by Kate, Jiffy
We arrived in Minnesota yesterday and were greeted with photographers—at the airport, hotel, ballpark. Who would’ve thought my relationship or break-up would garner this much attention? Not me.
“I don’t want to cause the team any extra cost or work,” I say, adjusting the laces on my cleats. “And I’m sorry about it.” Glancing up, I see Skip wince a little but then he shakes his head.
“It’s not ideal,” he says quietly, scrubbing at the scruff on his jaw. “I’m not in the no-publicity-is-bad-publicity camp...I tend to lean to the no-news-is-good-news when it comes to my players’ personal lives.”
I nod, blowing out a breath. “Again, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I had no idea—”
Skip holds up a hand to stop me. “No apologies necessary. I think this frenzy has caught everyone off guard. I’ve been around this business long enough to know that no one can predict what will catch the public’s eye. Who knows why they’re so obsessed with what you had for lunch yesterday or where you go after a game.” Skip laughs, shaking his head again. “I just want you to know that if it gets to be too much, let us know and we’ll see what the front office can do to diffuse the situation.”
I appreciate his offer, really, I do, but I also don’t know if what he or anyone else can do to put an end to this chaos. “Thanks, Skip.” Standing, I walk to the locker I’ve been assigned while we’re here and close the door. “But I don’t think it’ll be a problem much longer.”
The sinking, gut-wrenching feeling I get every time I think about Charlotte hits me.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Skip says, “what makes you think that?”
I shrug, trying to play it off like I have every other time Davies or Mack have asked about me and Charlotte. “Call it intuition,” I tell him. “She’s back in L.A. ...I’m here.” She said she’d be back. I want to believe that—believe her, believe in us—but my mind plays tricks on me these days, trying to convince me that what I thought we had was made up.
Skip nods, but the look on his face tells me he knows what I just dished was a large helping of bullshit. “Okay,” he finally says, slapping me on the shoulder. “Good talk...I need you to get out there today and play a good game.”
“Yes, sir.” I’m going to try. That’s the goal, anyway. I’ll admit my mind has been elsewhere lately, but I’ve managed to play some decent games. So, hopefully today will be no different, and hopefully, in a few weeks, all of this will be a distant memory. Charlotte will be back in New Orleans and all will be right in my world.
All I have to do is ignore the way my heart squeezes every time her face pops into my head, which is basically every fucking second of the day.
If I had a penny for every time I’ve thought about Charlotte Carradine, I’d only have one...because I’ve never stopped. Since the first night, when she climbed into the passenger seat of my car, I’ve been lost to her, but also found. She unlocked a part of my heart I didn’t think existed, giving my first love—baseball—a run for its money. She showed me I could play the game and have a life outside of it. And for that, I’ll be forever grateful.
Shaking off the heaviness I keep feeling whenever I think about her, I walk out to the field, just in time to hit some balls. And then, I field some. The methodical nature of the sport, relieving some of the tension that’s built back up in my shoulders, tension I haven’t felt in a while, thanks to Charlotte.
Nope.
Keep your head in the game, Bo.
Davies, sensing my uptight demeanor, jogs over to me and I feel like I’m in for a pep talk or some kind of Dr. Phil moment, but instead, he just slaps me on the shoulder and says, “Let’s run it off.” He motions with his head beyond the bases and we begin to make our way around the field, catching the eyes of a few of the early birds in the stands. Some of them holler at us, to which we smile and wave.
“Look,” Davies says, pointing up into the stands. “Bo’s Babes have taken their game on the road.”
I look up into the bleachers as we pass by and sure enough, the purple and gold shirts with Bo’s Babes emblazoned across the chest are well-represented, especially for an away game in fucking Minnesota.
“You’re here a few months and you already have your own fucking fan club,” Davies scoffs. “I’ve been here five years and nothing.”
We both laugh, knowing he’s gotten a lot out of his five years playing for the Revelers. Just last year he was up for the Cy Young Award, the most prestigious award for pitchers. Another solid season and I see no reason why he won’t be the recipient, especially if we can make the playoffs again. Winning the pennant would put him in the top position, no doubt.
I get the feeling this little jaunt around the field is to help me clear my head and focus on what’s right in front of me—baseball. It’s a game I know and love, and it doesn’t need a break or space. It needs me to be the best player I can be. My team is counting on me.
“Whatever, man,” I say, blowing off his statement as we make our way down the left field, heading up toward the dugout. “I’m just here to play ball.” We both know having your very own cheering section, especially one filled with pretty girls with your name on their chest, is kind of a big deal, but I’m not one to let shit like that go to my head.
“That’s right,” Davies says, slowing his run to a jog. “You’re here to play ball.”
The unspoken don’t forget that lies heavily in the air around us. “You don’t have any control over other people’s actions and decisions, but you do have control over this,” he says, thumbing over his shoulder to the diamond behind him. “Trust in that...and trust that everything else will fall into place.”
I nod, squinting up at him and realizing for the first time that he looks a little weary himself. I want to ask what’s going on, but I know Davies is a very private person. If he wants to talk about, he will. “Thanks,” I tell him, not just for the run, but for everything. But I don’t need to say that. He knows.
Slapping my shoulder, he jogs off to the mound, ready to throw a few practice balls with Mack, who looks my way and gives me his own nod.
After we warm-up and everyone is loose and ready for the game, we clear the field and head into the locker room to wait it out. One thing a lot of people don’t realize is that there is a shit ton of waiting in baseball, especially at away games. Dress out and wait. Hit some balls and wait. Warm-up and wait. That’s where all the video games and card games come into play.
Once we’re all in the locker room, Skip gives us a good talk about Minnesota and game strategy. He lays out the batting order, which rarely changes much these days. After playing together for two months, we’ve become a fairly well-oiled machine. There will be some adjustments coming as we approach the All-Star break, but not many. We’re playing good, solid ball. When he’s finished, everyone breaks off to do their own thing and I settle in at one of the corners, leaning up against a wall and closing my eyes.
I need to just zone out for a few, clear my mind and be ready to play.
“Bennett,” one of the other players says, drawing me out of my meditative state. “Yo, Bennett.”
Snapping my head up, I look across the locker room to see Jay Dunavin staring down at his phone, obviously reading something. I swear to God, if he asks me about Charlotte’s supposed pregnancy or how I feel about the break-up, I might lose my cool. Everyone in here knows it’s off fucking limits, she’s off fucking limits. Earlier in the week, back in our home locker room, Davies had set everyone straight on that matter.
“It, uh...it says here,” he says, his voice sounding a little nervous...or maybe worried. “Man, it says that Charlotte’s been in some kind of accident.”
I literally feel the blood draining from my face, and then the rest of my body, as I jump to my feet and walk over to him, snatching the phone from him.
On the screen, a news article is pulled up, like one of those you see on social media websites.
Actress and singer, Charlotte Carradine, 29, w
as involved in a car accident yesterday evening. Police report that the celebrity was being followed at high speeds by an SUV. The driver of the vehicle transporting Ms. Carradine made a turn down a side road in downtown L.A., reaching speeds of over 80mph. A car crossing the road her vehicle was traveling down caused the driver to swerve and hit a light post. Early reports indicate the driver was taken to Cedars-Sinai in critical condition. Details of Ms. Carradine’s condition are still unknown.
Ms. Carradine has been the focus of a recent media frenzy surrounding her relationship with baseball star, Bo Bennett, and her new album due to be released later this month...
The rest of the words on the screen blur as my vision goes hazy, my ears ringing.
I vaguely register a hand on my shoulder and someone taking the phone from me, voices speaking low, and people moving around me. But I can’t think or breathe for what feels like minutes...maybe longer.
She can’t be…
No.
She’s...she’s...
I can’t think the words that are trying to force their way into my brain.
She’s alive. I know she is. If she wasn’t, I would feel it. I would know. Something as bright and wonderful as Charlotte Carradine can’t leave this earth without the entire world feeling it.
“Bo,” Davies’ voice is close, the hand on my shoulder tightens.
“I need to go,” I tell him, shaking myself out of the stupor. “I need to find her...see her,” I tell him, swallowing down the razor blade in my throat. “I need to know she’s okay.”
Two hours later, I’m on a chartered flight to L.A. Thanks to Skip and whoever else is in charge of this shit for the team. I’ll have to figure that out and thank them...somehow. No one even blinked an eye when I said I need to leave to go to Charlotte. It was understood. And I’ll never forget that. Ever. Because they normally wouldn’t do this, Skip informed the media I was due for a day off. They’re letting Val Salito get some in some innings, buying me twenty-four hours.
I came into this season, this team, looking for success as a player, but what I found is so much more than that. I’ve found camaraderie, support I didn’t even know I needed, and a family. Before now, I’d never given much thought about what my career would look like. As long as I was playing ball, that’s all that mattered. But now, I can’t imagine playing for another team. The Revelers have become family in a short period of time and I’m hoping to be here for the long haul.
The entire flight is spent scouring the gossip columns and celebrity news sites. When I left, I had no clue what to do or where to go, other than L.A. I figure I’ll call Casey once I’ve landed and force her into telling me where Charlotte is, if I haven’t discovered that information on my own before then.
Every website is buzzing with talk about the accident. Commenters on all the social media sites are furious about the paparazzi’s involvement. They’re outraged, calling for something to be done to protect celebrities. Normally, I’d shut this shit down, but their anger mirrors my own. For once, I want what they want. I want justice for Charlotte and people like her—people who want to live their lives, their dreams, without paying the ultimate price.
And I want her to be okay.
More than anything, I need her to be okay.
Mid-flight, I try Casey’s number, but it goes to voicemail. I don’t leave a message. Instead, open my texts, figuring she’s more likely to reply through a text message than an actual phone call.
Bo: I heard about the accident. I’m on my way to L.A. Where is she?
There’s no bubble, no indication she’s responding, so I close it out and go back to the other tabs I have open. One of the news websites has updated their article and my heart jolts in anticipation.
Charlotte Carradine was admitted to UCLA Medical Center with unknown injuries.
What the fuck?
I squeeze my phone and think about launching it, but I’m on a plane and I need this phone. It’s my only lifeline to information regarding Charlotte, so I reign it in. But seriously, they know what she had for breakfast yesterday and what color shirt she’s worn for the past two fucking months, yet they don’t know what the extent of her injuries are? That’s fucking bullshit.
I need something, anything...I’m just looking for a little reassurance here that the woman I so obviously love will be okay.
Yeah, I fucking love her.
I knew I did three days ago when she basically told me we’re on a break. I knew then that I’ll wait for her as long as she needs me to wait. The way my heart felt when I found out she’d left for L.A. with no concrete plans on when she’d return, I knew.
Pretty sure I’ve never been on my phone as much as I am the four hours it takes to fly from Minneapolis to L.A. My thumb hurts from scrolling page after page, clinging to the one thing I’ve come to hate over the last two months—the fucking media—begging them for something...anything to let me know she’s going to be okay.
When the plane begins its descent, I open my texts back up and make sure I didn’t miss anything from Casey, but there’s nothing. So, once we’re on the tarmac, I take the offered mode of transportation and ask the driver to take me to UCLA Medical Center.
I have no idea what I’m walking into or if I’ll even be welcome once I get there, but I have to try.
The forty-minute drive feels like pure torture, worse than the four-hour flight, because now I’m close. I’m in walking distance to her. If I had to walk, I would. I’d fucking crawl down the 405, if worse came to worse.
My knee bounces with nervous energy as I will the traffic to part like the Red Sea. Thankfully, the driver is great and he seems to feel the urgency bubbling off me. Once he pulls up to the hospital, I hop out with only my phone in hand. I didn’t even fucking grab a bag. I just changed into street clothes and hauled ass to the airport. I figured I’d work the rest out once I got here.
Walking into the main part of the hospital, I realize that with Charlotte being who she is, there is no fucking way they’re just going to direct me to her room. I mean, this is L.A., they’re used to having well-known people in their care. I’m sure there are major protocols in place to keep their identities and conditions under wraps.
Turning around, I look through the faces of people waiting, hoping for someone I recognize, preferably Casey. She’d help me get to Charlotte. I know she would. But she’s nowhere to be seen. Taking my chances, I walk up to the desk and collect myself before asking, “Could you tell me what room Charlotte Carradine is in?”
The smirk on the lady’s face tells me she’s not going to be easy. “And you are?”
“Bo Bennett,” I tell her, hoping that maybe my name will ring a bell. If she hasn’t been living under a rock for the past month, surely she’s seen mine and Charlotte’s name connected in hundreds of articles. There is a slight shift in her demeanor, but the no-nonsense attitude remains.
“I can’t give out that information to anyone who isn’t family,” she informs and hesitates a beat. “I’m sorry.”
I try to judge that sentiment and pick it apart. Is she sorry she can’t tell me the room? Or is she sorry about Charlotte? Or me and Charlotte? Or the whole fucking messed up situation?
At my wits end, I run a hand down my face and then back up, gripping at the short strands of hair. “Listen,” I tell her, trying to keep my fucking cool. “I really need to see her. And I know she’s here...and I know she’ll want to see me.” If she’s conscious, I think to myself. “Maybe you could get a message to her for me?”
I’m desperate.
She squints an eye, obviously thinking about my offer, but unsure, so I continue.
“I’ll just write down my name and a short message. And then I’ll wait over there,” I say, turning to point at a waiting area off to the side. “I promise I won’t try to sneak up to the floor or anything.” Which I had thought about, but I definitely don’t need a run-in with hospital security to go along with everything else. “Just a note,” I plead.
I nod, letting the pen in my hand hover over the paper. Now what? What do I say? Clearing my throat, I try to collect my thoughts and decide to go with the basics.
I just need to see you and make sure you’re okay. Please. -Bo
I want to tell her I love her, but I don’t want to put that on a piece of paper that could end up in a gossip column. Not that I think Nancy here will be selling it to the highest bidder, but when I tell Charlotte I love her, I want to be looking into her gorgeous brown eyes, not at a piece of hospital stationary.
Ripping the paper off the pad, I fold it in half and then in half again and hand it over to the lady behind the desk.
“Wait over there,” she instructs and stands from the desk.
I let out a breath, blowing up my cheeks and expelling it, hoping that it won’t be much longer. Walking over to the windows, I pace the small space and wait...and wait. Eventually, I find a corner chair, facing the direction Nancy walked, and set up watch.
When a man in a three-piece navy blue suit walks into my line of vision, blocking me from seeing the front desk, I lean to the side.
“Bo Bennett?” he asks, all business, causing me to whip my head back to him. And then it hits me, I know exactly who he is and what little hope I was clinging to begins to dissolve. “Terry Carlson,” he informs, offering his hand to shake.
I take it, and I make sure to squeeze hard enough to leave an impression.
“Listen,” he begins and I can already tell I’m not going to like what he has to say. “Ms. Carradine is in a...delicate situation…”
“Delicate?” I ask, unsure of what that even means. And Charlotte...excuse me, Ms. Carradine is a lot of things, but delicate has never been one of them.
“Yes,” he continues, full-on bullshit mode. “What with the media attention and the accident. It’s crucial we play our cards right.”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I ask, feeling my entire body heat up at the rage that’s coursing through it. “She’s in a fucking hospital and you’re worried about playing fucking cards?” I grit out through my clenched teeth.
