Chapter 15

LYNN

"They're bringing up somebody from the farm team, I'd imagine," my brother Denny comments to no one in particular, as far as I can tell. I zoned out as soon as they started talking about RBIs and ERAs. I've gleaned enough from my hours at Ardent Park to know they're talking about baseball, so that's progress, but I'd still rather read my book than talk baseball over breakfast.

"Anybody want more eggs?" Mama asks from the stove.

"You sit, Mama. I got this." We all freeze and lift our eyes at Cash's words.

Denny is the first to break. "Since when do you cook?"

"Since the vet suggested Betty might benefit from a homemade diet," Hollis responds with a barely concealed smile from her seat next to me at the kitchen table. "That big baby gets a gourmet meal twice a day."

"She's lacking opposable thumbs. What am I gonna do, let her starve?" Cash challenges with an incredulous expression as he takes the skillet from Mama's hand and surveys the gathered ingredients on the counter.

I grin at Hollis, and she rolls her lips between her teeth to keep from laughing. Those two need to have a baby or something so Cash can put all his mothering to better use. Actually, that's a brilliant idea! He wouldn't have time to interfere in my business anymore if he had a screaming baby. Of course, that would still leave the rest of these nosy Nancies. Now that I think about it, I'm not sure if it's safe for any of them to procreate. I'll have to reconsider things later.

It's a full house this morning, which is unusual these days. Everyone must have been starving because they all descended on Mama's house after her early morning text offering French toast and made-to-order eggs for anyone who showed up. Some of the family has spilled into the den to eat, and Bear is sharing his breakfast with Mango out on the back porch.

"Did you register for cookware, Rosina?!" Adrina rushes in from the den, a degree of urgency in her voice suggesting my brother and his bride will be solely responsible for nourishing a small, developing nation from their apartment kitchen after the wedding.

"Yes, Mamá. I registered for that set at Costco, remember?"

"I didn't know we could register at Costco." Denny's eyes light up. "Can we sign up for one of those giant seventy-pound parmesan cheese wheels they had last time we were there?"

"We're not registering for cheese, Denver Brooks." Rosie eyes my brother.

He looks around for backup as if his fiancée is the crazy one.

Rosie's brother, Luca—who's basically family like the rest of the Carmichaels—throws Denny a chin lift from the doorway. "I got you, man."

"Two scrambled eggs, just how you like them." Cash presents Mama with a skillet of half-cooked eggs, and she smiles up at him like he just single-handedly built the Taj Mahal. I can't help but roll my eyes. Looks like I might need that surgery sooner rather than later.

"Thank you, sweetheart, but I think you should eat them. You look hungry." Mama is a genius.

Cash shrugs and grabs a fork, digging into the awful eggs straight from the pan. Hollis mumbles something about good taste under her breath, and I laugh out loud.

"So, how long is he out? Do we know?" Miller asks, but I've lost track of the six conversations going on around me, so I drop my nose back into my book. It's a vampire rom-com that offers everything I'm looking for in a summer read: a funny hero, plenty of steam, and absolutely nothing serious. Vampire rom-coms I can take. A vampire movie, on the other hand? No thanks. It's not the gore that bothers me; it's the jump scares. They get me every damn time, making me literally pee my pants. Okay, so it only happened once, but it was very memorable.

"No idea, but a sprained wrist doesn't sound like it would take too long to bounce back from," Luca replies.

"Have you heard anything, Lynnie?" Cash asks.

I look up from my book and blink at him. "Have I heard anything about what?"

Cash holds his egg-laden fork in front of his mouth. "Joey Martel. His wrist injury."

My chair screeches on the wood floor. "What wrist injury?" Shit. I said that really loud, didn't I? I take pains to force a more casual curiosity into my voice. "What are you talking about?" Is my face red? Is my blood pressure rising?

"We've been talking about his wrist for the last ten minutes." Miller waves a hand in front of my face, and I bat it away.

"That's right—you're working with the rehab staff at the ballpark," Maisy comments from her spot leaning against the counter by the fridge. "Will you get to treat him or anything? That would be so cool."

"No," I answer distractedly. "When did this happen?"

"Away game a couple nights ago. Saw it on SportsCenter last night. The dude got knocked out cold on the field," Luca says before shoving half a slice of syrup-soaked French toast into his mouth.

Joey got knocked out? And he's out with a wrist injury? Oh god. He's probably so bummed right now.

"I guess I'll find out more about it later today," I say, trying to remain calm as I grip my coffee mug with both hands and force myself to breathe normally. The team is back in town, so I'm back to work today. And Joey is injured.

"Aha!" Denny reaches over the table, turning his phone screen to Rosie. "You can register for a giant cheese wheel. Excellent!"

"Is anyone going to help me here?" Rosie throws her arms out.

"Have you thought about eloping?" Maisy asks, sending Adrina into a fit of unintelligible Italian that lasts a good five minutes and has Rosie arguing back in English. Everyone else carries on drinking their coffee and cleaning their plates like this is just another Wednesday morning.

French toast and weddings are the last things on my mind, though.

* * *

I makeit a whole two hours before texting Joey. To be fair, I need to be at work in an hour, so I was running out of time to pretend I have self-control.

Me:

Hey.

I try not to read into the fact that his response is immediate.

Joey:

Hey.

Me:

You okay?

That was stupid. Of course he's not okay. As usual, he's kind and doesn't call me out.

Joey:

I've been better.

I close my bedroom door and settle on my stomach on the bed while I type my response.

Me:

I figured. What did the doctors say?

Joey:

Some bruising, a partially torn ligament, and a concussion. Said I was lucky.

Me:

I'm sorry. Does it hurt?

Joey:

Not if I take my pain meds. But I'm not a huge fan of the talking dead people who show up when I take it, so I might stop.

Oh my god! I jerk up to sit and grip my phone with panicked fingers.

Me:

Joey! That's not good. Have you talked to your doctor? Don't stop taking the meds, whatever you do, but they need to adjust them for you right away!

Should I call the team doctor? Amy? Crap. I don't have anyone's number!

Joey:

Relax. I was joking. I'm on ibuprofen.

My jaw drops, and I fall backward with relief, my head hitting the mattress.

Me:

Anus.

Joey:

I prefer asshole, if you don't mind.

I send him a devil emoji. But, hey, if he's joking around, that's a good sign, so I can cut him some slack.

Me:

Did they say if you need surgery or not?

Would it be tacky of me to ask him to text me the X-rays? Yeah, probably.

Joey:

Looks like I'll dodge that bullet with it only being a partial tear.

Me:

That's good then. Do they have an estimated recovery time?

Joey:

Best estimate is four to six weeks before I can get off the IL.

I give myself a little pat on the back for knowing he means the injured list. Learned that one my first day.

Me:

Wow! That's great!

Joey:

Is it?

Yeah, I suppose it doesn't feel too great to him right now.

Me:

It could be so much worse. The time will fly by.

I don't tell him Amy shared a story about a career-ending injury she treated at her last job with another team.

Joey:

Well, I'm guessing you'll get to see it yourself tomorrow. They have me coming in for the whole medical staff to poke at me.

Cool. Of course, I don't say that.

Me:

You can hack it. Can I do anything?

The ellipses come and go a few times, and I wonder if he's drafting a multi-page list of requests. But when the message finally pops up, all it says is:

Joey:

Not really. Unless you want to send me a playlist.

Ooh, my favorite.

Me:

On it!

I scroll through my favorites on Spotify with a goofy smile on my face as I start making a playlist of upbeat songs that might make a dent in a miserable baseball player's mood. I throw in a little Crash Karma because he said he likes Canadian alt rock, and of course I add some Green Day because, duh. I pepper in a little of this and a little of that, only hesitating when my thumb hovers over the Counting Crows. I opt not to include any of their tracks, and once I'm satisfied, I copy the link and text it to Joey.

His responding text appears only a minute later.

Joey:

Bizarre Love Triangle? Bold choice.

Me:

I had to pull out the big guns.

Joey:

Thanks, Lynn.

There's a flutter in the vicinity of my heart, and I sigh out loud as I roll back onto my stomach on the duvet and work my thumbs over the phone screen.

Me:

Get some rest. It's the best medicine—until the PT team has you sweating your ass off, that is.

Joey:

Can't wait.

And as messed up as it sounds, neither can I.