Hardball (16 page)

“It’s okay,” Holly said, trying not to sound upset. “It’s good you told me. I just have to hope and pray it really is just a rumor.”

“For sure. Jake and I would be devastated to see Nate go, too. Hell, the whole city would be in an uproar. Philadelphia hasn’t had a superstar like Nate for years.”

Holly didn’t know yet how she was going to deal with this disturbing information, but there was no point dwelling on it right now. She’d just compartmentalize the information and its attendant emotions—a trick every surgeon had to learn—until she figured out how to broach the topic with Nate.

She switched their talk to innocuous topics as they watched the Patriots go down one-two-three in the bottom of the seventh. Jake charged out of the dugout, leading the team back out for the top of the eighth. Nate jogged slowly out to the mound, head down, looking totally focused. After about a dozen warm-up pitches, he set himself for the first pitch to the Cards’ leadoff hitter.

From where Holly sat, it looked like the blazing pitch had hit the inside corner of the plate, but the umpire called it a ball. She’d learned more about baseball in the past ten days than she had known in her previous thirty-one years, and she couldn’t believe it. “That sure looked like it caught the corner to me,” she said to Maddie as she watched Nate give the umpire a disbelieving smile.

Maddie, the consummate sports writer, laughed. “There’s no point even questioning an umpire’s calls.” She pointed at Nate. “Believe me, if our boy thought that pitch really was a strike, he’d been staring daggers at the ump.”

“You’re right. Sorry,” Holly said. “I think I’m getting a little too interested in this silly game.”

In truth, though, she really wasn’t concentrating that much on the game. Mostly, she was trying
not
to think about the trade rumor and what it might mean for her and Nate.

Stop being a jerk, Holly. He’s got to think first about his own career.

Exactly like she would.

Nate wound up for his second pitch. As the ball left his hand, his momentum carried him off the mound to his right. The Cardinals’ hitter, a huge right-handed batter, swung hard and the ball took off like a bullet.

Nate had no chance to react. The ball was hit with tremendous force, and he was still off balance from his throw. The hard sphere thudded into his left shoulder. He crumpled onto the infield grass as if he’d been shot.

Holly shrieked and jumped to her feet, her heart pounding. Nate lay on the grass, barely moving, obviously stunned by the brutal force of the impact. She had seen exactly where the ball crashed into his shoulder, and knew that pain would be flooding from his shoulder to his collarbone and all the way down to the fingers of his left hand. It would be excruciating in its intensity.

She grabbed Maddie’s hand and helped her up. “God, I think he’s really hurt. How can I get down onto the field? I need to get down there!” She was practically breathless with anxiety.

Maddie pulled her close, trying to calm her. “You can’t go on the field. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking he needs a doctor! He needs me!” Holly started to tremble. Didn’t Maddie realize how serious this injury could be?

“He’ll have a doctor. The trainers will take him into the clubhouse, and the team doctor will see him there. Then they’ll probably get an ambulance to take him to the hospital for x-rays, or maybe even an MRI. I can call down to the clubhouse in a few minutes and find out what’s going on. If they take him to the hospital, you can go see him there.”

Holly gripped Maddie’s arm, squeezing tightly. “If his shoulder is shattered, do you realize what that would mean?”

Maddie covered Holly’s clutching hand with a soothing clasp. “I think so. I’ve seen thousands of baseball injuries. But let’s stay optimistic. Pitchers take hard line drives off their bodies all the time. It usually doesn’t turn out as badly as it first looks. Especially with a guy like Nate. There’s no pitcher in better shape or stronger than he is.”

Holly wasn’t the slightest bit convinced. Maddie knew baseball, but she knew anatomy. And she knew all too well what a rocketing projectile can do to flesh and bone that get in its path. “God, I hope you’re right.”

Please let it be just a bone bruise
.

That would be bad enough. But she feared it could be much worse. And she already learned enough about Nate Carter to know that a career-ending injury could destroy him.

Nate had barely glimpsed the ball before it knocked him on his ass. For just a split second, his head was turned away from the plate as the momentum of his delivery carried him almost off the mound. Then he heard two almost simultaneous noises. First, the crack of the bat, so loud it seemed to be right in his ear. And second, the sickening thud of the ball smashing into his left shoulder.

Instantaneous pain overwhelmed him, and he collapsed onto the infield grass.

Jake was the first to reach his side, then the catcher and the third baseman. Maybe two seconds later, the two trainers were on their knees, leaning over him, and then the manager. Jake shooed the other fielders back to give him room.

Nate groaned as Jed Jones, head trainer, gingerly touched the throbbing shoulder. The other trainer yelled across the diamond for the stretcher. Suddenly, Nate’s face was in full shade as the umpire’s rotund figure hovered near him, blocking the sunlight.

He gritted his teeth. Sweating and flushed, he just wanted to get off the field before he had to cry out with the pain and embarrass himself in front of his teammates and forty thousand fans. It took forever to get him onto the stretcher, or at least it seemed that long. Jake’s calm voice kept telling him to breathe deeply, and that everything would be all right. His friend’s steady reassurance helped him keep it together.

But by the time they got him into the clubhouse, the pain had become so gut-wrenching that Nate’s vision started to blur. He still wanted to scream, but vowed he’d die first. As soon as the trainers had lowered him gently onto an examining table, the team doctor, Joe Morehouse, palpated the shoulder and collarbone with probing fingers. Nate groaned and glared at the doctor.

After a whispered conference with the doctor, the paramedics lifted him onto the gurney and strapped him down at the waist and thighs. Morehouse pulled a vial and syringe out of his bag, pushed Nate’s undershirt up a couple of inches, and injected something into his upper right arm. Nate hoped to God it was a big-time painkiller.

The trip to St. Luke’s Hospital seemed really fast, but by then he’d lost track of time. Whatever the doctor gave him had dulled the pain and made him dozy. Even the incessant noise of the ER made little impression.

The x-rays didn’t take long, whether because he was getting priority treatment or because the injury was so bad, he couldn’t tell. But even doped up, shifting his body around for the technicians hurt like hell. When they were finally finished, he collapsed on the gurney with gut-wrenching relief as a porter wheeled him to a bed in the urgent care section. Exhausted by the pain and the drugs, he’d almost fallen asleep when Morehouse pulled back the curtain and stepped in, x-ray films in hand.

“You’re in luck,” the doctor said. “No fractures. You’ve got yourself a hell of a deep bone bruise, but no breaks, so no surgery. You should be able to pitch again in a few weeks.”

In luck? Nate’s shoulder felt like a cannonball had smacked into it. “I’m not feeling all that lucky right now. And exactly how many weeks is a few?”

Morehouse shook his head. “You know that’s impossible to tell. You need to give it a good rest, and see how it goes. We’ll get you into the aquatherapy pool as soon as you’re up to it. That speeds up the healing.”

Frustration clawed its way past the fuzzy feeling in Nate’s head. “Damn. I was having my best season, and now it’s probably down the tubes. And the team’s going to lose me for what…at least six or seven starts?”

He sure wasn’t about to say it, but he also couldn’t help thinking how the Dodgers would react to the news of his injury. It obviously wasn’t career-ending, but they wouldn’t be happy. His trade value, and his contract leverage, had probably taken a hit along with his shoulder.

“Well, stewing about it is not going to help it heal any faster,” the doctor said. “I don’t think it’s all that grim. You could be back in a month. Maybe even less if you’re disciplined about the rehab.”

Fuck.
A month. Practically a lifetime in a baseball season. “What else can I do to speed it along?”

“Just do your physio religiously, get lots of rest, try to eat clean. You know what to do. You’ll have to wear a sling for a few days. I’ll give you a prescription to help with the pain. And there’ll be lots of pain at the start, so make sure you take what I prescribe.”

“Great,” Nate said grimly. “In that case, some more of that stuff you gave me in the clubhouse would be appreciated.” Not that there was much chance he’d get more of the high-octane painkiller Morehouse reserved for special occasions. And Nate didn’t want to mess with that stuff in the longer term, anyway.

“You’ll get what you need. Look, I’m going to head back now and report to the GM. Somebody will be here in a few minutes to tape the shoulder and fit you with the sling. Then you’ll be able to go.”

Nate sighed and held out his right hand for Morehouse to shake. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate everything you’ve done,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it.

* * *

Holly raced up Broad Street, pushing her luck with more than one traffic light. Maddie had heard from the clubhouse that Nate had been taken to St. Luke’s for x-rays. She’d told Holly to go without her, since she wanted to wait for Jake.

At the ER, Holly bent the truth and presented herself as Nate’s personal physician. She knew it was the only way they were going to let a non-family member in to see him. Besides, it wasn’t a huge lie. After all, she’d be taking care of Nate now, more involved in his recovery than his actual doctor. Fortunately, she must have looked imperious enough that the clerk believed her.

Holly took directions from a nurse and headed through the trauma center. A middle-aged man in a golf shirt, medical bag in hand, had just emerged from the closed curtains surrounding the bed number she’d been given. She gave him a warm smile.

“The films showed nothing broken. I’m pretty sure it’s a deep bone bruise. I don’t see any reason for an MRI yet. Maybe in a couple of days if the pain is worse even after the anti-inflammatories kick in.”

Holly would have sent Nate straight to the imaging department, but she knew it was useless to argue with the team doctor. “I couldn’t believe how hard that ball was hit. I’m worried about a glenoid labrum tear. Or worse.”

“It’s obviously possible, but I doubt it. I’ve seen hundreds of these injuries,” Morehouse said, a little crustily. Holly held back a resigned sigh at her dubious talent for pissing off older male doctors.

“If his shoulder doesn’t start to improve in a few days, we’ll do an MRI and refer him to a surgeon. If necessary,” Morehouse added in an end-of-the-discussion voice.

Semi-satisfied, Holly shook his hand again and headed toward Nate’s bed. Parting the closed curtains, she slipped inside. Nate had dozed off. She leaned over the side of the bed and brushed a feathery kiss on his pale, damp forehead. As his eyes cracked open, he broke into a sleepy grin. Her knees went weak with relief that he seemed at least marginally okay.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured.

“Great job stopping that line drive with your shoulder, tiger.” She kissed his forehead again, and then his ear and his stubbled cheek. “At least you didn’t do it with your forehead.”

He chuckled, then winced. “I thought I made a good play. The ball didn’t get through to the outfield.”

“Right. But unfortunately the batter was safe at first.”

“Yeah. Stinks, doesn’t it. You’d think that for all this pain we could at least have made the out. I really hate giving up cheap hits.”

“I ran into the team doctor in the hall. It doesn’t look like it’s as bad as I feared it could be,” she said, sitting gingerly on the bed and resting her hand on his thigh.

Nate grimaced. “It’s bad enough. He says I’ll be out for a month. I’m not dead, but it’s a bitch for the team. And for me.”

Holly nodded. “I know, sweetheart, but don’t forget you’ve got me to help you. You’ve got your own private and very personal physician now.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “As soon as they tape up this shoulder we can go play doctor—in private, and very personally.” This time his sleepy grin was lecherous.

She poked him on his good arm. “I don’t think there’s much wrong with you after all, Mr. One-Track-Mind.”

He reached up, curling his good hand behind her head to bring her close, kissing her deeply, his tongue slipping easily into her mouth. A shimmering heat flushed her skin and sank low in her belly.

She broke away with a gasp and slid off the bed. “For God’s sake, Carter! You’re supposed to be resting, not making out.”