3. Holden

3

HOLDEN

I’m sitting across from Catherine and should be focusing on what she says instead of the way her lips are big, puffy, and pink, as if they’re begging to be kissed. She’s talking, using her hands as she tells me about the plan she’s come up with, and all I can process is the fact that this is going to be my physical therapist and I’m going to be spending a lot of time with her. Now the whole idea Chrissy had about the therapist living here is sounding better and better.

“Mr. Gray… what do you think?”

All I can do is stare at her and try to form a sentence. “Sorry, what?”

She smirks at me, and I’m not sure if she realizes that I’m attracted to her or what, but she has to be used to getting reactions like mine from men. Catherine Maples is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. Her blond hair is in a high ponytail, and her clear blue eyes are looking at me like she can see into my soul. She showed up in a pair of black pants and a polo shirt with the hospital’s logo on her chest, but the plain uniform does nothing to hide the luscious curves of her body.

She lays the open file on the table between us. “Look, I know this is hard, Mr. Gray.”

“Holden,” I tell her, wanting to hear her say my name.

“Holden,” she repeats softly and then puts her palm flat on the file. “I know this is hard for you, but I think it’s doable.” She looks around the room. “Do you have somewhere that I can do an evaluation before we get too far into it?”

I shove my chair back and stand up. I’m not sure how I’m going to do with this woman’s hands on me. “Sure, I have a therapy room next to the weight room.”

That seems to perk her up. “You have a therapy room?”

I grumble because how else can I explain it? “Yeah, when you’re a thirty-eight-year-old professional catcher who’s played for as long as I have, you need help more days than not.”

She leaves the file on the table and follows behind me. We go to the basement, and I show her the gym and then take her to the therapy room. I point out everything I have. “If there’s anything else you’d need, I can get it.”

She looks around the room in awe. “It looks to me that you have everything we could possibly need.” She points to the place in front of her. “Stand here.”

I move and stop in front of her. She’s smaller than me, and it’s obvious we would fit together perfectly. She takes a step back. “Can you touch your toes?”

“It’s my arm that is hurt.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and smiles at me. “It’s your shoulder that is hurt, but I also know that if we focus on your shoulder, it’s going to leave other parts of your body vulnerable. You’re an elite athlete, Holden. If I do this, I will be treating your whole body.”

I suck in a breath because just the idea of her putting her hands on me puts me on edge. Y ou’ve been celibate for too long, Gray.

I take too long to answer .

She repeats the question. “Can you touch your toes?”

I lean forward and put my hands flat on the floor in front of me. As a catcher, I have to be pretty limber, and I stretch daily. I have to or else I’ll end up injured for sure. Her hand goes to my back, and I raise up so quickly it’s comical.

Worriedly, she asks, “Did you feel pain anywhere when you touch your toes?”

I hold in my groan because the only pain I feel right now is in my southern region, and I’m sure she’s not talking about that. “Nope, no pain.”

She walks me through a few exercises, and when she finally gets to my right arm, I school my expression. I will not show pain. I will not show pain. Whatever I gotta do to get back on the field, I’ll do it. Even if it means sucking up any ounce of pain I feel.

She huffs out her breath. “Mr. Gray.”

I give her a pointed look, and she relents. “Holden, if you want to be back by the playoffs, we have to be honest with each other. If you’re in pain, I have to know it. You have to tell me where it hurts and when. Got it?”

I nod my head, and she starts moving my arm, watching my face closely. She’s so close that I can smell her coconut shampoo. When my arm goes too far back, my forehead creasing is the only indication that I might be in pain. She holds my arm in place and then tilts her head to the side and just waits.

“Yeah, right there, I feel it.”

She releases my arm and then takes a step back. “Your range of motion on that side is way less. I’m thinking it has something to do with your throwing technique, but I’ve watched the video of the play you made where you think you might have hurt it. It was a strenuous throw for your arm.”

“I got him out running to second.”

She laughs. “Yeah, you did. I want to get your arm healed and then get it healthy so that when you have to make plays like that, you can do it without injury.”

“By the playoffs?”

She doesn’t answer right away, and it’s like I’m holding my breath waiting for her to tell me what I want to hear. Finally, she puts me out of my misery. “We can get you back by the playoffs, but there’s going to be a lot of work involved. For an elite athlete, you have to focus on your nutrition, strength, and cardiovascular training for your whole body and intense therapy on your arm. You have to be focused and stay focused. You have to do what I tell you to do.”

I hate when anyone tells me what to do, but something tells me it’s going to be different with Catherine. “I can do it.”

“Okay, and one more question.”

Hell, I figure we’re already over the hard part, so I give her an encouraging nod.

She searches my face for a second and then asks me the one question that I’ve been trying to avoid. “What’s your long-term goal here?”

I can’t hide my reaction. I’ve tried to tamp down all the thoughts of retiring. I’ve avoided all the sports channels so I don’t have to hear everyone’s thoughts on my career and how it’s ending. “You think I need to retire?”

Shock registers on her face, and she holds her hand up. “First of all, you should know that I know nothing about professional baseball. My knowledge consists of thirteen-year-old baseball. So I’ll ask you the same question you asked me. Do you think you need to retire?”

Instead of answering her, I start to pace across the room. I wasn’t ready for the question she asked me, and I’m not sure how to answer it. I’m reaching the point where I want to retire—I’m ready for it, and before I was injured, I was considering it—but I don’t want to go out like this. Stalling, I ask her, “Why do you know about thirteen-year-old baseball?”

“My son plays at the middle school here in Whiskey Run.”

I stop pacing and zero in on her left hand. I look for a ring, and when I don’t see one, the relief hits me fast and hard. “Your son?”

She nods. “Yeah, now quit avoiding the question and tell me… do you think you need to retire?”

I jut my chin at her, and she doesn’t back down. Reluctantly, I tell her what I’ve been thinking. “Before my injury, I was thinking about this being my last season. I’m getting old—well, old for playing baseball and old for being a catcher. It has wrecked my body. But now, no, I’m not ready to retire. I don’t want to end my career because of an injury. I want to end it on my own terms.”

She doesn’t laugh and doesn’t even crack a smile. She gives me a firm nod and tells me the one thing I’ve been waiting to hear. “I can help you get back on the field, playing pain-free, by the playoffs.”