By the time their victims sensed danger, it was too late.
Unfortunately for him, I’d had my fill of charming men and seeing my own terror-filled face reflected in the glow of their sharp-toothed grins.
6
Killian
“Baseball is the only place in life where a sacrifice is really appreciated.”
-Author Unknown
“What in the hell are you doing?”
I made a show of adjusting the pillow beneath my calf and getting comfortable before grudgingly acknowledging the two-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. My father had taken his sweet time in showing up, leading me to almost believe I was exempt from dealing with his bullshit.
“Killian Joseph, I’m speaking to you. You wanna tell me what that was back there? I come here, expecting to find you focused on healing, but instead, it’s the same dog and pony show as before. Everything’s a game to you.”
“Hey, Dad. Nice of you to show up.” I shifted my jaw from side to side. “I’m doing great, all things considered. How are things at home?”
If he was expecting a hug and a smile, he’d caught me on the wrong day.
This was all her fault.
I’d tried to do something nice, only to have it blow up in my hand like a faulty firecracker. No matter the circumstances, I’d long prided myself on my ability to stay in control. But it seemed ol’ Joe Reed suddenly had some competition in pushing me to my breaking point.
It was supposed to have been a simple apology.
“Don’t get disrespectful with me, son. I cleared my schedule to be here.”
Christ, had the world suddenly gone mad?
Leave it to Joe to have brought along the guilt trip. The man had been mostly retired from real estate for the past year. And even then, it wasn’t as if the firm he’d built was going to run itself into the ground in a single day.
“Really wish you would have called before you came down this way. I would have rearranged my schedule to miss you, and we could have avoided—whatever the hell this is.”
His eyes narrowed, but he stayed near the door. “I don’t get it, Killian. The team sent you here because they wanted to give you another chance—how many players get that? Huh? And you’re pissing it away, screwing around with other patients.”
I didn’t have time for his shit.
I was tired, and my knee needed icing—and thanks to a recent streak of shitty karma, I no longer had a plan for garnering some positive publicity.
Joe had a real knack for showing up unannounced just as everything seemed to be falling apart. He’d swoop in with his tough love speech before disappearing back to the suburbs until the next time I fucked up.
My life would forever revolve around continual drilling to be the best. Growing up, there were no neighborhood pick-up games in the dirt lot at the end of the block. Instead, I was shuttled from one facility to the next, spending my summers with the multitude of coaches my father had hired to hone my skills.
Reed men didn’t settle for anything less than perfect, even if it meant staying out well past dark, mastering the skill. Homework… friends… sleep—they all came second to the game.
To him, I was never Killian, the kid.
I was Killian, the commodity.
I’d learned to thrive under pressure, knowing he’d sunk a fortune into building my career. Bitching about my lack of a childhood now seemed petty when I considered where the rigorous training had gotten me.
“Are you committed to putting in the necessary work—”
“Or are you going to settle for being second best?” I finished with an over-the-top sigh. The phrase was just as much a backdrop of my life as a baseball diamond.
“Killian, if the Hurricanes get word you’re jacking around on their dime, you’re as good as gone,” he stated flatly, delivering the spike into my coffin with as much enthusiasm as someone giving a traffic report.
When guilt failed to yield the results he wanted, I could always count on my father to go for the jugular by casting doubt on my abilities. The seeds he planted blossomed into a colorful array of full-blown panic that kept me awake at night, convinced I was finished.
And then what?
I might have inherited his ball skills, but the similarities between us ended there. He’d easily taken to an off-field career after his injury, but the thought of trading my uniform for a suit and tie was nothing short of depressing.
I didn’t want to do anything else.
Wasn’t built for it.
“You know, Mama brought me a brand-new pair of sheepskin house shoes when she stopped by yesterday. They’re real nice too, with memory foam and shearling. But you—you show up with the same song and dance I heard last season after we lost to Toronto. And I really could have used a nice thick pair of socks to go with those shoes too.”
“Are you even listening to me?” he snapped. “What do you want me to say, knowing my only child’s career is on the brink of collapse?”
Brink of collapse?
Well, it was clear he wasn’t getting his PR talking points from Theo.
“Have you ever thought about…” I paused, taking several deep breaths until I trusted I wasn’t going to launch a barrage of insults in his direction. “Have you ever thought about not saying anything? Maybe just dropping by to see how I’m doing?”
His grim smile was all the answer I needed. “I’m here now, aren’t I? Look, I just think you’ve worked too hard to lose it all at the age of twenty-six.”
I rolled my eyes. “Lose it all? Gee, thanks, Dad. It’s nice knowing I can always count on you to not blow things out of proportion.”
The truth was staring me right in the face. My father was an old dog whose only trick seemed to be reciting some variation of the same tired schtick.
He didn’t give a damn about me. It all boiled down to the player and whether he was toeing the team’s line or not. This wound between us had been festering for going on fourteen years.
I imagined things would continue on like they always had with ol’ Joe stuck on his soapbox, holding up a tattered cardboard sign, proclaiming that the end was near.
Shape up or risk losing everything.
Not only did Reed men demand perfection, but we weren’t really big on apologies either—which brought me full circle. Since when did I care so much about what a stranger thought of me?
I’d dealt with critics my whole life—from the press who hadn’t understood the hype surrounding my name, to the rabid fans I’d had to dodge after a loss.
Never once had I felt the need to go back and apologize.
What made her any different?
Maybe it was just a temporary lapse in judgment—a combination of boredom and too much time on my hands. We were, after all, the youngest residents here by a good fifty years.
I let my father’s stern warning sink in, wondering if maybe he had it right. My future rested solely on my ability to perform—that was it. If I wanted a contract, then I had to stop fixating on anything other than coming back better than before.
Failure was only an option when it came to my relationship with him.
* * *
“How’s that feeling?” Rocky asked after adjusting the ice packs surrounding my knee. “I think with as hard as we’re pushing your body during the day, you’re going to notice more swelling in the evenings. The best thing to do is—”
“Fine.” I didn’t react to the crushed expression on his face before turning my attention back to SportsCenter. I actually hadn’t minded the nighttime therapy and icing session—even if it meant missing most of game seven of the ALCS. Nevertheless, I needed him to take the hint and get lost.
I’d been in a sour mood since my father’s visit and wanted to hear Rocky’s thoughts on cryotherapy about as much as I wanted to see Kansas City in the World Series. Judging by the highlights from tonight’s game, I was going to be out of luck on both accounts.
“Can you turn this up?” I craned my neck, strugg
ling to read the closed captioning blocks from across the room.
His posture tightened. “Sure, man. Anything else you need? Bottled water? Warm blankets? Extra pillows?”
I caught myself before I snapped and instead leveled a glare at the television. Acknowledging the jab would only make things worse.
“Alright, my bad.” Rocky cleared his throat. “I thought because you enjoyed dishing it out, you’d have no trouble taking it. Guess I was wrong, so I’ll just leave you to it.”
It appeared as if my failed apology had reached the True North rumor mill.
“Sure wish you would.” I gave him an exaggerated grin. “I’m pretty sure the team isn’t paying for your biting wit there, Rock.”
I didn’t usually mind laughing at my own expense. With Conor Bailey as a teammate, I’d learned not to take myself so seriously. That jackass was continually trying to rile me up over something.
Rocky wasn’t Bailey, though.
My teammate and best friend would have seen what I saw—another bitter fan, pissed because I hadn’t dropped everything for a goddamn autograph. To gossipmongers like Rocky, though, I was cast as the prick who’d been mean to the nice girl in the wheelchair.
Truthfully, I’d spent most of the afternoon musing over the proverbial bee in the girl’s butt. As the only available data had already proven to be inconclusive, I simply wandered aimlessly through my thoughts, confusing myself further.
She hadn’t just derailed any attempt at an apology—the girl had refused to even acknowledge I was speaking until I called her out on it.
I don’t even know you!
The anger that had been simmering most of the afternoon came to a boil again. Still, it wasn’t entirely justified, as I definitely could have handled the situation better.
In hindsight, I probably would have skipped the teasing as it hadn’t warmed her to me. If anything, it had only made things worse. There were several moments where I’d actually been convinced she was planning to run me over with the damn chair.
Something I was probably long overdue for.
Whatever. I’d tried and failed—overthinking it wouldn’t change a damn thing.
Time to focus on the team.
“Now Sanchez will walk in—”
I jerked at the sudden blast of sound coming from the television speakers before waving a middle finger at Rocky.
“Oh, sorry! Let me fix that for ya!” he shouted over the dull roar of the game highlights before lowering the volume and walking away with a satisfied smirk.
Time to charge the mound, motherfucker.
If he wanted to play, we’d play. I just hoped he knew who he was going up against.
“—and it’s driven deep to left-centerfield!” the announcer screamed. “Crawford is going for it… but it’s gone! It’s over! With Garrett Sanchez’s walk-off home run, the Bears are returning to the World Series for the second year in a row!”
A half-second later, the rectangular closed-captioning box flashed across the screen, confirming the news. Each black and white letter a stark reminder of how I’d let my team down.
The screen cut back to the studio, and I dropped onto the treatment table with a muffled growl. Rage clouded my vision, and I pressed my fingers against my eyelids, stemming the urge to destroy something.
It should have been us.
The Hurricanes were supposed to make history. Instead, a subpar team would be taking our place all because I’d thought I could make it to second base.
Fucking Sanchez.
“The rib fractures don’t seem to slow her down. Have you looked at incorporating more walking into her plan?”
Rib fractures?
My pulse slowed, and I lowered my hands before cutting my eyes over to the corner of the room. Rocky was deep in discussion with the dark-haired therapist, Natalie.
They were discussing the girl—I’d bet my paycheck on it. And hearing another person’s take was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. Ol’ emerald eyes couldn’t have fooled everyone, which meant vindication was about to be mine.
Again, it didn’t matter.
I’d said my piece and was moving on.
Yes, sir.
I was one hundred percent done with distractions, even if they did have the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. She looked familiar—so, what? It was probably because I’d met millions of women just like her throughout my career.
And I was only interested in knowing how she’d ended up with broken ribs because she couldn’t have been much older than twenty.
Awfully young for the old, ‘I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up’ routine.
Wanting to be informed of someone’s injury didn’t mean I was suddenly going against my plan. This was nothing more than a fact-finding mission because we were going to be sharing space for the foreseeable future.
Made perfect sense to me.
“The persistent dizziness transitioning from wheelchair to standing has really limited what we can do—although, hand-eye coordination is where I expect it to be given the circumstances—”
“What the hell does that mean?” I blurted without thinking.
Obviously, I’d meant to say that in my head.
The conversation ceased, and I quickly jerked my head back toward the television, sensing two pairs of eyes studying me intently. Their glares seemed to contain equal parts frustration and suspicion, which gave me about a snowball’s chance in hell of them continuing to talk openly in front of me.
Well, it certainly wasn’t the worst odds I’d ever faced…
Of course, there was nothing but celebratory coverage of the Bears on the screen, because apparently, every other sports league had decided to take the night off.
“You can’t—” I fumbled with the words before sputtering, “You can’t call Sanchez a legend-in-the-making! He’s a rookie!”
I doubted the word legend had been ever uttered in any sentence on Sanchez—but they didn’t know that.
Hopefully.
The silence seemed to stretch on for minutes, and I briefly considered shaking my fist at the screen to really drive home my point before deciding it would only give me away. Out of the corner of my eye, I could just make out Rocky’s intent stare. He was debating with himself, looking for a way to prove I’d been eavesdropping.
Like he had any room to judge.
When he finally turned back to Natalie, I released the breath I’d been holding, ready to get some answers.
What happened to you, girl?
Not that it was any of my business. I’d made my mind up and hearing some sob story wasn’t likely to change it.
Didn’t mean I wasn’t going to listen to every word, though.
People loved a sad story, something that really tugged on their heartstrings. Anyone who said otherwise was a liar. In a cynical world, humans craved being made to feel something other than apathy.
It was why those commercials with the abandoned and abused animals were so effective in getting people to hand over their wallets. Although, instead of sitting in a cage looking forlorn, the girl was more likely to be frothing at the mouth while she gnawed on the metal bars.
“What about speech? Has Fynn noticed any improvement?”
At the mention of talking, I forgot about feigning disinterest and turned my head to where I could see both of them.
Natalie sighed. “He said she tries—she even moves her lips a lot, but he’s still only able to make out a word or two. It could be residual effects from being on the vent and then having the trach.
“Although, when we were talking, he mentioned something about the location of language areas in the brain. I guess they typically work independently of right or left-handedness, but in a small number of cases, it’s the right hemisphere that’s dominant for language. With the patient being left-handed, we can’t necessarily rule it out.”
Rocky circled something on Natalie’s tablet with his finger. “It would make sense given that her brain injury occu
rred on the right side, but I think the fact she’s trying to communicate is a good sign, Nat.”
“How can we know so much about these injuries, and yet, still so little?”
Oddly enough, I’d just been asking myself something similar. In fact, the revelations had me questioning damn near everything but the color of the sky. I tried circling back to what I knew as the truth, scrambling for answers.
The girl was rude.
Fact.
What little she did say I’d understood just fine, disproving the idea she couldn’t speak.
Also, a fact… mostly.
I suddenly couldn’t seem to recall if she’d actually spoken the words or if I’d just read her lips. If it was the former, then she was putting on an act.
If it was the latter, then… Jesus.
Are you good?
The words landed like a line drive to the face, and my jaw went slack. Rocky mistook my sudden need to leave as frustration over the game and urged me to sleep it off before meeting him in the morning for class.
As I made my way down the hall, accompanied by the lonely squeak of my crutches against the tile, I didn’t see how I’d ever manage to sleep again. No, I’d be up for days, reliving every second of our encounter.
I paused when I reached my door and looked back. Her room was right there, but those six feet between us may as well have been an ocean. Even if I could somehow cut the distance and knock on her door, I was now painfully aware of the fact that she couldn’t tell me to come in. And, as she used a wheelchair, she wasn’t likely to jump up and let me in either.
I wasn’t good.
And if I was honest with myself, I hadn’t been in quite some time. I’d become a clone of my father, too proud to apologize. Hell, most of the time, I couldn’t even admit to being wrong.
I had to fix this.
First thing tomorrow, I’d sacrifice my pride and go over there. I wouldn’t get distracted or start rambling, either. This time, I wouldn’t leave until I’d made things right.
I settled into bed, coming back to the same unanswered question that had been brewing in my head for the better part of the day.
Through The Water: Fairest Series Book Two Page 8
