Chapter 2

I can do this.

Not that I had a choice. I was the trainer assigned to treat neck and shoulder injuries. And our center fielder had just knocked himself out cold. The catch had been one for the books, but he was known for those plays—the ones ESPN would replay for weeks on end.

The three-and-a-half-foot jump to steal the home run away from the Bandits had been perfect.

Until it had gone horribly sideways.

Or, more accurately, upside down. Seconds after the ball had landed in his glove, the baseball star tipped. His foot had stayed halfway up the wall while the rest of his body headed fast and hard to the ground below.

The way his head bounced and tossed dirt around him would have made even the toughest of souls wince. He might be alert now, but he'd definitely be hurting by morning.

If it had been anyone else, I would have felt bad for the guy. Honestly, I almost felt bad for Mason Dumpty, and that was saying something. Since I'd started working for the Revs, I'd mostly avoided him. The few times we'd almost crossed paths I was able to dodge him, and I still wasn't sure if that left me angry with myself for being a wimp or relieved I didn't have to deal with him.

Maybe both.

I stepped up next to Kyle Bosco, the Revs' right fielder, and nodded to the team's doctor, letting him know I was here. Mason was sitting up, which was a whole lot better than dangling from his cleat. But his brows were pulled together as he scanned the not-so-small crowd that had gathered around him.

"You okay, Humpty?" Bosco asked.

Mason's frown deepened, creating a deep crease between his brows. "Am I Humpty Dumpty?"

Coach Wilson cocked his head to the side, and a few of the players chuckled. But Mason's expression remained confused as he looked past us to the field.

"The king's horses and all his men?" he slurred.

My stomach sank. He was talking nonsense, and that was not a good sign. I looked over my shoulder to see what he was talking about. The Revs mascots, dressed like soldiers on horseback, stood in their normal place along the sidelines. And Beckett Langfield was walking across the grass. When he approached, he pushed his way through the players and stood next to me. The Revs' GM, Cortney Miller, was right behind him.

"The king. We should kneel so the giant behind him doesn't take us out." Mason dropped his hands to the grass and pushed, trying to get up, but the doctor tightened his hold on his right arm and held him in place.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. He thinks Beckett's the king." Coach Wilson chuckled.

"Beckett thinks so too," Cortney muttered. But his expression was one of pure concern as he looked from the doctor to me and then back to Mason.

Mason blinked twice and rubbed his head.

With his hands on his hips, Cortney bent down. "How bad is it?"

Before I could answer, Mason turned to me. His jade green eyes were impossible to forget, even after eleven years. That single look sent a stream of memories whirling in my mind: the intensity flashing in his irises when he was working a puzzle, the spark when he laughed, the desire I thought I'd seen once upon a time.

My stomach flipped as a moment years ago took over. An instant when he pressed his full lips against mine.

Here, now, he ran his tongue over his lower lip and studied me, his gaze drifting from my eyes down to my mouth. The look sent a tingle rushing down my spine. Just like all those years ago, his attention lit me up from the inside out. I'd angled in a fraction before I realized what I was doing.

With a harsh breath in, I pulled back.

Dammit, I couldn't let him have this effect on me.

Not again.

Not after last time.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Mason Dumpty, known to his teammates as Humpty Dumpty—how the hell does a person earn a nickname like that?—was an asshole of epic proportion. Not to mention a member of the team I worked for and likely suffering from a serious concussion.

He should not be turning me on. I gritted my teeth and willed my body to get on board with my brain. Because no part of me liked the center fielder.

"Are you the princess?" Mason asked, focus still fixed on me.

"All right." Dr. Anderson cleared his throat and pushed to his feet. "He's done. We need to get him off the field."

"Done what?" Mason asked, searching the crowd around him again. "What's going on? Are we playing a game?" He dropped his chin, taking in his uniform and glove, and reached into his mitt. "Is this the game ball?"

Even after the fall, he'd miraculously held on to the ball. But that was Mason. He always made those shocking plays. The big saves when the game was on the line. The steal to second at the exact moment the team needed it. It would be a lie to say I hadn't followed his career over the years. He was an incredible ball player.

He held the baseball out to me. When no one stepped in to take it, I accepted it. The people around us were silent. Not one had answered his questions. Not the coach or the GM or the owner of the team. Probably because he wouldn't remember this tomorrow. Hell, he probably wouldn't remember this in ten minutes.

I crouched next to him and sighed. "You hit your head and need to get checked out."

Confusion swam in his eyes as he assessed me. "You'll come?"

"I'll ride along," Dr. Anderson said, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen rapidly, probably getting the ambulance ready.

Coach Wilson waved a hand to the ground crew to bring out the cart.

"Should we be worried?" Beckett asked behind me as Mason continued to stare at me.

"Of course we should," Cortney said.

Mason finally looked away from me and focused on the blond giant.

"His brain is probably bleeding, or he might have cracked his skull. He'll need a CT with contrast, an MRI of his neck and shoulders…"

Mason's eyes got wider and wider as Cortney went on.

"Let's not panic yet," I said, cutting the spiral of thoughts known to come from our general manager. It would only make matters worse if the GM sent Mason into panic mode too.

"Let's not say too much until we have some firm answers," Dr. Anderson agreed as the cart rolled to a stop and the rest of the team stepped back.

"Yeah, don't panic." Beckett, arms crossed over his chest, glared at his GM.

"Let's get the game going again. And you two." Dr. Anderson waved at the owner and the GM. "Go deal with the press. The last thing we want is them chasing the ambulance for a statement. Get the PR team to put something out there like ‘heading to hospital. Condition stable but unknown.'"

Chuckles echoed around me. Stable? That remained to be seen, but unknown seemed to fit.

"Are we going to the castle now?" Mason asked. "Is this a chariot?" He homed in on the glorified golf cart we'd use to get him off the field.

"Yep, sure is." I nodded and shot him a pacifying smile as I stood up so the guys could move Mason onto the back of the cart.

Two men helped him to his feet and kept him steady. All the while, he was watching me, his brows pinched. With a wince, he grabbed for his head and swayed, forcing the men to hold on a bit tighter.

Beckett pointed at me. "You go with him."

"Me?" What could I do for extreme confusion caused by a concussion? Yes, I said we shouldn't panic, and I meant it, but he probably would need a CT and full workup of his head.

Beckett narrowed his eyes at me. "Yeah, you're neck and shoulders. You should be there to work on the treatment plan. The way he's cradling that left arm makes me think his head isn't the only thing that needs to be addressed."

He didn't even wait for me to respond before turning to Cortney. "Once we deal with the press, we'll meet them at the hospital."

Great. That meant there was no escape for me.