I wanted to laugh, but Hipster showed up and put his arm around Mallory’s shoulders. She shook him off, stepping away with a shy grin. He touched her arm, and she didn’t move away from that. Weird. Were they dating? Were they just friends? Or did he want more and she didn’t? I wondered what her type would really be. Somehow my gut told me it wasn’t Hipster.
It was none of my business.
Turning back to the TV, I tried to focus on the game.
I have no idea who won.
Chapter Six
Mallory and I met every evening, adjusting our schedules as needed. I started randomly sending baseball trivia to her, and she always answered within a matter of seconds. Toward the end of the week, she started to send me history questions from our sessions.
Mallory: Who was Richard Nixon’s running mate in the 1960 election?
Even using my favorite search engines, it took me ten minutes to find the right answer. I triple-checked my sources. Okay, it didn’t help that I was looking up the matchups for the next game, either. I felt like an idiot for not knowing it off the top of my head like she always did with my baseball trivia, but I added more info than she asked for. I hoped it’d score me some bonus points.
Me: Henry Cabot Lodge, Jr. Nixon was defeated by John F. Kennedy.
Mallory: Monroe will be glad to know you’re paying attention. :)
Me: My tutor’s a real hard-ass. She’d string me up if I didn’t.
Mallory: A hard-ass, huh? You wouldn’t happen to mean that in a different way, would you?
Me: Who me? I’ve never checked out your ass. Well…
Mallory: ???
Me: Not that you know of.
Nothing. I shouldn’t have gone there. Then my phone dinged.
Mallory: And vice versa. Have a good weekend. See you Monday.
I read the text three times. Did she just admit to checking me out? I read it a fourth time just to be sure before I responded.
Me: There’s a party at the Gamma house tomorrow. You should come by.
Mallory: Frat parties aren’t really my thing. Besides, I have plans. Sorry.
So she had plans. Again. Did she mean to tell me this, or was she just using it as an excuse to blow off the invite?
Me: Maybe next time.
Mallory: Maybe.
I tucked my phone into my pocket and limped down the hall of my dorm. I’d ditched the crutches a few days back, but the monster brace wouldn’t be replaced until the doc okayed it.
The crisp October air bit at the back of my neck. I never understood what it was about October, but the minute the calendar changed, the weather flicked like a switch. Two weeks ago I’d worn shorts to class, now it was sweats and a hoodie. Maybe I’d get that new, smaller brace so I could wear jeans. I almost laughed at the thought. When did I start caring about what I wore?
Dad sat in his diesel pickup, looking every bit the disgruntled farmer he pretended to be. Our family owned the largest implement shop in southeastern Iowa. We farmed on the side, too, but the dealership was where the real money came in. Combines, tractors, balers, you name it, we sold it. On top of that, we customized paint jobs, adding family names or even crests, and had the best mechanics in the area. If there was an issue with a tractor, Betts Family Farm and Implement had the solution.
“Hey,” I said after pulling myself into the cab.
Dad grunted and put the truck in drive.
“What’s up?” I asked, knowing the telltale frown that covered his face better than anyone else in the family.
“What makes you think something’s wrong, boy?” He glanced at me before making a left turn.
“Well, you’re grumpier than usual, old man.” I bent my knee as far as the brace allowed, stifling the groan that filled my chest.
Dad grunted again. He drove with his right hand while he rested his chin between his thumb and first finger on his left. His brows furrowed, drawing deep lines into his forehead.
“Mom okay?” I prodded.
“Your mother’s fine.”
“Chelsea?”
“Little sister’s fine, too.”
Tense silence filled the car. I wanted to ask about work, but his expression made me keep my mouth shut. It bothered me he wasn’t talking. Not that my father was ever a big talker, but normally he didn’t hide anything from me.
“Did you watch the game last night?” I asked, relying on the only thing we had in common anymore. “Carpenter smoked that ball in the eighth.”
Dad nodded, becoming more animated as he started reliving the game. We took it play by play, inning by inning. Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the hospital’s parking lot and had only covered a third of the game.
Madison Memorial Hospital was a small building where most people went for emergencies or to have babies. The surgery center wasn’t that big and mainly focused on smaller surgeries like mine. Anyone who needed their hearts fixed or brains cleaned up went to Iowa City or Des Moines. Apprehension tightened my gut as I stared at the doctor’s building where the offices were nestled on the third and fourth floors.
Dad didn’t wait as he headed toward the entrance. I hobbled behind him, putting pressure on my repaired leg like I was told to do. It didn’t hurt so much as it felt like a tight pinch in my knee. Until I tried to bend it too far. Then it hurt worse than fifty beestings.
Dr. Cooper’s office was on the fourth floor. Dad remained in quiet, pensive mode even though we were the only ones in the elevator. Fortunately, the waiting room was empty, but we still had another fifteen minutes before the nurse led us back to an exam room. The waiting sucked. It smelled too much like hospital and not enough like recovery.
I sat on the table, watching my father thumb through a worn copy of Outsiders Magazine.
“All right, Dad, tell me what’s going on.” I scooted back on the table, stretching my knee in front of me. The snaps along the side of my sweats were opened so my brace and still swollen knee were visible. I cringed at the red scars left by the staples.
The door opened, letting Dad off the hook.
“How’s it going, Aaron?” Dr. Cooper asked as he stared at my chart with a perpetual frown. The lights ricocheted off his crisp white jacket and gleaming stethoscope, blinding me.
I blinked back the bright orbs dotting my vision and shrugged. “It’s going.”
Dad grunted.
“Knee doing okay?” Dr. Cooper sat on his stool and rolled next to the exam table. I didn’t think it was possible for him to frown deeper, but he managed it once the brace was free from my leg.
“It’s still there.”
“I’m going to have to drain some fluid.” His cold hand slipped under my knee, slowly bending it. How did doctors manage to have the coldest hands in the world? Was that a prerequisite for med school?
“Ow,” I whimpered when the pain became too much. My knee was at a thirty-degree angle, but the lightning bolt began sizzling way before that.
“Aaron, I’m not going to lie to you. You’re not healing as well as I’d like at this point.” Dr. Cooper stared at me from over his half-moon glasses. “There’s too much swelling, and you should be able to bend it to a forty-five-degree angle. When did you stop using the crutches?”
Disappointment sat on my chest like a broken anvil. I’d done everything he told me. I’d followed directions, taken my painkillers, stayed off my knee. Why wasn’t it better? “Few days ago.”
“I want you back on them for a couple more days. That’s probably what’s causing the swelling. And I’m going to up your prednisone.” He rolled back to the desk and pulled some papers off the back of his clipboard.
“Not that,” I said under my breath.
Dr. Cooper turned around on his stool. “You’ve been taking it, right?”
I shook my head. Dad grunted next to me, but he didn’t say a word. I didn’t want to take the prednisone. It was a steroid.
“Aaron, prednisone may be a steroid, but it’s okay by the school’s regulations.”
Dr. Cooper leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’ve had this discussion. You know this. It’s not cheating. It’s going to help you recover. Take the prednisone, okay?”
I nodded. He was right. I double-checked with Coach and Dr. Ross, the athletic director. Prednisone was okay—it’s not an anabolic steroid. I just didn’t like the idea of using. But if it would help me get better, I’d get used to it. I needed to be back on the field. Sure, I could hold out until my senior year to get drafted, but that would put me off my schedule of making it to the big leagues by the time I was twenty-three. I needed at least two years in the minors to prove myself.
“I’m going to have Helen call the athletic department to schedule your physical therapy, three times a week.” He rolled back toward me, offering the papers. “Here are some exercises I want you to do daily, but don’t overdo it. If you feel pain, back off. If the swelling doesn’t go down by Monday, call the office immediately. We may have to go back in. If it does go down, I’ll see you again in two weeks.”
“You mean I need another surgery?” I wasn’t going to let that happen. It couldn’t happen. If he cut me open again, I’d be done for sure.
“If I had to give an honest assessment now, I’d say it’s unlikely. The swelling is probably caused by getting off the crutches too soon and putting too much strain on the repairs.” Doc smiled and glanced toward my dad, who I was sure held on to this conversation like it was his knee. “Stay off it. No unnecessary strain. I mention the possibility of a second surgery so you’re prepared if that does in fact happen.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. I needed to make sure that possibility went away.
Doc drained my knee, and I did everything I could not to watch him. It wasn’t my idea of interesting. After the nurse came back in to check my vitals and scheduled the first PT appointment for Monday afternoon, Dad and I went to a nearby diner for an early dinner.
The 9er Diner was the type of greasy spoon favored by truckers and locals. It’d been around for as long as Dad could remember. He used to come here with his team after home games when he went to Westland. The waitress took our orders and shook her hips as she walked away.
“Wish you had better news,” Dad finally said after our ice teas were dropped off.
“Me too.” I used my spoon to steal his slice of lemon and shoved it to the bottom of my glass. “But it wasn’t all bad. There’s still a chance.”
“Yeah, but I don’t like how he had to drain your knee.” Dad stirred sugar into his glass. “You been doing things you ain’t supposed to?”
“Jesus, Dad, I’m following doctor’s orders.”
“Except the meds.”
“Yeah, except that. I’ll start taking them.” I dropped my spoon to the table with a clatter. “And maybe it’s just not healing by the averages. It’s not like I’ve been through this before.”
“Just worried about you, boy. That’s all.” He sipped his tea, adding an exaggerated sigh of pleasure at the end. The tea wasn’t that good.
“I’ll get better. I’ll play this spring, get drafted in June.” I tapped the table. “We just need to stick to the plan.”
Dad grunted. He wasn’t a fan of the plan. When I laid it out for him, he thought I was putting too much pressure on myself, that I’d make the majors when it was time, not on my own timetable.
It was easier to let it go, change the subject. “Now you going to tell me what’s going on back home?”
“Ah, it’s nothing. Dutch quit and left me in a bind today.” He shook his head and spun his glass around in circles. “Your mother and Chelsea got it covered, but…”
“But what?”
“I hate doing this, but until I find someone to replace Dutch, I ain’t going to be able to come here to take you to your appointments.” Sighing, he fell back into the booth and ran his hand over his face. “You ain’t going to be able to drive that stick of yours until after you see the doc again, so don’t even think about it. That thing’s hard on my knees, and I ain’t had recent surgery.”
I laughed and relaxed for the first time since getting into his truck. “That’s what’s bugging you? Dad, I’ve got friends who will take me. I’m sure Coach wouldn’t mind helping out, either. And I can call a cab if I have to. Don’t worry about it.”
“You sure? I hate leaving you in the lurch like this. And your mother would feel better if one of us was with you during the appointments.” Dad leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“I’m positive.”
“All right, then. But I want updates. Regular ones.” He tapped the table before pointing at me. “And the business will be fine. Don’t worry about that one bit. Focus on getting better so you can play. The scouts need to see you healthy.”
The waitress appeared, bearing two plates of open-faced roast beef sandwiches smothered in gravy. My mouth watered just looking at them.
“Y’all need anything else?” she asked, winking at my father.
I think I threw up a little.
Dad shook his head.
Once she was out of earshot, I snickered.
“What?”
“You still got it, old man. She was all over you like flies on shit.” I laughed louder as his face crumbled.
He glanced at the waitress behind the counter. “She ain’t that bad, boy.” He took a huge bite of his food. “How’s that girlfriend of yours, anyway? You ain’t talked about her in a while.”
I hadn’t told my family about Trish. There wasn’t any reason to not tell him. The hope she’d change her mind shriveled up pretty quick once I got back to campus. Losing Trish was just another failure in my long list lately. I stuffed my mouth and chewed slowly, but that wasn’t going to stop the inevitable. “She dumped me.”
“She wasn’t ever good enough for you, Aaron. Better to learn that now than after you got a ring on her finger.” Dad pointed at me again, but this time with his fork.
I hadn’t expected that. It made me feel a little better Dad didn’t care. Mom might be another issue, since she loved Trish, but she’d have to get over it. “Thanks, old man.”
Dad nodded. He started chatting about the usual. We fell into our old pattern of baseball, baseball, and more baseball. Seemed like that was all we ever talked about. At least we had that. Some people didn’t.
Someone shoved a red cup into my hand, sloshing beer over my fingers. The frat house filled up faster than a feed trough with pig snouts. Girls slinked in wearing short skirts and revealing tops, sending most guys into a different kind of studying with a different kind of head. Mallory wouldn’t have fit in with this crowd. Half of my brain was glad she’d turned me down.
The sweat, stench of alcohol, and the unmistakable odor of pot filled the air. It closed in on me. I’ve never been one for tight spaces, but a party didn’t usually affect me. My heart galloped in my chest. I had to get out. I needed to get fresh air. And space. Lots of space.
“Hey, Chuck, let me borrow your car.” I tapped my friend on his shoulder, almost knocking his drunk ass off-balance.
“You been drinking?” he asked.
“I can’t until the meds are out of my system. Just give me the keys, dickhead. I’m a better driver than you are sober.”
Chuck pulled his keys from his pocket and dropped them in my outstretched hand. “Just take care of her. She’s the most loyal girl I have.”
I slapped him on the back, knocking him into a blonde with tits on the verge of bursting from her too tight top.
“Well, hello,” Chuck said with a shit-eating grin on his face.
I fought through the crowd toward the front door. Just in time to see Trent and Trish walk in. They were already pawing at each other like animals in a zoo. When we went out, Trish had a rule about public displays of affection. Guess that went out the window. I circled around them, hoping neither would see me.
Unfortunately, someone else did.
“Hey, you’re Aaron Betts, right?” A tall brunette with too much make
up stepped in front of me. “Are you as good with a bat as they say you are?”
“Better.” I smiled and made a move to go around her. “Excuse me.”
“Leaving so soon?” she asked, stepping back into my path.
“Sorry, but I’ve got somewhere to be.” I let my gaze take in her tight body. It hadn’t been that long since a girl like this hit on me, but I wasn’t single then.
Nah, one night wouldn’t be worth it. That wasn’t me. I needed more than a quick release.
“Sounds like you’ll be back.” She pressed her body into mine. Rum mixed with her powerful floral perfume. And it didn’t mix well. “Look for me, okay?”
I smiled and slid away from her. “Not likely,” I muttered more to myself than to her.
Driving around Madison usually cleared my head. Seeing Trish practically screwing Trent in front of me, in front of pretty much everyone who mattered to me, set me on edge. I could’ve just screwed the first girl I saw. But I didn’t. My parents didn’t raise me to be a selfish prick. I needed to straighten out my head, except the drive wasn’t working. Partying and shopping were just about the only things to do on a Saturday night. Neither of those appealed to me, and I needed to get out of the car.
Chuck’s wussy car slipped into almost any spot. The two-door hatchback was bright yellow, and we quickly dubbed it The Lemon as soon as he drove it on campus. Thing was, The Lemon did not live up to its name. The car hadn’t broken down once since Chuck bought it.
Climbing out of the driver’s side, I glanced around Madison’s hipster shopping district, a series of old warehouses repurposed into Bohemian shops on the ground floor and loft apartments above the stores, known as HighSide. It was old school meets new school with Christmas lights decorating the sidewalks all year long. The exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows of CuppaJo called my name. I’d discovered the place by accident when Chelsea showed up on campus last year after “running away.” It was artsy and not my thing, but my sister loved it. Too bad I couldn’t add a shot of Bailey’s to the coffee, though. Caffeine wasn’t a substitute for getting sloshed, but a couple shots of espresso would give me a buzz that wouldn’t interfere with my meds.
Full Count (Westland University) Page 4
