17. Jackson

Sweat is literally dripping from my forehead as I leave the hospital from my physical therapy. I like my PT. I mean, I hate her while I'm doing the exercises because it makes my arms ache like crazy, but Doctor Minogue really knows her stuff, so I can't complain too much.

Sure, I don't want to do the exercises, but I need my arm to get better more than anything else in the world. And for my elbow to start working again properly, I have to do my exercises. It's as simple as that.

Plus, I have Freya to tell me off when I get lazy, and it doesn't hurt when Doctor Minogue says that I've been doing a great job and my progress is fantastic. Who doesn't love a bit of ego stroking?

I linger at the main entrance, wishing I had a towel. I'm a bit earlier than I expected to be, so I'm just hanging out, watching people come in and out. I still don't like the hospital, but now I've been coming more often, I'm finding myself less freaked-out by it. Kind of.

I'm glancing around absently, then I suddenly grin and wave as I spot a certain blond young woman heading towards me. In a stroke of epic luck, I managed to get a PT appointment that aligned with the end of Freya's shift so we can do something fun this afternoon. So, finally, I'm going to take her for that dinner I've been promising for ages.

She gives me a little wave as she gets closer, and I can't help but think about how cute she looks in her scrubs. Hardly anyone can make medical wear look good, but somehow Freya manages it.

"Okay, I'm here," she says. "How are you? How was Doctor Minogue?"

"She says I'm doing fantastic," I brag. "She says my arm's going to be back to business in no time."

"Brilliant! That's great, Jackson. I'm so pleased for you!" She reaches out to take my hand and raises up on her tiptoes to kiss me, which takes me by surprise so I flinch away.

Sensing my discomfort, she sinks back down and backs off, grimacing in embarrassment. I want to reach out for her, to say sorry, but I can't figure out how to, and by the time my brain unfreezes, she's already sweeping the awkwardness to the side, pretending it doesn't exist. "Come on, let's get going."

Before she can give me any other chance to redeem myself, she's off. I shouldn't have flinched, but it's hard not to when this isn't the kind of affection you're used to. Girls usually like me for my rugged good looks, my status, and hot nights, not for cute dates and holding hands.

But Freya feels different. I don't want people to look at her and think she's just my arm candy. I want people to realize what she means to me. Unfortunately for her, being blond and gorgeous means that being seen kissing a baseball legend means people are only ever going to think I'm using her for my own gain.

I know it's not like that, and I hope she does too. But this is all I can do to protect her from that.

"And how was your day?" I ask as we walk.

Freya sighs, rolling her eyes. "Oh, my God, it was long. I'll tell you all about it in the car."

As we head off in the car, Freya starts telling me about all the annoying people she's had to deal with all day. She tells me about an old woman who wouldn't sit still long enough to have her blood taken, and a teenager who somehow was walking around on two broken legs, insisting he could still play sports.

"I guess that's just like me." I chuckle, slightly embarrassed at the memory of how I'd tried to make her life difficult at first.

"You weren't the worst patient I've ever dealt with," she says diplomatically. "You still aren't."

"No, I was pretty bad. But in my defense, it hurt so, so much."

"You were having a bad day," she says, though when I glance over at her, she's not smiling anymore.

"I'm sorry," I say hoping that my memory is wrong and this isn't really the first time that I've ever apologized to her for being such a dick.

Instead of saying anything else, she changes the subject. "So, where are we going? Or are you driving me somewhere secret?"

"Well, I made reservations at six," I say, relieved to move past this awkward conversation. "So, we've got a couple of hours to kill before then. I don't have any plans for that. Let's do something fun."

"Such as?" she asks, raising both eyebrows like she doesn't believe that I can be fun.

"Bowling," I say, picking the first thing that comes into my mind. "Bowling is fun."

"Yes", she agrees, "But bowling is also quite an elbow-heavy activity. And I thought you wanted to get back to playing as soon as possible."

My mouth wavers at this, and I don't have any sort of defense because she's right — bowling is an elbow-heavy kind of activity. And Doctor Minogue did just tell me I shouldn't be putting too much strain on it, despite the fact that it's looking better.

"Oh," I sigh. "Fine. Suggest something better to me, then."

She hums pensively. "You want to do an activity."

"Yeah."

"I mean, we don't have to—" I start to say before she interrupts.

"No, no, I've got it. Mini golf."

"Yeah, we could do that…"

"Oh. Bad idea?" she asks, her face falling like she's embarrassed.

Quickly, I shake my head. "No," I say and realize that my tone is still slightly too harsh. "I love mini golf."

Freya brightens at that, and for the first time all day I feel like she might forgive me for something. "I know just the place," she says. "I'll direct you."

She commands me to turn left onto the highway, and I obey. We drive about twenty minutes before she leads me into what looks like an abandoned industrial estate, highway cars screeching past nearby. "Are you sure this is right?" I ask as we turn into the parking lot of one of the abandoned-looking buildings.

"Yes," Freya says. "Keep going. Trust me, okay?"

Unfortunately for me, I do trust her, so I keep going. We crawl along and I start to feel just a little bit like I'm being brought here to get murdered. But then, to no one's surprise and to my complete relief, we turn a corner and there, nestled way behind one of the old mill buildings, is an old-style mini-golf course.

It's a Revolutionary-War-themed place, and as we step out we are met with the thrillingly tinny sound of fife and drum music being played over shitty speakers. I wouldn't be surprised if we're about to be subjected to the same weird song on loop for the next hour.

"It might look a bit weird," she says, running a hand through her hair, "but trust me, this course is great."

"Okay," I say, uncertainly finding myself staring into the eyes of the sentry of the gate, a wooden Paul Revere who definitely needs a paint job.

Freya doesn't seem at all bothered by any of it, though. "I'm just going to go into the bathroom and change. I should have done it at work but I just really wanted to escape Mrs. Briar."

"Sure, I get you. She always sounds like a nightmare. I'll go get us tickets."

"Deal," she says, smiling. She's obviously been here more than once because she doesn't even hesitate before heading in the direction of the bathroom. I glance over the course and see other players laughing and having fun, swinging clubs at each other and missing balls left, right, and center. I guess she must know what she's talking about.

I linger in the line for tickets, trapped behind a couple who are taking the longest possible time to decide what they want to do. I fold my arms and stare distantly into the course, willing them to hurry up.

Eventually they do, and I saunter up to the counter. It's not as complicated as the couple made it seem, but the woman who sells the tickets to me is creepily in character as a Revolutionary War widow. I doubt she gets paid enough to be so committed to this role, and if her grumpy attitude as she uses the credit card machine is anything to go by, she definitely doesn't. Once I've paid and got my tickets, she slumps back into the seat in the corner as I walk away.

At this rate, I'm starting to feel like we should have just taken the risk and gone bowling instead. This had better be worth it.

When Freya comes back, I have to bite my lip to stop myself from reacting too hard. She's wearing a light-green dress and little cardigan that does nothing except draw my attention to her breasts. That, and the way the skirt floats around her legs makes her look even more wonderful than ever. My heart leaps into my mouth at the sight of her, and I feel like I'm about to forget how to speak.

She's better than anything I could have asked for.

I hold up two tickets, and she takes one from me with a flourish.

"Are you ready to get your ass kicked?" she asks with a grin.

"Hey, who's the professional sportsman here? I wouldn't be too confident."

"You might be a professional at playing ball, but you've got nothing over me at mini golf."

"Hey, did you just want to come here because you thought you'd win?" I say in mock horror as we pick out our clubs.

"Sure did!" She winks, and I let out the most dramatic sigh I can muster.

"All right. Game on."

The first two holes are pretty basic, your standard kind of ninety-degree angles and hidden inclines. We both score pars, and I can feel the competitive edge heating up.

Hole three is where it starts getting interesting. We stand at the foot of a water well. For a hole in one it looks like you've got to tap the ball into one of the buckets and cross your fingers that when it comes out the other side, it's going to fall exactly into the channel leading to the hole.

"After you," says Freya, holding our scorecard in her hand and waving it as if trying to psych me out.

I step up to the little black circle on the green that represents the tee. I've never really seen the point of real golf, but as a professional sportsman I take all my games very seriously. I line myself up, put my eyes on the prize, then take a swing.

I hit it way too hard, and it flies over the green, past the water well and into a little groove that puts me at least two more hits away from the hole. I stand frozen for a second, then Freya hands me the scorecard and smiles as if to say Now watch how it's done.

She takes a swing, and the ball sails straight into one of the buckets. I groan as we both watch it make its way around the mill. It rolls painfully slowly out on the other side, then snakes into the hole. She lets out a squeak of joy and jumps towards me, stretching out her arms as if she's about to leap into mine. Then she sees that I'm not smiling and holds herself back, and I kick myself again for my absolute failure to show her what she means to me.

"Good job," I say weakly, putting my hand out for a high five. She gives me one then shrugs in sympathy.

"Hey, don't worry," she says. "I'm sure you've got at least one hole in one in you."

"Oh, yeah?" I say, disproportionately bitter about her winning. Maybe competitive sport wasn't our greatest idea. "And how many do you have in you?"

She grins. "I've got the advantage. This is my home field."

We wander over to the next hole and, determined not to be outdone, I line myself up for the hit again. I take my time, focusing on my swing, plotting out the course I want the ball to take. As a pitcher, I'm not really known for my hitting, but we don't really have to be. We're there to throw. That's the point of us.

But that doesn't mean my pride will let me lose without trying.

On the one hand, it's interesting to see just how good Freya is at this and to see how alive she is when she scores well — but on the other, she's damn good at this. It's not making me feel good.

She takes her hit, and her ball goes sailing into the hole to give her another hole in one. Eventually, I get my ball in, scoring me a nasty bogey.

This becomes an unhappy pattern, Freya beating my ass harder and harder with every hole as I get grumpier and grumpier about it. Fortunately for my dignity, she doesn't score any more holes in one until I manage to get one of my own.

We're all the way up to hole fourteen before I finally get there. My heart is absolutely not in this anymore as I line myself up for the hit. Freya rubs my arm supportively, hiding the score from me. "Go on, Jackson. You can do it."

Somehow, she's managing not to be smug about any of this, even though she's winning. In fact, as my ball soars over the green, under the falling-down miniature of North Bridge and straight into the hole, she cheers in delight for me.

"See! I knew you'd get there!" she says, pulling me into a hug. Reluctantly, I let her, trying to be in any way as enthusiastic as she is.

It's hard when, by the time we dump our balls by the seemingly misplaced Mount Washington, she's well and truly won. As we walk away, I don't even bother to hide my scowl and just hope she doesn't draw attention to it because my emotions are already feeling a bit too tender for that conversation.

She doesn't, though. I guess one look at my face says it all.

I'm exhausted by the time we get to the restaurant. After a busy day of therapy and then the epic highs and lows of mini golf, I almost want to blow the whole thing off and go to sleep until I feel better. And even better if Freya would come to bed with me. I've never slept more deeply than I did with her in my arms.

But I promised her dinner and, pained as I am to admit it, I have been looking forward to this for a long time.

We get seated, and Freya smiles wide at me when the drinks come. "Thank you for today," she says. "I had a good time."

I almost say, Did you? Why? But stop myself before I do. I don't feel like bickering. Instead I say, "Me too," and let myself smile. She looks deep into my eyes, and I realize that I would give anything to know what she is thinking about.

"Are coming back to mine after this?" is the actual question I end up asking.

"Do you want me to?"

It's slightly too loaded, so I shoot back another question instead of giving a simple answer. "Will your brother be expecting you?"

She tilts her head ever so slightly like she's thinking the problem through, or possibly trying to decide why I'm dicking her around. "As long as I tell him where I'm going to be, he won't have any issues at all. He's old enough to look after himself for a night."

"So, do you want to come back with me, then?" I ask again. "My door is wide open to pretty young women."

The joke falls flat, and she doesn't laugh. "Yeah," she says finally in a way that's not entirely convincing. She lays her hand on the table, and it takes me a second to realize that she's inviting me to take it.

I stare at it for a long moment, then extend my fingers towards her. It's kind of awkward, and I feel like every single person in the restaurant is looking at us — even though they probably aren't. But still, I can't help but feel uncomfortable at the affection.

Even though it does feel good to hold her hand, I can't wait to get home and feel her nestle her body into mine, so I can squeeze her tight and caress her skin. That's what I'm good at. Private affection. Small shows of love that really mean something. I don't have patience for overblown PDAs.

Wait. Love?

"What are you going to get?" Freya asks, changing the subject and snapping me out of my thoughts.

I shrug. "The sea bass here is pretty good. What do you feel like?"

"Wine," she says simply. "Lots of wine."

"Great idea," I say and order us a bottle. The waiter cracks it open, and we get through it fast, the faint buzz of tipsiness unwinding the tension that's been growing in my chest and between us all day, like there's an invisible barrier that we can't seem to cross.

When we finally do head home, the night has been good after all. Still, we sit in the back of the cab in silence, and as I watch Freya stare out the window, yet again I find myself wishing I could know exactly what she's thinking.