"I don't think so. After you reinjured yourself last year—" Derrick started, but Matt pulled his arm away.
"I'm already feeling better. Look, I don't want anybody to baby me. I was hurt, but I'm not dead. Everything is going to be okay."
"Let's just go back to the dugout and drink for a bit. We'll get back on the field a little bit later," Logan offered.
"I'm telling you I can do it."
"And I'm telling you I'm not willing to take that kind of risk. Not with you. Not again," Logan said, and because it was his bachelor party, Matt conceded.
The rest of the night carried on without incident, but Matt could still feel the injury hanging over his head like the black cloud it always was in his life. They killed a twelve pack of beer and then headed back onto the field, and though nothing happened, he could still feel the tension in his brother and Logan. Could see all the swings and catches they'd missed that they wouldn't have if they'd been on their game.
Dammit. This was just like his injury to ruin a perfectly good evening.
To ruin a perfectly good career.
By the time it was Matt's turn up to bat, Logan got a drunk call from his bride-to-be and everything was on hold.
"I'm glad you're having a good time," he was saying, and Derrick and Matt looked at each other while they listened to the thunder of their sister's slurring from the receiver.
"You're on your way home?" he asked, and then made a gesture for the guys to pack up. When he hung up, he said, "Sorry, Matt. We'll hit the batting cages soon. I have a feeling the rest of the night is going to involve holding back hair." He grinned.
"And that's the girl you want to marry?" Derrick asked.
"Hell yeah it is." Logan grinned. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Chapter 7
That night, Matt lay on his bed, opening and closing his palm and waiting for the last of the pain to subside. In the old days, when the injury was fresh, this kind of pain was something he could only dream about—manageable, workable. But now?
Every pang sent his mind whirring back to the phone. The texts from his physical therapist. The call for the majors that he still hadn't gotten.
He rolled over, careful not to put any weight on his hand, and got to his feet.
He'd never paced before, but this seemed like the time for it—when he had a problem that couldn't be solved.
And when Shay still wasn't home...
He pushed that thought away, too. What should it matter to him whether or not Shay got home at a reasonable time? It was a bachelorette party. They should be out all night, and they'd deserve it if they were.
Just so long as it was just the two of them...
He shook his head and turned on his heel. Yes, pacing was good. Pacing at least made him feel like he was doing something instead of just sitting there staring at the ceiling. At least while he was moving he could—
The door burst open and then, just as quick, slammed shut with Shay now leaning against the white door.
"Okay, so we need a couple ground rules." She huffed a strand of her dark hair out of her face.
"Um... hello to you, too?" He stopped short and surveyed her, trying to determine if she was drunk.
She wasn't swaying; her eyes weren't glassy or half-lidded. Her hair was a little haphazard, but it was nothing unmanageable. In fact, if it wasn't for the red glow on her cheeks, she might have looked completely normal.
Normal, of course, in the way that Shay was normal—her slender body wrapped in the slinkiest black dress he'd ever seen. The collar dipped just low enough for him to catch a trace of her cleavage, but then—
He internally shook his head again. Impassive. That was the new stance. Whatever she did, he was impassive.
No matter how fuckable she looked in her shiny red heels.
"We... I'm not sure where to start."