“I feel one hundred percent,” I reply honestly. “I’m not achy or sore anymore.”
“Ever?” he asks with a raised brow.
“If I push myself too hard, I feel it,” I admit. There’s no need to lie. This isn’t going to put me out of the game forever.
Thank Christ.
“That’s to be expected,” Doc replies with a nod. “I’m going to keep you out for the rest of this season, but keep doing what you’re doing, and you’ll be ready for spring training.”
“This is great news,” Coach says with a sigh. I know that he and everyone else were worried that I wouldn’t come back from this.
It terrified the fuck out of me.
“What can I expect when I return?” I ask.
“Good question,” Doc says. “There are a number of possibilities. You could lose or gain velocity on your fastball. You could tire more quickly, and you’d need to be replaced early in a game.”
“Fuck that,” I mutter.
“But you could also come back stronger than ever, and never have another problem. We won’t really know until it happens.”
“What, exactly, have you been doing?” A young female trainer named Julie asks. “Can you walk us through your routine? The exercises you’re doing? How it feels in your shoulder when you do them?”
I comply, describing the hours and hours of hard work, pushing and pulling weights, executing pushups with Gabby or Sam on my back, and the dozens of other small range-of-motion exercises I put my shoulders through every day.
“In the beginning, it hurt like a sonofabitch,” I say with a rueful smile. “And now I’m able to flow from one exercise to the next. If I push too hard, it aches. It doesn’t feel like it’s going to tear again; it simply feels tired. But I ice it and rest it for a day, and I’m fine.”
“When can we start advertising that Rhys is returning?” Melanie Sloan, my publicist, asks.
“Whenever you like,” Doc replies. “He’ll be back in the spring.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “I’m ready to get back to work.”
“Enjoy a few more months off,” Coach says as we all stand to leave. “I’m going to work your ass off before long.”
He isn’t lying.
Coach Adams is the most demanding, hard-ass coach I’ve ever worked for.
And I admire and respect him like no other.
He demands a work ethic from each of his players that is unparalleled. He expects a lot from us, but that’s what gets the job done.
I just smile and follow him out of the room.
“Don’t forget,” Melanie says in her stern voice as she follows behind us. “You have to film the commercial for the Children’s Hospital in about five weeks.”
“I’ll be back for it,” I reply. “Don’t worry.”
“You’re not the one I have to worry about,” she says. “But it doesn’t hurt to remind you.”
One of the trainers catches Coach’s attention, giving me a second to check my phone. No messages from Gabby. I haven’t heard from her all day. I’ve sent several texts, and even tried to call once, but she isn’t answering.
I’m getting worried.
I quickly type out another message.
How’s your day going?
There are handshakes and man-hugs exchanged as the trainers and Melanie leave, and now it’s just Coach and me.
“I heard what you did for Neil,” he begins, following me to my rental car. I lean my ass on the driver’s window, facing the man who’s almost as tall as me, and at fifty-five, almost as fit as me too.
“I was surprised that he drove all the way to New Orleans,” I reply.
“I’m not. I was hoping he would when I told him he needed a week off to get his shit straight.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Better.” Coach sighs and drops his hands into his pockets. “And how are you? Really?”
“I told you, I’m—”
“I know what you told the doctor to get cleared to play. And I’m fucking relieved as fuck that you’ll be back in the spring. But how are you?”
How am I? I brush my hand over my mouth, thinking of Gabby and Sam and the inn. Despite being out for the season, I’m content.
I’m happy.
“I’m doing really well.”
“Who is she?” Coach asks with a twitch to his lips. He’s always been an arrogant know-it-all ass.
Of course, he’s always right.
“Gabby,” I reply softly and stare at the mostly empty parking lot.
“And she lives in New Orleans?”
“About thirty minutes outside of the city, yes. She runs the inn that I’ve been staying at.”
“An innkeeper.” He raises a shaggy grey brow. “Hard worker.”
He’s always right.
“Fucking hard worker,” I agree with a nod. “She’s beautiful. Smart. So much smarter than me.” I smile and shake my head, rubbing the back of my neck anxiously.
Why am I anxious?
“She has a little boy. He’s seven, and probably the biggest Cubs fan there is.”
“I bet he’s enjoying having you around,” Coach says with a smile.
“I enjoy having him around too. He’s as smart as his mom, and the things he says are funny.”
“You’re in love with them.”
I sigh and nod and then I just stare at this man that I trust as much as I trust anyone in my life.
“I don’t know what the fuck to do about it.”