“I said the same thing, like there’s no way. Their kids freaking play together, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“Right, so me being me, I called Phoebe’s sister, Janelle, and asked what’s up because surely Phoebe would’ve called her sister, right.”
I nod, trying to keep up.
“Shocker. Janelle had no idea. She called Phoebe, Phoebe called Owen, who ripped me a new one for butting my nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“You’re literally the town gossip,” I tell her, and she shrugs.
“Owen shouldn’t have said anything, but he did. Like, with details that I really didn’t need to know.”
As tempted as I am to ask, I don’t. When the waitress comes by, we look at our menus quickly and place our orders. After she’s gone, I make the mistake of telling Karter that I’m going to dinner with Brett and the other coaches.
“Girl, don’t. Brett Larsen is evil scum and he probably wants something from you.”
“A house? I can’t offer him anything else.”
She cocks her eyebrow at me and eyes me up and down, but I brush her off. “He’s married and will no doubt have heard about Owen and Phoebe. This town can’t handle another scandal.” Besides, he’s a coach and coaches help children get better. That’s his job.
Five
Hawk
As a professional athlete, the last thing you ever want to hear is that you need surgery, especially when it’s on the part of your body that makes your money, and the season has already started. I have what’s called thoracic outlet syndrome. It’s the cause of the numbness in my hand and fingers and explains why my arm has felt tired and hurts to move. Unfortunately, it’s becoming more and more common for pitchers to experience this. A few of my peers have opted for physical therapy, while most have gone straight for surgery. That’s where I’m at, in recovery.
The MRI showed a pinched nerve in my neck. I thought it would be easy to take care of — massage, stretching and a few trips to the chiropractor and I should be good as new. I was wrong. According to the doctor, the veins and blood vessels in my shoulder and neck were compressed, resulting in the pain and numbness I felt. Removing what is known as the first rib in my shoulder, dissecting the muscles and nerves was the only option.
Telling Wilson, Fisk and Stone was not easy and thankfully I wasn’t the one who had to do most of the talking, the doctor was. Still, before I went under the knife to have the uppermost rib removed, I questioned everything. Mostly, my recovery time. I would have full use of my arm in a few days, but the muscles around my shoulder would be weakened from surgery. I would be out a minimum of twelve weeks, almost half the season. That’s a hard pill to swallow when your team has high hopes
of making the playoffs. It’s even harder to look your teammates in the eyes knowing they’re battling their own injuries, some that likely also need surgery but they’re waiting until the season is over.
There’s a machine beside me beeping. And another one. And another one. I can’t see the others, but I can hear them and the more I focus on the sounds, the louder they become. I try to lift my arm. It’s second nature for me to use my right arm to do everything, but the pain brings tears to my eyes.
“Don’t move your arm.” Her voice is soft and quiet. I open my eyes and look to see who is speaking but my curtained off space is empty. It’s just me and the machine. I watch it for a minute, studying the green line moving in waves, monitoring my heartbeat. My mouth is dry, and it feels like I’m waking up from an all-night bender — something I haven’t done since Travis Kidd got married on New Year’s Eve. I smack my lips together to try and create some saliva to get rid of the dryness.
“Here, drink this.”
Ah, the angel with the prettiest voice is back. I try to do as she instructs, sipping through the straw but it ain’t easy. I’m groggy, my fine motor skills are shit right now and my tongue feels like a foreign object.
“Are you in pain?”
What kind of question is that? The surgeon cut into my collar bone and neck, removed a bone, and she wants to know if I’m in pain? Of course, I am . . . or am I? Her question gives me pause. My arm is sore. There’s no doubt about that, but I’m not sure if it’s because I know it is or if I’m in pain.
I grunt out a half intelligible response but I’m not convinced she’s paying attention because she’s focused on my chart and the monitor. She presses some buttons and tells me she’ll be back shortly. I think I tell her okay or I nod, I’m not sure which to be honest.
At some point I must’ve dozed off because when I open my eyes again, things are much clearer and my mom is sitting next to my bed, reading a book. Once again, I try to lift my arm to rub my face, but the pain — which I’m definitely feeling now — is too much and I cry out.
“Don’t move your arm, Hawk.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
“Well, maybe you’ll start listening.” My mom appears by my side, smiling. Even though my hair is short, she brushes it away from my forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“Any pain? Want me to get the nurse?”