I stretched my neck. “None of the symptoms you just mentioned. In the last month, my headaches seem to be more and stronger.”
He rubbed his smooth-shaven jaw. “Let’s do a full blood workup and schedule you for another MRI as soon as possible.”
“Do you think I have a tumor?” I knew he couldn’t give me a straight answer, but I had to ask.
My dad cringed, the lines around his copper eyes deepening.
Removing his stethoscope from around his neck, the doctor began checking my heart and lungs. “I’m not going to speculate.” He felt around my right arm before he instructed me to squeeze my hand into a fist. Then he whipped out a light pen and checked both of my eyes. “Any black spots in your peripheral vision?”
“Not at all,” I said.
He tucked his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. “Does over-the-counter medication relieve your headaches?”
“I have to take four Advil, and even then, it only dulls the pain.”
Dr. Thompson tipped his head at the door. “Let’s go see Melissa out at the front desk. We’ll get you scheduled for an MRI and CT Scan. In the meantime, I want you to take it easy. I also don’t want you to drive. If for some reason you have an episode of dizziness or you start to see black spots in your vision, I don’t want you behind the wheel.”
My dad stood, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Lawrence, let’s be frank. What are you thinking?”
I held my breath. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what Dr. Thompson was thinking even though I’d asked the question earlier.
“Martin, you know as a doctor that it’s hard to give a diagnosis without test results.”
My dad stared at Dr. Thompson as though he were trying to get into the man’s head.
“Can I at least work?” I asked.
“As long as you’re not operating heavy machinery,” Dr. Thompson said.
Lifting liquor bottles or cases of beer wasn’t heavy machinery. But I did need to find a ride to work.
As if my dad had read my mind, he said, “Between your mom and me, we’ll get you to work. Plus, Kody is around too.”
Dr. Thompson headed to the door. “Come on. I’ll see you out.”
The three of us walked down the hall to where a petite blonde typed away on her computer.
“Melissa,” Dr. Thompson said. “Please set up an MRI and CT Scan for Kade Maxwell as soon as possible. Put a rush on it if you can.”
She tapped some keys on her computer then picked up the receiver on her desk phone. Meanwhile, Dr. Thompson filled out a lab form for my blood tests. After he handed it to me, he said, “Fast tonight and get into the lab first thing in the morning.”
“Can I have a word?” Dad asked Dr. Thompson.
“There’s not much I can tell you, Martin, until the MRI results come back.”
My dad angled his head at Dr. Thompson. “Humor me, please.” Dad’s tone was caustic.
Dr. Thompson narrowed his eyes at Dad as he flicked his head down a hall. The two strolled away, chatting.
I tuned them out as I waited for Melissa to give me the dates for the tests. My stomach pitched and rolled. What if I did have a tumor? I couldn’t think the worst.
Melissa waved a small hand in front of me. “Mr. Maxwell?”
I blinked away the hell I was in.
“Friday morning is the soonest they had for both the MRI and CT Scan.”
I shrugged, smiled warmly at her, and pushed down those tears that sat on the brim of my lower lids before I rushed out of the building as if it were on fire. Once outside in the hot sunshine, I almost collapsed from not enough air in my lungs.
Immediately, I pulled out my phone to call Lacey. With my shaky fingers positioned over the screen, my brain kicked into gear. I couldn’t call her. I couldn’t tell her that I could have a brain tumor or that something was seriously wrong with me. I couldn’t put her on edge and ruin her day.
Idiot, just call her and tell her you love her. I refused to let her hear the fear in my voice. She would know something was up. Thankfully, my dad sauntered out, or more like marched out, with fear written all over his face. The last time I’d seen him with that look was when we moved Mom into a mental health facility.
Silence followed us as we wound our way to his car, dodging others who were going into the medical building.
When we were on the road, I finally broke the tension. “Did you get a straight answer out of Dr. Thompson?”
He slowed at a yield sign, his sight set straight ahead, his hands gripping the wheel as though he wanted to crush it.
I arched an eyebrow. “Did you hear me?”
He facial features were rigid. “I did.” He pressed his foot on the gas.
A suffocating quietness filled the vehicle for the next several blocks.
Even though I wavered between wanting to know and not wanting to hear what Dr. Thompson thought, I still said, “Just tell me, Dad.” My voice dropped. “I’m not a kid anymore. And this is my health.”
Using the palm of his hand, he banged on the steering wheel, grunting in the process. “Son, you’ve never been a kid. You’ve always been the adult in the family.”
“Then treat me like one,” I snapped then slumped in the seat as regret washed over me. We were both scared. We were both thinking the worst. I shouldn’t take out my frustrations on my father. At that moment, I was super glad I hadn’t called Lacey.
Dad swallowed hard as he turned onto the country road. “He suspects that your scans won’t come back clean. That was all he was willing to say.”
I grabbed my throat with a shaky hand. It was as though I couldn’t get air in my lungs. The word fuck was going off in my head like a damn tornado siren. I pushed the down button for the window and stuck out my head like a dog would, hoping the wind would jar me back to reality. Oh, wait. This was my reality.
Dad’s large hand landed on my arm. “We’ll get through this.”
I pulled in my head. “You keep saying that. So how the fuck would we get through a brain tumor?”
Lots of gray had grown in on his sideburns. It was as if the gray hairs had just appeared when he walked out of the medical building. He set his watery gaze on me. “We need to hold it together and think positive.”
I inhaled as a warm breeze trickled in through my open window. “I’m not sure I can. How in the hell am I supposed to tell Lacey? Or Mom? Or my brothers?” Each and every one of them would be devastated.
As the words left my mouth, the tears that I’d held so tightly from spilling seeped out. This couldn’t be it for me. I was only twenty-two. I hadn’t gotten married yet. I hadn’t started a family. I hadn’t even proposed to the one person who gave me a reason to breathe. Suddenly, I knew what I had to do.
“Dad, I need to fly to Oklahoma as soon as possible. I need to see Lacey. I’ll leave after I give blood tomorrow, and I’ll be back Thursday night.” All the what ifs started to flood my mind. What if I didn’t get the chance to propose? What if she was pregnant? Would I see our kid grow up?
Dad gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning as white as the car in front of us. “You can’t go down there and scare her. We’re not saying anything to your mom or brothers yet, either. We need to wait until we know more.”
I couldn’t promise him I wouldn’t tell Lacey. Then something she’d said at the cemetery in LA made me sweat. “Don’t ever leave me.”
Fuck.
More tears flowed. “Promise me something, Dad. Promise me that if anything ever happens to me, that you would take care of Lacey.”
He banged on the steering wheel again. “Fuck, Kade. Stop thinking like that.” My dad hardly lost his shit unless it came to family. He swerved hard, pulling off to the side of the road along a ditch. After he shifted into park, he set his fury-filled eyes on me. “Listen to me.” His tone was as hard as the large rock ahead of us. “Go see your girl. Propose to her. Make love to her. Laugh with her. Watch her live her dream. But under no circumstances sh
ould you bring her down. Do not tell her what Dr. Thompson suspects. We don’t want to get her upset for nothing. Do you understand?”
I nodded like a scared boy, swallowing the grit that had somehow settled in my throat. I knew how to erase the emotions from my face. Hell, I was the king of the deadpan look. But with the possibility that my health might be compromised, I wasn’t sure I could wear a happy face.
Dude, you’ve done it a million times after Karen died so your brothers wouldn’t feed off your despair and depression. Somehow that was different. I’d been trying to help them move on from Karen’s death; I had not been potentially facing my own demise.
I quietly recited a prayer, put a smile on my face, and squeezed my dad’s hand. “I’m strong. I will be okay.”
Boy, that was a big, fat lie.
Chapter 8
Lacey
The scent of fresh-cut grass always centered me. Yet for some reason, it did nothing to soothe the knot in my stomach. Since I’d arrived in Oklahoma the day before, I couldn’t eat. If I did, I was running to the bathroom to dump the food I’d just eaten. I swore the opportunity to practice with the big boys and a potential contract looming were the reasons I couldn’t keep food down.
Even as I strutted out onto the field, I wanted to heave. I’d never been more nervous in all my life. I scanned the stadium, my mind in a haze, matching the late-afternoon air. I squinted at the sun that sat just over the centerfield wall.
Breathe, girl. Just breathe.
I couldn’t help but remember the first time I’d walked out onto the college ball field and how the fans had cheered and called my name. But the sounds around me were nothing more than the crack of a bat or the thud of a ball hitting the catcher’s glove.
“Robinson,” a deep voice called before the man’s shadow crossed in front of me.
I blinked.
A gnarly hand waved. “Warm up.” The scary voice belonged to Doyle, the pitching coach I’d briefly met earlier that morning.
I gave a slight nod before I jogged into the bullpen with Doyle on my heels.
A red-haired guy was tying his cleats, while the catcher flicked his chin at me.
“Hi. I’m Eric.” He tipped his head at the red-haired guy. “That’s Gil.”
Gil raked his gaze over me, giving me a creepy feeling. I wanted to roll my eyes but refrained. The last thing I wanted to do was start trouble. Instead, I waved. “I’m Lacey.”
“We know who you are,” Gil said in a snippy tone.
Bite your tongue. You’re being interviewed by the team as much as you are by Brice.
I couldn’t say I knew many of the players. The only person on the team I’d met before was Santos, who was the captain and shortstop. He’d played for the Pawtucket Red Sox when I’d practiced with them two summers ago. I was confident I had at least one person in my court.
“We don’t have all day, Robinson,” Doyle said. “Let’s see that arm of yours.”
Eric squatted down behind the home plate in the bullpen. He flashed his blue eyes my way and threw me a ball. “Let’s do this, Lacey.”
Catching the ball, I gave him a once-over. His black hair and blue eyes reminded me so much of the triplets—Kelton, Kross, and Kody. Suddenly, those nerves that had taken over my body quieted as I twirled the ball in my glove.
Doyle went to stand down by Eric but off to the side. He crossed his short arms over his chest. “Start with your fastball.”
Gil let out a snide chuckle. “She can’t pitch.”
Without looking at the jerk, Doyle said, “Cut the crap, Gil.”
I’ll show him what I can do. Asshole.
Eric donned his catcher’s mask before I wound up and launched a fast pitch. The ball was high and wild and soared over Eric’s head to hit the backstop with a loud thud.
“See,” Gil said. “She doesn’t belong here. She’ll probably puke on her next pitch.”
News traveled fast. But my stomach was telling me that Gil might have been right. As Eric picked up the ball, I glanced out. Men were in the outfield. Someone was pitching, and Santos was at bat. I inhaled as the tall Latino captain hit a home run.
You can do this. You know the game. Don’t let men like Gil get to you. I certainly knew how to handle people like him. I’d had my fair share of bullying in high school with Aaron Seever, and I’d made it through his psychological games. Still, I was contemplating why I’d said yes to Brice’s offer. Part of me felt Tony and Holly had outvoted him, and Brice was only going through the motions.
“Trying to figure out where to throw up?” Gil’s snide tone grated on me.
Doyle grunted.
I whipped my head around and snarled. “I’m trying to decide if you’re really an asshole or just plain scared that I will show you up. Oh, wait. You are an asshole. So I guess you’re afraid of me.”
He jumped to his feet as fast as a jackrabbit, his freckled face turning red to match his hair.
Eric jumped into action, blocking him. “Sit your butt down.” Then Eric said to me, “Don’t fuel his fire.”
I raised my hands. “As long as he doesn’t fuel mine.”
“Enough,” Doyle said in his deep and scary voice. “Now pitch, Robinson.”
Eric got into position as I went through my pitches—sliders, curveballs, and fastballs. Meanwhile, Gil had a permanent snarl on his face as he watched me throw ball after ball. I threw several wild pitches along with several great pitches, and I kept pitching until Doyle sauntered over to me.
“Now get out there,” he said. “You’re up. Eric, go and catch for her.”
Eric and I jogged out. I wanted to say something to Gil, but it wasn’t worth it. As I headed out to the mound, all eyes were on me. Suddenly, my hands began to shake, and I bit my lower lip that was so chapped it burned when my tongue touched it.
I slowed to a walk as Eric went ahead of me. The stadium seemed to be closing in as my cleats pounded into the soft, grassy right field. A sense of loneliness enveloped me. What the hell? I had no idea why all of a sudden I felt as though I didn’t belong. Maybe I was tired of bullies and always trying to prove myself. After all, major league baseball had always been a man’s game. They aren’t going to sign me. At least that was what my intuition was telling me.
Eric backtracked. “Lacey, don’t wig out now. You’ve got great pitches. You can do this.”
I had to have a deer-in-the-headlights look. I stopped just as I was approaching the mound and swung my gaze to Brice, who was standing outside the dugout. One of his cheeks bulged out as he chewed then spit. I couldn’t tell if he was concerned or not. I would bet he was waiting for me to puke or screw up. After all, he didn’t believe the Dodgers were ready for a female. Or maybe what he’d been really trying to say was that he didn’t want a girl on the team.
“Why are you not pushing me away or making snide comments like Gil?” I asked.
One side of Eric’s mouth turned upward. “I believe that this game can be played by both men and women. Just because it’s been a man’s game for so long doesn’t mean that a woman of your talent can’t play with us. You’re good, Lacey Robinson. Show them. Show Brice. And fuck Gil and whoever else is in his court.”
I swallowed back the tears I desperately wanted to release.
Santos strutted over with his glove in hand. “Nice to see you again, Lacey. Are you ready?”
Eric slapped me on the back. “She is.”
I wished I had his confidence.
Santos regarded me with his dark eyes. “Good, because the media is lining up.”
“I think I’ll be sick,” I mumbled.
They both chuckled before Eric placed the ball in my glove. “Romero is batting. He hates fastballs. So throw him that ninety-mile-per-hour ball you’ve thrown to me.”
“Focus on Eric,” Santos said then moved over to the shortstop position.
“Remember, we’re just practicing,” Eric tossed over his shoulder while trotting to home plate.
Brice met me on the mound, his expression screaming don’t prove me wrong. “Do we have a problem?”
I shook my head as the word no lodged in my throat.
“Good.” His jaw began working as he returned to his spot near the dugout.
I froze on the mound like a damn statue. I was practicing. This wasn’t a game. This was the moment of my life. This was the only chance I had to prove to these men that I could play the darn game. Yet somehow that feeling of loneliness was still front and center. Images of Kade and me in the bathroom at Dodger Stadium flashed before my eyes. Our conversation about me being pregnant was swimming around in my head. If I were pregnant, then the opportunity to play would be over. I would never get the chance again to try out or show a major league team my skills. They would worry that I could get pregnant again. I couldn’t blame them. I also couldn’t see myself pitching with a big belly and didn’t know if a doctor would even let me play.
Stop thinking all those thoughts. You’re here now. Pitch. As Eric said, you’re good.
The long-lens cameras from the two photographers near the visitors’ dugout were positioned steadily at me as though guns were drawn on me, and for a beat, a shiver danced up my arm. I guessed word had gotten out that the Dodgers were entertaining signing a woman to their roster.
In any case, I couldn’t worry about the media. So I abandoned the cameras and eyed Eric. Then I dug my cleat into the dirt around the mound and fingered the ball in my glove. Sweat trickled down my neck as I settled in to throw a fastball.
Romero, who was waiting to bat, took a few practice swings before settling his stance.
The team around me tittered and shouted at Romero. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. All I could do was inhale and exhale as my hand started shaking. I searched the empty seats, wanting nothing more than to hear the roar of the crowd. At least with a deafening sound, I wouldn’t hear all the voices in my head that kept telling me I should be home, I shouldn’t be here, I couldn’t do this. Yet other voices were saying the opposite. Blackness crept in on the sides of my vision as though the sun had set. I shook my head several times. A panic attack threatened.
Dare to Breathe Page 6
