The Sweetest Game (The Perfect Game 3)

“Your hand. I see you tucking it against you every now and then, and I wondered if it hurts. ”

I looked down at the cast covering my pitching arm. “Do I really do that? I didn’t notice. ”

“That’s not an answer,” he said.

I hadn’t admitted it to anyone. Not even to the team’s doctor, but yes, my hand hurt. It fucking killed me. As far as they knew, I was taking their prescribed painkillers. But the truth was that I wasn’t.

“Yeah, it hurts,” I admitted.

“How bad?”

“It’s a constant pain. I can feel my heart beating in my fingertips. It fucking kills me. ”

Dean’s head tipped to one side as though he were confused, or worried. “That can’t be good. They gave you painkillers, right?”

I nodded sharply.

“They’re not working, then? You have to tell them. ”

I huffed out a breath. “I’m not taking them. ”

“What? Why on earth not?” His face scrunched up with confusion and I looked around at the green trees surrounding us.

“Because I don’t do that shit. I don’t do drugs. I’ve never taken a painkiller in my life and I’ve heard they’re addictive. What if I get addicted to them?”

Dean laughed. Full-out belly laughed, and I resisted punching him in the gut to shut him up.

“You’re not going to get addicted,” he said. “Just cut them in half. Whenever you start to feel the pain, take half of whatever they prescribed you. Soon, the pain will stop and you won’t need them. You’re not Superman, Jack. ”

“Says you. ”

“I say that because I know you, brother,” he insisted.

“And I say no because I’ve seen way too many guys get addicted to shit. I refuse to be one of them. ”

He sighed, clearly more convinced of my own strength than I was. “Here. ” He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and tossed it onto my lap.

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s a letter from Gran. ”

“You read it?” I asked, my tone defensive.

He frowned at me and snapped, “Does it look like I read it?”

I turned the envelope around, and ripped open the seal.

Dear Jack,

Sometimes life doesn’t unfold the way we want it to. You, of all people, have learned that lesson all too well. First with your parents, then with Cassie and that other horrible girl, and now with baseball.

Gramps and I are so sorry that your hand is broken. And we know how much you must be hurting because of it. But, Jack, I’m hearing things about your behavior and attitude toward your wife that I cannot condone. I did not raise you to be mean, rude, or disrespectful to the one person who has loved you at your worst.

I know you feel as though your life IS baseball, but the reality is your life is so much more than just your chosen profession. True, baseball is a part of your life, but it is only a part. No matter how wholeheartedly you think differently, you are not baseball, and baseball is not you. It will not last forever. Nothing does, dear. Nothing except love, of course.

Eventually your hand will heal, but if you ruin things with your wife, I fear your heart never will. Remember how it felt to lose her. And don’t let it happen again.

Remember who you are. You’re Jack Carter, the boy with the unbreakable spirit and resolve. The boy who doesn’t take no for an answer when it’s something he wants. You’ve been like that since you were five years old. And I know you haven’t changed. So stop throwing this little pity party of yours and get your priorities straight.