Knox (Sexy Bastard #3) (20 page)

“Want me to come with you? We could grab some takeout, hit the sack . . . ” I wiggle my eyebrows, leaving him an opening to suggest—or imagine—all the things we could do once we were in said sack.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t take the bait. “Nah, you stay. I’ll see you later.” He leans in to peck my lips quickly.

Well, that was pretty damn definitive.

And just like that, Knox squeezes my fingers and slips out, straight up Irish goodbye-ing his crew. He’s out before anyone so much as turns their heads.

Damn.

I probably shouldn’t read too much into that. But given how things are going with the rest of my life, Knox’s abrupt departure makes me feel more than a little paranoid.

Being with Knox was what I thought I wanted. But maybe I hadn’t fully weighed the consequences. Maybe I didn’t consider what
together
would really look like, once we made it here.

And maybe he’s feeling the same way.

I
’m sitting
on an uncomfortable chair in the back of the clubhouse with a trail of cold sweat running down the back of my neck.

Opening day. Season nine. Game two hundred and sixty-five—give or take a few hundred if you count little league and the minors. You’d think after all this time, I’d have game prep down to a science. But every opening day brings its own special brand of anxiety. And this one marks the first time in eight years I’ll be wearing anything other than my Yankees cap. Which is
still
missing in action, thanks to my new traitorous teammates and the girls they foisted my hat off on.

Some trade this has been. Never imagined I’d be pitching my first game for the Braves with the specter of a broken friendship hanging over me. The ache in my jaw is already fading, but Jackson’s refusal to speak to either me or Shelby? That shit stings way worse than any punch could.

Part of me wishes I had hit the jerk back. Give him a taste of his own medicine.

I pull up my laptop, ignoring the buzz of the clubhouse around me, and start reviewing the hitting charts and videos the coaches sent me. I’ve spent the past couple of days getting familiar with the Nationals’ hitters, their strengths and their weaknesses. But it never hurts to refresh your memory in the hours before the big game.

Time to pull your shit together, Knox.

“Hey Yankee, you’ve got a visitor.”

I’m deep in opposition footage when I glance up to find Jimmy, the clubhouse manager, escorting Shelby into the back room.

“She was on the approved list, Knox. Hope there wasn’t some kind of mixup?” Guess my face must be betraying my surprise.

“No way, she’s always welcome. Thanks, boss.” I flash him a quick smile, and save a brighter, happier one for Shelby. I really am glad to see her right now, in spite of everything.

Jimmy shows himself out and Shelby perches on another chair by me. “Hey, it’s the man of the hour.” She grins weakly. “I just wanted to check on you. You seemed a little off last night.”

“Just running through my pre-game routine.” I show her the laptop.

“How much time do you have left before pitch practice?”

“Hour-and-a-half, give or take.”

Time I usually spend meditating and lying on a hot pack. But I’m up for disrupting that routine for her sake.

Shelby chews on her lip. “You look like you could use a pep talk.”

“Tell me I’m not going to completely flub this.” I laugh, but it comes out weak. “I just need to focus.”

She rests her hand on my knee, and says possibly the most unhelpful thing I’ve ever heard. “Knox, you’ve gotta stop thinking about Jackson and get your head in the game.”

I grimace. “Thanks, I’ll try.”

There’s an awkward pause. I feel a pang of guilt as I register the confusion in Shelby’s eyes. “I just don’t want to see this thing with Jackson create any more problems than it already has,” she explains after a long pause. “And it seemed like you were really upset about him last night at the Library, so I thought maybe it was still bugging you.”

I know the right thing to tell her next—that it did bother me, but I’m not thinking about it at the moment, I’m sure he’ll come around and we’ll be okay. But that’s not what I say. “Jackson’s the last thing I want to be talking about right now, Shelby.”

She bristles, pulling away from me. “You don’t have to snap at me like that.”

“I just don’t need to be reminded of this hot mess of a situation right now. Can we talk about this later?”

“Yeah. Really looking forward to that,” she snaps sarcastically.

“Thanks, this talk is really helping me focus,” I grumble.

Shelby gets up and shows herself out of the locker room.

Great, Knox. Just fucking great.

I
step
up to the mound, the roar of the crowd engulfing me. I let it fade into white noise, and it’s almost comforting. I’m home. This is where I work best. I grind my cleats into the dust, roll my shoulders and stretch out my wingspan. Unable to help myself, I steal a peek at Shelby, easily visible among the sea of people in the friends and family area, because she’s the hottest girl there. The rest of the crew turned out to represent too. No sign of Jackson, but then, that’s no surprise.

I ignore the clench in my gut.
Focus, Knox.

Reggie Carson is first up to bat for the enemy. A classic heavy hitter. He tips his bat to the scoreboard, playing to the crowd. They roar in response, though not as loud as my hometeam fans shout back.

No way I’m delivering this asshole a home run. I throw a blistering speedball down center plate. Swing and a miss. I crack my neck, keeping my smile tamped down. Don’t get cocky.

But Reggie is scowling, clearly pissed now, and I can never resist an angry batter. He whiffs the second pitch, and I’m grinning now, starting to feel my groove. Starting to feel like a superhero.

That, of course, is a huge mistake. On the third pitch I try to show off, throw it straight down center easy, just to make him feel bad about what he can’t hit. Of course, he catches an edge and lands a direct hit to the middle of the outfield. My guys chase after it, but it’s one of those skittering, elusive balls that rolls right out of our grip.

He makes it to second base by the time the ball’s back in my glove. I can feel the glares of the entire team on my back.
Shit
.

The rest of the inning is more of the same. Not the worst throwing I’ve ever done, but definitely not one for the history books. The Nationals are up by one at the bottom of the first.

I jog over to the dugout and find Mitch tensed and wringing his hands. “What’s going on out there, Knox?”

“Getting my sea legs, Coach. I’ll step it up next round.” Doesn’t sound very convincing even to me, but it’s the best I’ve got.

“All right.” He scrunches up his nose like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Let me know if that shoulder starts bothering you again.”

I wish I could just blame the up-and-down shoulder for this. Sadly, I think it’s more than just a potential injury throwing me off game tonight. As Mitch calls Eddie over to talk through some plays in the remaining minute, I let my eyes drift across the seats to Shelby one more time. She’s talking to Ruby, distracted, her teeth flashing in a smile that makes me want to be on the receiving end.

What the hell are we doing here?

Our last conversation echoes in my memory, but there’s no time to worry about it now. Second inning. Batter up.

This round goes sour too, though it’s not entirely my fault. My guys fumble a few in the outfield, until I’m stuck with bases loaded and a young hotshot up to bat. I wind up for a big one. No way I’m letting him knock this home. I throw my full firepower behind this pitch as I hurl the ball toward the center of the plate. Just as I release the ball, I feel it—a searing pain in my shoulder and a rip that takes my breath away.

I drop to my knees, clutching my shoulder with a gasp. I lift my head just in time to see all my runners sliding home, one by one.

T
he physio
, Roger, sprints toward me. Time slows down, each second an eternity. I’m hyperconscious of every movement around me, the roar of the crowd buzzing in my ears. When I finally stand, leaning between Mitch and Roger, the roar doubles. I try to force a smile for them, let the fans know I’m okay, but it comes out more like a wince than anything reassuring.

The blinding pain in my shoulder and the tingling numbness in my fingers tell me that this could be it. The big one. Shoulder injuries can be career-enders, even for pitchers ten years younger than me.

I grit my teeth as Roger leans over me in the pit. “Wiggle your fingers,” he says.

I manage to lift my pinky before I’m gasping in shock again, doubled over, and Mitch doubles down on the ice at my shoulder.

Roger and Mitch exchange a
look
. “Emergency ortho,” Roger says, and Mitch just nods, all the while signaling to our backup to get in the game. Roger’s attention is back on me then, snapping his fingers to pull me out of the haze of pain and into the present. “We need to get your shoulder scanned right away, Cooper.”

“I should’ve known,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “I knew it was acting up, I should’ve . . . ” I trail off as another wave of pain wracks me.

He’s shaking his head. “These things just happen, Knox. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.”

But I shake my head back at him. Yes it is. It’s my fault, and now I’m going to pay the ultimate price.

“
I
’m
afraid the news isn’t good. It looks like the tendon inside your rotator cuff has completely torn away from the humerus—the bone that runs through your bicep and connects into the shoulder socket.”

I stare uncomprehendingly at the doctor as he lowers his pointer from a backlit slide that illustrates exactly how fucked I am.

The effect of repeated stress, a common injury among pitchers. Nothing I don’t know. But he seems to be waiting for my response. Like there’s any other reply I can give right now beyond wordless screaming. I clear my throat. “What’s the plan, doc?”

“We’ll need to schedule a surgery.”

I tune out then. Roger’s in with me, thank god. Asking all the questions you should, when a doctor tells you that you’ll need to undergo an invasive, dangerous procedure to fix yourself. Me, I’m done. I slump back in my seat and stare at the ceiling, doing the math.

The treatment for a torn rotator cuff is arthroscopic surgery. Between healing after the surgery and rehab after that, I’ll be out six months, minimum. An entire season, more or less.

Worse, I’ve seen this surgery before. More times than I can count. Some pitchers make it back up to the mound, true. But more of them don’t. And even the ones who heal enough to get back to the game almost never recover their pre-injury speed.

My contract prohibits the team from dropping me on account of an injury, at least until I’m back on the field and we see if I can pull out of it. But that’s the least of my concerns.

I could be looking at the end of my career. And it’s come about a decade before I had planned. I always knew, of course, in some distant corner of my mind, that I’d need a retirement plan. It’s just always been so far down the road, so far off in the future, that I never bothered to think about it.
What the hell am I going to do now?
It’s not about the money, Lord knows I have saved and invested well and have millions in the bank; it’s that I have never considered what life after baseball looks like.

Baseball is my life. My dream. My dad’s dream, which I finally accomplished for him. I’m not sure I know how to live without it.

I’m not sure how much time passes after the doctor leaves. Maybe a minute, maybe fifty of them. Eventually, there’s a soft knock at the door, and a rustle as Roger peeks his head in. “There’s a Ms. Masters to see you?”

I nod, too exhausted to actually reply verbally. Part of me is dreading this. Part of me can’t wait to see her, and wishes I could leap up from this chair and wrap her in my arms.

But, of course, I’d need two functioning arms for that.
Shit
.

She shuffles through the door, looking as drop-dead sexy as ever in skinny jeans and a jersey with my number on it. The sight of that alone, after our last conversation and how god-awful it went, sends a pang through me.
She still cares.

She shouldn’t.

“How are you holding up?” she asks with a pained half-smile.

Shelby knows the drill here. She works in the NFL, maybe not the same sport, but she’s seen rotator cuff injuries. She knows what’s at stake. “About how you’d expect,” I mumble.

“Knox, I’m so sorry.” She folds herself onto a chair opposite me, her eyes welling up.

I shut mine, so I don’t have to watch her cry over me. I am hardly holding it together. The last thing I need her to see is me falling apart. Over this waste of talent fuck-up, who used to have something he could offer her. “Don’t be. It’s not like I’m dying.”

“I know, but . . . ”

Exactly. But, I’ll be a different person now. But, I will no longer be the baseball player she fell for. This passion that’s been there for me when everything else was going down the shitter. Without baseball, I can’t imagine ever feeling alive again. So I take a deep breath and I do the only thing I can do right now. I set her free. “Shelby, I think we should call it a day.”

She freezes in place, her eyes huge and wide, her hands gripping her chair like she’s holding on for dear life. The tears that glittered in them a moment ago spill over the edge, and a couple sneak down her cheeks before she wipes them away to scowl at me instead.

Good. Anger I can handle. Anger I deserve.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she says.

“A lot of things, obviously.” I wave my one good arm at myself, my slumped body in this hospital bed. “Look, Shelbs, I care about you, which is why I’m telling you this. You deserve better. Go find it.”

She sets her jaw hard, her arms coming up to cross over her chest now.
Christ
. I wish she hadn’t done that. It makes her tits pop, and reminds me exactly what I’m giving up.

Am I a complete idiot?

Yes. But it’s for her own good. Pity party for one. Shelby, you aren’t invited.

“What if I don’t want better?”

I’m already shaking my head. “Look at us. We fight all the time. If it’s not Jackson, it’s spring training. If it’s not spring training, it’s me snapping at you, and you pushing back at me. There’s just too many things between us, Shelby. There’s too many obstacles to climb over.”

“And what, I’m not worth the climb?” She tosses her head, her hair cascading over her shoulders, hiding my number where it shows on the jersey. I wonder if she’ll save that jersey, after. Some part of me hopes she will. Hopes she’ll remember me, and this whole mess, fondly.

“You are,” I tell her. “But I’m in no condition to do any climbing right now. Find someone who will.”

We lock eyes for a long, painful moment. I want to take it all back. I want to tell her I want her, care about her, maybe even—
fuck
,
do I love her?
I shove that thought down hard. It doesn’t matter. My feelings don’t matter right now. I’m going to be a miserable, fucked up mess the whole time I’m fighting this injury, and if I care about her even a little bit, I won’t make her suffer through that with me.

So I grit my teeth hard, and wait her out, eyes locked, until she finally shoves her chair away, so hard it crashes onto the floor as she stands.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

I wait until she’s out the door to let the pain show on my face.

The sound of that door slamming makes me wince.

Fuck
. What did I just do?