Chapter 14

JOEY

"Isaid I'm on it," Lynn replies to Cash, who's looking at me like he can't decide which of my appendages to rip off first. I can't believe the Brooks brothers are the same brothers Lynn was going on about last summer.

Cash inches a step closer to me.

Or maybe I can.

This entire week has been full of surprises, so I'm half expecting to go home tonight to find an orphan I never knew I fathered waiting at my doorstep. It might throw me for less of a loop than my two run-ins with Lynn and this news about her brothers.

At least now I know her last name.

"Hey, Cash." I extend a hand to her brother, knowing he won't be able to refuse it, no matter how bent out of shape he is. I could tell him he has nothing to worry about where Lynn is concerned, but that would be a lie since I've spent the last year having the dirtiest thoughts imaginable about his little sister—and I can't see that stopping anytime soon. She may not be interested in me, but my dick hasn't gotten the memo, even after all this time.

Cash accepts my hand with a grunt. "Martel." It takes all I've got not to laugh when he squeezes my hand like he's hoping juice might come out of it.

"Lynn and I were just chatting about things down at the ballpark," I say, letting him interpret that how he wants.

"Joey had a foot injury the other day, so we saw him in rehab," Lynn explains before sighing and hefting her black plastic tub into both hands. "I'm off to bus some tables." Her smile is fake as hell, but Cash doesn't seem to notice. He watches her snake between customers and tables before returning his eyes to me.

"Don't even fuckin' think about it," is all he says before turning on his booted heel and stalking back to the bar.

I tip my head back on a sharp laugh because that shit was hilarious.

"What was that all about?" Gunner asks when I park my ass back in my seat.

"Get this. Lynn's last name is Brooks. As in Blue Bigfoot Brooks. Cash and the guys are her older brothers."

"Come again." He cups a hand behind his ear in an exaggerated gesture.

"You heard me."

Gunner takes a sip of his beer and squints at the bar before finding Lynn in the crowd and watching her for a few seconds. "I guess I can see it. I mean, she's way better looking, of course. And she's got a better rack."

When I frown at him, he smacks the table and laughs, so my only choice is to respond, "Elizabeth's isn't too shabby either," which turns his smile into a scowl, precisely as I intended.

It's just the two of us tonight. We stopped by for one beer and are making it an early night since we've got a flight to Philly in the morning. Don't get me wrong, I like hanging out with all the guys, but Gunner and I are tight in a way I'm not with anybody else on the team.

"So that explains why she's here," Gunner says as we both watch her make her way behind the bar with her full bus tub. She's wearing a pair of cut-off jeans that make my eyes cross. "I thought for a second that maybe the tables had turned and she was stalking you."

"I never stalked her." I lower my voice and lean into my elbows on the table. "Jesus, man, you can't say things like that these days. You trying to get me fired?"

He mimics a zipper over his lips, and we both sip our beers while the band plays a Journey cover.

"At least she doesn't seem to hate me anymore," I finally say.

His zipper is about as secure as most invisible things because he immediately replies, "I never understood what the big deal was anyway, but if Elizabeth says it was, then I've learned not to argue."

Yeah, I got a lecture last summer about boundaries that I'm unlikely to forget anytime soon. That and an unsolicited subscription to Ms. magazine's daily newsletter. Elizabeth swore she didn't know that giving them my email would result in the onslaught of online ads featuring feminine hygiene products and IUDs that blanketed my screen every time I glanced at my phone the following six months. Hell, I've just now stopped getting promotions featuring tips on how to treat my PMS symptoms homeopathically.

I'm optimistic I've learned my lesson, but the proof's in the pudding, and I haven't exactly put myself out there recently to test the waters. I've been busy, okay? Never mind, I had four months of offseason to do whatever I pleased. Turns out I was pleased to binge-watch Bojack Horseman on Netflix and develop a Twizzlers addiction. There are worse things.

"Just tread carefully, my man," Gunner advises, raising his glass to toast mine. And since he's one of the only guys I know in a happy relationship, I decide the smartest thing I can do is listen.

* * *

Ow.

Fuck.

OW!

FUCK!

"Martel!" somebody shouts, but it sounds like an echo. I have no idea where I am. All I know is my left arm feels like it's been wired for electricity, and my head is pounding.

"He's back!" another voice yells, and this time I try blinking to see who it is. My eyelids immediately slam shut again at the bright light.

"Joey, can you hear me?" Yet another voice.

I groan and try grasping my arm with my right hand to ease the tingling, but I can't reach it. I try opening my eyes again, and the light is less intense now, so I blink a few more times. All I see are a bunch of heads thrown into silhouette by the stadium lights above.

"My arm," I croak, reaching for it again as I realize I'm on my back on the field with my head immobilized by a stiff collar.

A hand stops me, and I recognize Sanchez's voice over the half-hushed buzz of the crowd. "You and Niederman collided real good. Knocked you out and banged your arm up."

"Okay, everyone, back up!" Three pairs of hands lift me into the air, and I realize I'm on a board. The whir of an electric engine sounds before a cart propels me toward an opening to the tunnel, and I'm whisked away to the buzz of swelling cheers from a stadium full of fans.

But I don't see what there can possibly be to cheer about. I'm a professional baseball player who just fucked up his arm and head—and maybe my whole future.

The next thirty minutes are a blur of questions, flashing lights in my eyes, and pain. I finally get a few moments of blessed silence as the emergency medical team confers with Doc on the other side of the room. And now that the pain meds are starting to kick in, I can draw in my first full breath since I opened my eyes on the field.

Hard as I try, I can't remember it happening. The last thing I can recall is catching the line drive off Moreno's bat and turning to throw the ball to Paulie at second. That's it. I don't even remember seeing Paulie catch the ball or Niederman rounding second. Best I can figure, Paulie flubbed the catch, and Niederman hauled ass to third—plowing into me in the process.

I lift the ice pack from my arm to get a peek. There's already bruising around my elbow, and—fuck—my wrist is swollen to the size of a baseball.

Doc and the EMS crew return to the stretcher, where I'm resting. "Okay," Doc begins, "We're sending you to the hospital. The concussion is a bit worrying. I'll meet you there, and we'll get an MRI of that arm and an ortho consult. See where we go from there."

"Doc," I grunt.

He doesn't make me wait. "My best guess is a ligament tear—it doesn't feel broken. We'll know for sure after the pictures."

I let out a breath. Okay, not as bad as it could be, I suppose. Benny Duvall from the Black Dogs had a partial ligament tear in his wrist last season, and he was out for four weeks. Still, that's a hell of a long time in baseball days. At least it's my left, not my throwing arm. However, a broken nose from Neiderman would have been preferable since I still need my wrist for catching and batting.

"Don't worry, son." Shit. Should I be extra concerned he's gone all paternal on me? No, don't read into it, Martel. Deep breaths. "We'll have you back on the field as soon as possible."

His mouth to God's ear, as my dad would say. Because without baseball, I have no idea who I am.