All In With Him (Men of Summer 3)

“Oh, fuck. Has Steele seen this?”

17

Declan

This can’t be happening.

I click on the video, cringing when the pitch slams into Grant’s helmet, nailing him square on the earflap. I ache when his helmet falls off as he crashes onto his back. I feel like I’m going to throw up if he doesn’t get up quickly.

And I die a little inside when he flips over in so much obvious pain.

He’s still not getting up.

C’mon, babe. Get up.

The trainer runs to the field to check him—the manager now too.

My stomach twists as the sportscasters gives the play-by-play on video. “He’s hunched over on the ground now, still curled up. I’ve heard players get hit in the helmet plenty of times, but that was like a thunderclap. Not a good sign.”

“You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay,” I mutter under my breath, praying, hoping.

Finally, Grant pushes to his knees, then he stands. The camera zooms in on him, and my heart seizes. He looks dazed, so damn rattled, his head down as the manager and trainer walk him into the dugout.

Yes, he’s walking off, but he’s being taken out of the game. In baseball, players don’t come back into a game even if they’re cleared from a concussion. Once you’re out, you’re out. That means the manager saw something concerning enough to pull Grant out.

My throat is tight. Awful scenarios swamp my head. The reporter doesn’t say if he has a concussion. A contusion. Or worse.

I dial his number—a futile exercise since Grant won’t answer. He was hit twenty minutes ago. It goes to voicemail. I’m sure his phone is turned off, sitting on the top shelf of his locker.

But I want to know how the hell he’s doing. How can I find out in the few minutes before we’re airborne?

C’mon, man. Think. You know Cougars.

I scroll through my contacts. I hit Crosby’s name, but that goes to voicemail too. I try Chance for the same result.

Obviously.

They’re at the same game.

On the same field.

You don’t bring your goddamn phone onto the diamond.

Vaughn!

I’ll call my agent. He can call the team. But Vaughn doesn’t answer, so I send him a text, asking if he can find out what’s going on with Grant.

Holden sets a hand on my shoulder. Gives a bro squeeze. “Why don’t I call Reese and see if she can head over?”

“Yes,” I say, letting myself feel relief at this one thing. “Call her now. See if she can find out if he’s okay.”

The jet is taxiing now on the tarmac. Holden hits Reese’s name on his phone, and my heart spikes with fear as I press my fingers to my temples.

As the plane heads to the runway, Holden quickly asks his woman to find out anything she can. When he ends the call, he shifts his attention to me. “Reese is on it. We’ll get the details soon.”

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Please, God, let it be Grant.

My text app lights with a new message. With speedy fingers, I open the thread, but there’s no name on it.

I groan, closing my eyes and slumping into the seat. It’s a message not sent on the Vaughn text. Service not available.

We’re out of range already, and there’s no ESPN or Sports Network for the next five and a half hours. No online news either.

“Please take your seats for takeoff. And seatbelts on, Dragons,” the cheery flight attendant booms over the loudspeaker. “And we have your favorite chicken risotto tonight.”

How the hell can she be happy about chicken risotto when Grant is hurt?

As I buckle my seatbelt, the plane picks up speed.

I drag a hand down my face, then turn to Holden. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit.

He claps me on the shoulder, then brandishes his phone screen at me. “I’ve got word search games. We’re gonna have a meal. And I downloaded the first season of a hilarious Matt LeBlanc series from Showtime. I’m going to get you through this.”

It’s a relief, his desire to take my mind off Grant. Since there’s nothing I can do from thirty thousand feet and a country away, I say yes to the word search, and we go hunting for bugle, eschews, and salve.

I wish I could be Grant’s salve right now.

“He’s going to be fine,” Holden says as he slides his finger across bugle.

“Thanks,” I mutter, but he can’t know that.

No one can.

I swallow roughly, trying to let go of the worry for the next five and a half hours.

18

Grant

They won’t let me go for another hour.

“I’m fine. I swear I’m fine,” I say. I’ve been twiddling my thumbs in the trainer’s room, which is plastered with photos of the Cougars alongside shots of Cruz Azul, one of Mexico’s top soccer clubs.

Christian gives me a stern, brown-eyed stare. “You’re not fine. You have a headache. That’s a sign of a possible concussion.”