be with a bunch of dudes sitting around, holding each other’s dicks, crying into their wine while singing Disney show tunes? I’m sure some snooty, aristocrat wannabe will break each of their little hearts, one by one.”
Something crashes in the kitchen. Now, I can’t be sure what it was exactly, but the thought that I might have gotten under Cade’s skin makes me immensely happy.
Anniston starts to cough, turning away from Cade so he doesn’t see the moisture bead up in her eyes. Her shoulders are shaking as she holds in silent laughter. When she finally reigns it in and faces me, I give her a little wink. And she loses it. Tears fall freely as she doubles over, burying her face in her shirt, unladylike snorts wracking her tiny frame.
“I…I’m…” Laugh. “S-S-Sorry.” Another laugh. “Cade.” She sucks in a breath, seriously trying to get her act together and not offend Mr. Broody in the kitchen.
“Theo!” she scolds, but her chastising has no effect on me since her face is still screwed up in a smile that says she very much enjoyed the joke at Cade’s expense. “Cade does not watch The Bachelorette.”
I shrug like I don’t care either way. “That’s not what he says.” Total lie, but the cabinets slamming in the next room just egg me on.
“Anyway. What’s this bullshit about clear food? Have I not suffered enough?”
Anniston comes over and sits beside me, pulling my legs on top of hers. “I wanted to be sure you still weren’t nauseated.”
I look at her like that is the most ridiculous statement I have ever heard come out of her mouth. Even when I was nauseated, which lasted a day, FYI, I still would rather have something substantial to puke up instead of looking like a leprechaun spewing the colors of the different Jellos I’ve been forced to eat for the past twenty-four hours.
She laughs off my scathing look. “I’ll fix you something. What do you want?”
I don’t even take a breath before I blurt out, “Pancakes.”
She chuckles, not surprised with my request. Every single time I can indulge on my diet, I go for pancakes, no matter what time of day.
“Pancakes it is. You gonna sit here while I make them?”
I roll over ideas about what I’m in the mood to do. TV seems like a bore after being cooped up in a hospital bed. I could read, but that sounds too much like work.
“Ugh, I don’t know. I guess so.”
I’m out of ideas. I can’t physically do anything fun, but sitting here much longer will have me crawling out of my skin.
The guys start piling into the kitchen with Anniston’s obvious mixing and frying pan clanking sounds. The cabinet doors slamming is their personal alarm for “food’s here.”
“Hey, sweet thing, is this seat taken?” I choke at Hayes’ joke. He snatches my legs off the sofa, making room for himself.
“You could have pulled my stitches.” I place my hand to the bandage on my side, faking pain.
He snorts. “I knew you were a little bitch. Is your hand messed up, too? Is that going to be the excuse you use when I whip your ass in Call of Duty?”
Oh, he’s got threats today. I’m game.
“Ha! When I wipe the smirk off that dick garage of yours, the only thing you’ll be excusing is your slow-ass response time when I massacre your entire team.”
Hayes grabs the controllers and boots up the game system. “Cocky. Let’s see what you got, pretty boy.”
He tosses me a controller and we waste the next twenty minutes until my pancakes are ready playing with the sole intent to kill and belittle each other.
Anniston and I are lounging on the back deck, the sun warming our faces. Cade and the guys jumped into action after we ate, saying something about target practice. Anniston convinced me that some vitamin D would be good since I’ve been cooped up in the house driving her crazy with requests for blow jobs to help speed up my recovery. She didn’t agree with my methods of healing, so here I am, sunbathing like a bitch.
We’re half watching the guys roll into the barn, doing who knows what before running out, falling into a crouch and firing off a rifle into bales of hay. It looks terribly hot and laborious.
Yeah, no thanks. With Georgia’s humidity, it probably feels like 104 in that barn. Not to mention all that running.
Anniston’s eyes have drifted shut. She looks beat. I didn’t hear if she got up with Cade last night, as I slept like the dead.
“You tired?” I know, I should let her sleep but she really isn’t sleeping per se. She will tell you she’s just resting her eyes.
“A little.” She lifts slightly from the cushioned deck chair, leaning toward me, and gives me a slow smile. “Why, is that your subtle way of telling me I look like shit?”
I snort. Literally snort. “No!” I’m no fool. I would never hint of such a thing. Every guy knows that rule. “No, I was just wondering if something was keeping you from resting? Is it me?”
She’s quick to put out my concerns. “No, no. Never. I’ve just got something on my mind.”
“Oh, yeah? Care to share? I can be like girly Cade and pretend to listen while we do nails.”
“Theo!” She lightly punches my arm. Her giggle after it tells me she doesn’t take my jabs at Cade seriously. “It’s nothing. Just something Mason told me.”
Now, that perks my interest. I don’t know much about him. Well, I don’t know much about the others either, but I at least have an idea.
“Mason? I thought he didn’t talk much?”
“He doesn’t but he confided in me a little last night. He couldn’t sleep.”
Does that tidbit make me slightly jealous? Yes, I think it does. Selfishly, I wanted her to focus only on me, but I know helping these guys overcome their demons and become functioning citizens again is her calling and all. But still… I can only behave for so long.
“And… What did he say?”
Why the big secret? She always tells me stuff. Why keep this from me?
She chews her lip a little, looking up at me with a guilty expression. “I’ll tell you later. I want to wrap my head around it a little more.”
Fine. If that’s how she’s going to be. I shrug, like I don’t give a fuck either way. I don’t really care what’s going on with Mason but I do care that she’s keeping secrets. I don’t like that at all.
To ease the tension that has seized my muscles, I look out over the green pastures, spotting Cade screaming at Hayes to pick up the gun. I’m on my feet in an instant.
“What’s he doing to Hayes?” I’m defensive. I don’t know much about Hayes but I do know he’s a good guy. I can’t imagine him doing anything to deserve being yelled at like Cade is now.
Anniston stands up beside me, shading her eyes to see where I’m looking. “Oh.”
“Oh?” I repeat. What the fuck is oh for an answer?
“He’s trying to get Hayes to overcome his fear of guns. He was a sniper in the Marines.”
That makes absolutely no sense. He’s scared, but he handled one for years? “Explain, please. That makes it sound like Hayes is a crazy.”
Anniston sighs, turning away from the guys. Is it hard for her to watch Cade scream at him, too? She sits, patting the spot next to her. “Has Hayes ever told you why he was homeless?”
I shake my head. We don’t talk about that shit. Usually, if I want to know something, I grill Cade until he breaks and tells me just to get me to shut up. I know Hayes was in the military and homeless. All Cade said was that he made a hard decision and now lives with the consequences. I didn’t care at the time, so I moved on.
“Hayes was the top sharpshooter in his class. He was whisked off to duty soon after he graduated high school. His older sister confided in him through letters that she was in an abusive relationship and didn’t know how to get out. Hayes went wild, went AWOL and returned home. He confronted the boyfriend and packed his sister’s stuff. When they went to leave, the guy grabbed Hayes’ sister, started choking her right there in front of him, saying the only way she was leaving was in a body bag. Hayes pulled his weapon. Told him to let her go and then…he shot. Killed him with a single shot to the head. The neighbors heard the gun go off and called the police.”
My head is swimming with this information. Hayes killed someone? That’s pretty fucking awesome. Go Hayes. If that were Ans, I would have popped his ass, too.
“He served ten years. He was eighteen years old.”
“So, he got out and had no home? Where’s the sister?”
Ans shakes her head. “I don’t know. He won’t say. Maybe he’s ashamed and doesn’t want to face her or something.” She shrugs, unsure. “But, he won’t touch a gun. He shakes and it’s almost like PTSD when he gets close to one. Cade’s been helping him at his request. Hayes wants to hold one again but it’s like his body physically recoils when he sees a gun. Some days, Cade tries being comforting and other days he’s his commanding officer. So far, neither work.”
I nod and stand, checking on them. Cade is still barking in his ear. After the story I just heard, I am in no mood to continue to watch this.
“I want to play Call of Duty again. I’m going to get Hayes. You don’t mind, right, Commander?”
She sees through my bullshit, knows I feel sorry for him. The question is, will she call me out on it?
She eyes me suspiciously. “I guess so. Tell Cade I said it’s okay.”
With a terse chin jerk, I head slowly down the steps. I don’t look back to see the stupid smile I bet she has plastered on her face. I did not just grow a fucking heart for these guys.