The Bookworm's Guide to Faking It (The Bookworm's Guide 2)

“No. I don’t know anyone here.”

“Have you even bothered to leave your room yet?” I bit into my own sandwich, losing a bit of lettuce into the container.

“They make me leave it three times a day to get food. Another time to get exercise. Exercise! I don’t need to exercise. It ain’t gonna save me from the grim reaper now, boy.”

I stared at him. “You know what your doctor said. You need at least one gentle walk a day to make sure your hip doesn’t seize up until you can get the replacement. Preferably two.”

“I don’t want it replaced.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I do not. I like this hip. It’s mine.”

Good fucking Lord. If there was one thing I forgot every time I was away, it was how ornery my grandfather was.

“Well, you broke that one, so you can’t keep it,” I shot back. “You need a hip that works, not one that crunches like gravel every time you move.”

He snorted. “Are you getting a new shoulder?”

“I tore my rotator cuff, not shattered the bone to smithereens.” My tone was dry. “And it’s getting better. Thank you for asking.”

“I didn’t ask. I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Stop pretending like I’m a nice person,” he grumbled. “I’m trying to build a reputation here.”

I raised my eyebrows. “One of being a jerk?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“You’re in a fine mood today, aren’t you? Do you need a nap?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

He wrinkled his face up and poked his tongue out at me.

Honestly, the man had acted his shoe size as long as I could remember. I doubted that was something that would change anytime soon.

God forbid you asked the man to behave.

“What did your doctor say?” he asked me, referring to my appointment this morning.

“They don’t know if I’ll be back next season.” My stomach had been in knots ever since I’d heard those words. I’d started this season on a high, coming off the best one ever after we’d finally won the World Series for the first time in thirty years.

This year was poised to be even better with another major win in our sights.

And then…

My shoulder went out mid-game against New York.

The Montana Bears hadn’t made it to the finals.

I’d gone from the best damn pitcher in the league to an operating table quicker than you could say my name, and now…

There was no guarantee that I’d ever play again. And if I did, I wasn’t going to be the player I was two months ago.

That was the only thing that was certain about this.

That I would never be the same again.

Grandpa grunted. “Sorry, slugger. You thought about teaching?”

“No. I want to get back out there.” I closed the container that had held my sandwich and put it back in the bag. “If I can’t… Well, I’ll think about that when the time comes.”

Another grunt. It was basically his primary means of communication, and it could mean just about anything at any time.

Thankfully, I was used to it.

The silence was broken by three knocks at the door, and when Grandpa didn’t move to tell them they could come in, I did it for him.

“What did you do that for?” he grumbled, picking tomato out of his sandwich.

“Because it’s polite. You should try it sometime,” I retorted.

An elderly woman with her gray hair up in a chic twist hobbled into the room on a cane. She wore a shocking pick dress with a knitted mustard-yellow shawl around her shoulders, and she narrowed her eyes at me behind round-lensed glasses. “Who are you?”

I stood up and approached her, offering her my hand. “Sebastian Stone, ma’am.”

She looked at my hand as if it were covered in germs. “I know you. You went to school with my granddaughter.”

That didn’t narrow it down.

“Go away, Rosie,” Grandpa grunted. “I don’t want you in my bedroom. There’s nothing in here for you.”

Rosie.

“Ah. Holley and Ivy’s grandmother?” I asked politely.

Her eyes narrowed even further. “Who else’s grandmother would I be?”

“There were lots of girls he went to school with, you daft woman!” Grandpa’s voice raised a few decibels. “Your granddaughters aren’t the only ones in the world!”

“Oh, be quiet, you ornery bastard,” Rosie shot back, waving her cane enthusiastically in his direction. “I wasn’t talking to you!”

“Good! I don’t want you talking to me! Now get out and take my grandson with you!”

“Oooh!” She wiggled her cane in a more threatening manner. “And here I was about to give you a tip about those darn afternoon walks they insist we take!”

I blinked. “Mrs. Stuart, he has to take that—”

“You keep out of this, boy.” Grandpa sniffed and leaned forward, his wrinkled hands clasping the arms of his chair. “What tip?”

“You can swivel on it now!” Rosie barked. “You’re coming with the rest of us, Amos!”