High Heat (Hard Hitters #1) (19 page)

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Tom tried to keep his mind a blank, to ignore the fear eating at him. The pain wasn’t that bad. He’d endured pain lots of times, through injuries big and small, after surgery, through a year and a half of grueling rehab.

But fear, on the other hand. Fear ate at you, and for what? Fear wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t make bad news into good news. It was a waste of time.

God almighty, what if he’d torn the ligament again?

Tom was an optimistic guy. Hell, he’d laughed in everyone’s faces when they told him he might not make it back, or that he’d be a shadow of the player he’d been. But even his optimism couldn’t stand up to a second UCL tear. He knew as well as anyone that the recovery rates for a second tear sucked.

He sat on a massage table with his eyes closed, trying not to think, trying not to feel the dull ache that focused on his elbow and radiated down his forearm. Around him, a low buzz of concerned voices rose and fell. No one spoke directly to him.

None of them knew him well, and they probably figured steering clear was the safest course.

Unfortunately, that left him alone with his thoughts until the doc arrived.

Dammit. He wished he could talk to Sarah, if only for a moment. Even if she smacked him in the face and said, “I told you so,” he wanted to see her anyway. Everybody knew this sucked, but she was the only person on this planet who understood how bone-deep devastated he would be by this.

There was a lot to be said for being around someone who understood you. A lot to be said for not having to explain yourself all the time.

Not to mention, there was a lot to be said for a woman who gave you good advice, if you weren’t too stupid to take it.

The door to the examining room opened and the White Sox doc walked in with a couple of front office people and Paul, saving him from that uncomfortable train of thought.

Paul wasn’t the Dudley he most wanted to see right now, but at least he was a familiar face.

Paul braced his hands on his hips, his brows furrowed. “Tom, how you doing? You want some ice and Advil?” Ice and Advil, every baseball player’s first-line remedy for soreness.

He shook his head. “I’d rather get the exam over with.”

He nodded. “You remember Dr. MacKenzie, right?”

Tom smiled, a rueful twist of the lips. “How could I forget? You gave me the all clear to go back to the majors this morning.”

The genial black man had a smile that normally burned at one thousand watts, but he didn’t look quite so happy now. He shook his head. “What have you managed to do to yourself, Tom?”

Tom shrugged, knowing it was meant kindly. “Think I fucked up my arm, doc.”

“I think you did too, Tom. At least that’s my professional diagnosis at this point.”

Tom laughed despite himself, the back and forth easing the anxiety gnawing at him.

He extended his arm and submitted to the doc’s poking and prodding, stretching and flexing his arm on command, wincing when something made the pain worse.

“We’re going to have to do an ultrasound to know for sure whether the ligament is torn.”

He looked at Paul, who grimaced. “The nearest facility for ultrasounds is in Louisville. I’ll call and let them know we’re coming.”

Dr. MacKenzie nodded. “Then let’s hit the road. We’ll have to ice it up for the trip.”

Paul disappeared for a few minutes, and Tom went to the clubhouse to change into his street clothes. He returned to the training room, where Paul had summoned a trainer. While the kid did his work, packing Tom’s arm in bags of ice secured with gauze and tape, Paul cleared the room of everybody except himself, the trainer, and Tom.

No one spoke. As the trainer finished up, Paul sat at one end of the examining table, checking scores on his phone.

“We used to be pretty good friends in college, huh?” Tom didn’t know where that had come from, but it was out before he could think about it.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Paul put his phone away. “Still would be, if Susan weren’t on my ass about it twenty-four seven.” He smiled ruefully. “Actually, she’s gone soft on you since you and Sarah started dating. Figures if you’re safely in a committed relationship, you won’t be leading me astray.”

“Dude, I don’t want to go all Dr. Phil on you, but I think she might have trust issues.”

“Yeah, you think?”

“She’s not the only one either.”

“What do you mean?” Paul asked.

“Sarah.” He grunted as the trainer kid pulled particularly hard on a strip of gauze and shot him an apologetic glance. “It’s okay.” He waited until the trainer finished and left, and then eased off of the table. “She was at my house when Christina Caputo showed up and got the wrong idea.”

“Damn, you were still seeing her while you were messing with my sister?” Paul’s face darkened and he took a step forward.

“Hey, back off! Would you beat up an injured man?” Tom was about five seconds away from getting his second injury of the night. “I’m not messing with her. Christina’s got a lot of problems and she kept calling me, even after we broke up. I felt sorry for her, I guess.”

“You led her on?”

“No! At least, not intentionally. I told her a dozen times we were never going to get back together.” Still, he’d rolled his eyes and hadn’t taken her seriously. Not taken her pain seriously.

“But you kept taking the calls.”

“Yeah. I guess that was all the encouragement she needed. Anyway, Sarah showed up and she was upset because your dad fined us, and then Christina showed up.” He rubbed his chin. Why was he even getting into this with Paul? What a first-class clusterfuck his life had become.

“I want you to know I tried to veto that, but my dad, well, he’s set in his ways.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” He leaned back against the table. “Did you check the game on your phone? How’s the bullpen holding up?”

“Going all right. Villanueva got the next two batters out.”

“That’s good.” At least tonight wasn’t a total disaster.

“Hey, Sarah’s waiting out in the hall for you. She’s worried about you.”

He looked down at the ice encasing his arm. God. An hour ago, he’d have given his left nut to talk to her, hold her, take her in his arms. Now what?

If his career was over, what did he have to offer her?

Nothing.

He’d be another washed-up pro athlete endorsing diet plans and calling play-by-play on local TV.

What the hell would he be if he wasn’t a big leaguer? He’d never let himself think about it. He’d always figured he’d worry about that after he won his ring. Now, the future didn’t seem that far away.

He looked at Paul. “When did you realize you weren’t going to make it as a player in the bigs?”

Paul didn’t answer right away. He’d probably pissed him off. Good, he was alienating Dudleys left and right. “Never mind. It was a stupid question.”

“No, it’s okay. I was just wondering how to answer.” Paul leaned against the training room door. “The truth is, I never expected to make it to the majors.”

“What?” That got Tom’s attention. “Back then, we used to talk all the time about what we’d do when we made it to the Show.”

“Wine, women, and song. Fancy cars and mansions. It was all going to be ours for the taking.” Paul grinned at the memory. “Well, the dream came true for one of us.”

“Yeah.” The dream had turned out to have its downside, but he’d been too young and dumb to know that back then. “But you never thought you’d make it?”

“Not really. I didn’t have the drive that you did, Tom, or the talent. I knew I had a backup. I had the Dudley legacy waiting for me.”

“Oh, yeah. The Dudley legacy.” Shit.
Legacy.
The word tasted bitter in his mouth. “I’ve been hearing a lot about that lately.”

“Sarah?” Paul asked after a moment.

“Yeah. She’s afraid of giving it a go with me. Afraid of what your dad would think, afraid he’ll fire her and she’ll be left with nothing. No job, no family, no
legacy
.” A relationship with him was nothing, apparently, weighed in the balance of all she stood to lose. Well, hell, who could blame her?

He’d certainly never set the world on fire with his relationship skills before. Why would she want to take a gamble on him? Giving up her family and heritage for a man who probably wouldn’t stick around for a lifetime probably struck her as a bad bet, and she wasn’t the gambling type, anyway.

“From what I’ve seen, Sarah seems to care about you a lot. Were you offering a relationship?”

“Yeah, I guess.” The R word made him want to squirm, but what the hell else did you call it when you cared about someone and wanted to be with them and only them for the long haul?

“Did you cheat on my sister?” Paul’s brows lowered. “With anyone? Because if you did, I don’t care if your arm is in a sling, I’ll kick your ass.”

Tom had to admire the Dudley family loyalty, even if it was a pain sometimes. “No. Not even close. Since I’ve come to Plainview and met Sarah, I haven’t looked twice at another woman.” He hadn’t been attracted to one, hadn’t wanted to sleep with one. She’d occupied him fully, body, mind, and soul. “I can’t ever imagine doing something like that. It would hurt her too much.”

Paul’s glare faded. “Did you make it clear you were offering a relationship?”

“Yeah.” He thought it over, and then exhaled. “I guess so.” Another pause. “Oh, hell. Maybe not. You know how women are. Who knows what they understand and what they don’t?”

“Do me a favor and make that clear to her, okay?” Paul shook his head. “It sounds like you two need to have a talk. If you don’t, I’ll have to deal with her moping around all off-season, and I don’t want to put up with that. She’s been bad enough for the last couple of days.”

“Yeah?” She’d been miserable too? For the first time tonight since he’d felt the pain sear through his forearm during his windup, a whiff of optimism stirred in his soul. “Good.”

The optimism lasted until his gaze fell on the bags of ice strapped to his arm.

Unlike Paul, he’d never had a backup plan for what to do if that big-league career didn’t work out. Maybe it was time for him to do something about that.

***

At the Ladybird Café the next morning, Sarah got an even larger latte than usual. She’d need it. She’d barely slept at all last night, and had risen this morning strung out and exhausted, dreading the day ahead.

Early-morning silent gloom filled the office. A crack of light shone under her office door. Probably the cleaning crew had left the light on.

Last night, she’d called Paul several times. He’d answered the phone once to say they were traveling to Louisville for an ultrasound to confirm the doctor’s suspected diagnosis of a re-tear of the ligament.

She’d been too scared to call Tom. What if he didn’t want to talk to her? She couldn’t stand the pain of that rejection right now.

“I’ll let you know when I know something, Sarah,” Paul said. The worry in his voice had been impossible to miss, and she’d gotten off the phone quickly, before she lost it.

What would Tom do if he had to go through surgery again? Her heart ached for him. Would he even bother, or simply retire on the spot?

What a foolish question. The Tom Cord she knew would struggle to his dying breath to make a comeback and win that World Series ring he wanted so desperately. Probably with the same take-no-prisoners, high-velocity throwing style that had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

“Idiot,” she said as she opened her office door.

“I can’t deny that, but I was hoping for a warmer welcome.”

“Oh my God!” The sight of Tom in her office chair, feet propped up on her desk, sent her heart into her throat. She nearly dropped her latte. She put it on a shelf, hardly aware of what she was doing. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you go to Louisville?”

“I did. The doc did an ultrasound at five
AM
and I was in and out in no time.” His mouth was a line she couldn’t read. Dammit, was it bad news or not?

“What did he say?” She was afraid to draw breath, afraid to move. Oh, crap. All night she’d longed to know what was going on, but now that she was on the verge of finding out, she dreaded his next words.

“He said that I’m an idiot for ignoring warning signs and that I have a hard-throwing, high-velocity style that puts me at risk for injury.” A grin spread across his face. “He also said I have inflammation in my elbow from rehabbing too hard, but I do
not
have a tear in my UCL. A little ice and Tylenol, some rest, and I’ll be good as new.”

“Oh, Tom!” A sob burst out of her and she flew to him. He pulled his feet off the desk and spun to embrace her. Somehow, she wound up in his lap, arms around his neck, kissing him breathless. Tears poured down her face and she let them fall, too happy to worry about it.

In moments, the kiss turned from celebration to passion, his hand sliding up the back of her blouse to smooth across the skin over her spine.

She tore her mouth away and pressed her forehead against his. “I’m so happy. I was so worried when you didn’t see me before you left.” She didn’t want to sound reproachful, but she couldn’t help herself. “I wanted to see you . . . I know baseball means everything to you. I know how awful it would be for you if you couldn’t get that ring.”

“Yeah, about that.” He leaned back in the seat, breaking their close contact. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I had some thinking to do. The drive to Louisville gave me time to go over some things. I didn’t know what the doctor would tell me. I didn’t know if I would ever pitch again.

“But one thing was crystal clear. Whatever my life becomes, whatever it turns into, I need you there with me. That’s what I want, Sarah. I love you. Something about realizing you’re on the verge of losing everything you ever cared about makes things very clear. I realized while I was waiting for that ultrasound that I could live without baseball, but I couldn’t live without you. I love you, more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone.”

Her voice came out shaking. “But I thought you only cared about winning a World Series.”

“I still care about that, but something’s changed in me, Sarah, and you did it. A World Series ring is what I want, but you’re what I
need
.”