“Hancock ‘Parts’ Peters, number 49, has been on fire tonight. I heard from another player that he was under the weather, but you wouldn’t be able to tell from this performance,” the announcer for Fox Sports, repeated for the fifth time. “He is on fire! Rose, replay the play from earlier.”
They replayed the play, again, and I watched, again, as Rhys caught the shallow pop fly to left field. The runner on third took off once the ball was caught and went for home. Rhys threw the ball home and, the runner realizing his mistake once he saw Hancock catch the ball, lowered his shoulder and ran into Hancock like a battering ram.
Both Hancock and the player went down in a tangle of limbs.
Poor Hancock was slow to get up, but get up he did…with the ball securely in his glove despite the pained grimace on his face.
Everyone but Hancock celebrated—including me.
“Yo,” Coach Siggy called. “You’re up!”
I turned to survey the sweaty man beside me, and barely managed to look down at my hands in time to avoid making eye contact with him.
I knew if I made eye contact with him, my entire face would flame. Which wouldn’t be good seeing as everyone—the press, the cameras, the fans, his teammates—had been watching every single move Hancock made for the last six innings.
“Let’s get a couple of runs,” Siggy called out.
I bit my lip and lifted my head to watch him as he made his way out to the field, his wooden bat in his hand, resting against one shoulder.
“What do you think he’s going to get this time?” Gentry asked from the seat beside me.
I knew he was talking to me.
He’d been doing it the entire game just to piss Hancock off.
Each time he’d say something, he’d turn to Hancock to gauge his reaction, and I was beginning to wonder if I should be answering his questions if it was pissing Hancock off each time I answered.
Eventually, I’d gotten up and moved to the end of the dugout.
Which had pissed Hancock off even more.
With one pointed glare in my direction and a gesture for me to retake my seat, I sighed and moved back.
Superstitions! What the everloving fuck was wrong with these men?
“I’m going to guess a home run.”
I was a glass half full kind of gal. If I could have it any way, I was going to go all in.
If I had to bet, I’d bet every single cent I had on me.
Most of the time that resulted in me losing my money in the first forty seconds, but that was the way I was.
All or nothing.
Which happened to be why I was letting Hancock do what he wanted to, and damned the consequences.
That’d always been my downfall.
I…
“Holy shit,” Gentry swore.
My head whipped around to the plate to see Hancock peeling himself off the ground, a glare on his face aimed at the pitcher.
“What happened?” I asked worriedly.
“Pitcher was going to walk him, so he was throwing the ball outside,” Gentry explained. “When Hancock crowded the plate to get access to the balls, the pitcher threw one down the middle and nearly took out his knees.”
My brow lifted.
The pitcher must be stupid, I surmised.
Otherwise, he would’ve never tried to hit Hancock.
Hancock was known as a hothead.
It didn’t take much to get him going.
Sure, he’d mellowed with his age, but most pitchers knew better than to taunt him. If you kept the beast soothed, then it was likely he wouldn’t go all crazy on your ass.
This kid, though…well, he was new.
That was my only hope for why he did what he did next.
“Crowding the plate again,” Gentry murmured. “Shit, did you see the look he just gave that pitcher? How is he not shitting his pants right now?”
“Maybe he did. I would have,” Rhys, the third baseman, pointed out.
Chuckles filled the air, and then all breath left every single man’s body in the dugout…hell, in the entire freakin’ stadium.
The ball left the pitcher’s grip, and I knew it was going to hit him. I was so certain that I was already up and moving out of the dugout before Hancock had even finished falling to the ground.
Taking a pitch to the throat was going to hurt on the best of days. Taking a ninety-eight mile an hour fastball to the throat was a completely different story.
I hit my knees beside Hancock’s gasping form and carefully rolled him over to his back.
His hands were on his throat as he struggled to breathe, and I latched onto his face with one hand as I tugged my bag closer with the other.
I yanked out my portable oxygen tank, and immediately strapped it onto his face as I looked into Hancock’s tear-filled eyes.
The big man was looking at me with so much fear that it was hard to keep calm and not whisper that it would be okay.
A paramedic dropped down next to me.
“He was struck in the neck with the ball,” I told him.
I wasn’t a medic.
Hell, I wasn’t the type of medical professional that Hancock needed at this point, but I couldn’t force myself away.
Even if I could have, I wouldn’t have been able to leave. Hancock’s grip on my thigh was to the point of pain he was holding on so tightly.
“He needs to go to the hospital,” the medic murmured. “Where’s the… ahh, there it is.”
I turned to see the gurney on the way toward us, and I turned back to Hancock whose eyes hadn’t left mine.
“They’re going to take you to the hospital,” I told him. “You need to go with them and not give them any lip.”
I started to back away to give the other medics room, but he snatched my hand in a move of desperation that pleaded with me to stay.
“His breathing’s better, but his O2 sats are still low,” the medic murmured.
“He’s sick,” I informed them. “He had a fever and started coughing about thirty-six hours ago.”
The medic nodded.
“Let’s hope that’s the reason for the low sats then,” he murmured. “You going with us?”
I stood up as the gurney slid into the space beside Hancock.
His breathing was still rough and choppy, and I knew it pained him to breathe.
The ball had glanced off the front of his throat, luckily only grazing off of him when he lifted his shoulder at the last moment.
But the hit was enough to make his throat begin to swell.
Hits to the neck are always serious injuries and can even be fatal sometimes. If there was damage to his airway—like we suspected there may be—or the injury was to the back of the neck, affecting the brain stem, then it could be really dangerous.
“I’m going,” I nodded.
Turning I found my assistant standing behind me.
“Can you take over here?” I asked her.
She nodded quickly. “I have the others, too.”
She gestured to the other trainers who’d stayed away to let the medics do their job.
“Good,” I nodded. “Call me if you need me.”
She nodded quickly again, and I turned to start walking with the medics.
Which turned into a run when Hancock’s O2 sats fell even lower.
His eyes, though, before he passed out…they would haunt me for the rest of my life.
***
I crossed my arms as I waited in the ER waiting room.
We’d been separated for over an hour, and I was getting antsy.
The waiting room had filled so full that I was actually now in the hallway leading into it.
There were people crowding the halls who were fans, and there were even more fans outside!
Seriously…it would’ve never occurred to me to come to see a man—baseball player or not—if I didn’t know him personally.
“Any news?” U
ncle Siggy asked as he walked up to me, looking so tired he could barely stand.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“You think he’s going to be okay?” He took up position against the wall next to me to wait.
“Yes.” I knew he’d be ‘okay.’ Whether ‘okay’ meant he could play baseball again was another thing. “He turned blue in the ambulance, and they almost had to trach him.”
Siggy’s mouth went tight.
“They gave him some kind of anti-inflammatory med and were able to obtain a clear airway about thirty seconds after that,” I continued. “I’m not sure what that means for now, though.”
“Sway Cooper?” a nurse called.
My body jolted, and I immediately started walking over to the woman.
“I’m Sway,” I told her eagerly. “Is he okay?”
The nurse smiled. Well, I was sure she’d intended it as a smile, but it came out more like a grimace.
“He’s asking for you.” She smiled at my uncle, who I could feel at my back, then returned her eyes back to me. “If you’ll follow me.”
I waved at my uncle and he nodded his head. “Call me when you find anything out.”
I nodded my head back at him and hurried after the woman.
She was a long-legged blonde with curly hair and a nice, perky ass.
“His room is right there,” she pointed.
“Thank you,” I dismissed her without a second thought.
The moment I breached the door, Hancock’s eyes turned to me, and then he breathed an audible sigh of relief.
The first thing I noticed was that he wasn’t on a ventilator, and he didn’t have any new holes in his neck.
The second thing I noticed was that he was naked from the chest up with blankets covering his lower half.
I momentarily lost my way and stared at his defined chest, before a rough, deep chuckle had me snapping back to attention.
“Hancock!” I cried. “You scared the fucking hell out of me!”
He held his hand out for me to take, and I latched onto that strong, masculine hand like it was my lifeline.
“They tried to cut my beard,” he muttered.
I didn’t point out that they did cut his beard.
Instead, I studied his throat, and the purple and blue bruising under his skin.
“So, what’s going on?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
“He’s doing great,” a doctor came in behind me. “He’s responding well to the anti-inflammatory meds we put him on. We’re just waiting for the results of the MRI and CT scan. As long as they come back clear, then he’ll be free to leave in another couple of hours.”
I turned my gaze away from the doctor to stare at Hancock.
“We’re worried, though, that he might have strep. However, we’re treating that with some antibiotics,” the doctor continued.
“If you gave me strep, I’m going to throw up all over your carpet,” I warned him.
Hancock’s mouth tipped up at the corner.
“Why be so specific?” he asked.
“Strep makes me puke…every single time,” I informed him. “And you’ll have to take care of me because I turn into an invalid,” I grinned. “Kind of like you did yesterday.”
His eyes shone with amusement.
“I’m actually surprised he was able to make it through the entire game without collapsing in exhaustion,” the doctor observed. “I was watching the game. He was amazing right up until that kid hit him.”
Hancock’s mouth tightened.
“Kid’s going to get his ass kicked the next time I see him,” he muttered. “Am I free to play at the game two days from now?”
Did he sound hopeful?
“Honestly,” the doctor hesitated. “I would give it a game. But if you can find a neck guard to play with for the next couple of games, and you’re feeling up to it, then I would say I think it’ll be alright…as long as your tests come back all clear.”
I grinned.
“Thank fuck,” Hancock smiled. “That’s the best news I’ve had in the last hour.”
The doctor left after giving his instructions while we were waiting on results, and I sat on the corner of Hancock’s bed.
“Can you turn that on?” He pointed to the TV.
I nodded, knowing he was looking for a recap of the game.
Not needing to be asked, I found the remote, turned the TV on, and found Sports Center without a word.
And, of course, the game’s highlights were on while a couple of analysts discussed the game.
“There have been other men hit in the neck before,” one of them said. “It’s a very dangerous area to be taking a hit.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Hancock muttered. “Show the replay.”
“It is, Pat,” the other man said. “From what I could tell, as they took him off the field, he was breathing, which was one of the main concerns.”
I rolled my eyes and continued to watch, standing next to Hancock’s bed.
“Here it is,” I turned it up.
We watched the confrontation before the hit, and then the hit itself, in silence.
Only after it was done did Hancock find his voice.
“Was there a fight?” he asked.
I turned to look at him.
He was staring at the TV with a whimsical look on his face.
“I don’t know.” I admitted. “I was with you. Though, from what I heard from the assistant trainers and the state of some of the players’ faces and knuckles, it seems that there was.”
Hancock grinned.
“Can you give me a drink of that?” He pointed to the small cup with a white bendy straw in it.
I immediately got it for him and brought the cup to him.
Instead of taking it, though, he leaned forward and drank it directly from my hand.
His throat worked, and his eyes closed as the cool water soothed his throat, and I realized two things.
One, the man was sexy, even bruised up and hurt.
Two, I was falling in love with him.
Out of all the people he could’ve called back for, he’d asked for me.
That was saying something.
Maybe he wasn’t just playing around.
Maybe—just maybe—he really was serious about me. Maybe he really did want me.
The real question was if I could let my walls down long enough to let him in.
And looking at his face, the gratitude in his eyes, I realized that I could.
I could do anything for him.
Chapter 10
The problem with reaching for the stars is that it leaves your balls unprotected and vulnerable. Trust me, I know. FYI – my brothers are douches.
-Hancock’s secret thoughts
Hancock
I was sitting comfortably in my La-Z-Boy recliner, my eyes closed, and Sway humming along in my kitchen when I heard it.
It was a distinct sound.
Really distinct.
The sound of keys in my door.
My eyes snapped open and I glared at the doorknob, hoping beyond hope it wasn’t who I thought it was.
But, like always, I wasn’t given the reprieve I needed.
My brothers, three out of the four of them, walked in the next moment, followed shortly by my parents.
“Oh, baby,” my momma cried as she rushed to me. “Your throat looks horrible!”
I barely resisted the urge to sigh.
She would catch it, and then she would get all hurt that I wasn’t letting her mother me like I ‘should’ be letting her. It was her God-given right, after all.
Something she told me all the time when I refused her attentions.
“I have strep throat,” I told my brothers. “I hope you all get it.”
Harrison, Holden and Hunter all stared at me.
“Where do you think you got it from, dumbass?” Harrison asked.
; I gritted my teeth.
“Y’all know damn well y’all are supposed to stay the fuck away from me when you’re sick,” I growled. “This could’ve been detrimental.”
“You look like you’re running a fever right now,” my mom, Sally, frowned. “I’m going to go make you some chicken noodle soup.”
She froze when I said what I said next.
“My woman’s in there making me soup.”
She turned only her head and stared at me with frightening eyes.
“Woman?” she asked carefully.
I nodded my head, wincing when the movement caused my head to hurt even more than it was already hurting.
“When did you get a woman?” Holden asked skeptically.
“Oh,” Sway gasped in surprise. “Hello!”
I turned to find her standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her eyes taking in my brothers and my parents in one long sweep.
Then without pausing, she walked into the room and over to me, setting a steaming bowl of French onion soup—her specialty, she’d assured me—on the coffee table in front of me.
“My name’s Sway,” she held her hand out to the closest brother, which happened to be Hunter.
My mom had five boys, Harrison, Holden, Hunter, Hannibal and then me. She had us all one right after the other, starting with Harrison and ending with Hannibal and I, who were identical twins.
Hannibal and I were the only ones left who weren’t married with kids. I was the only one who hadn’t experienced psycho mom when it came to my serious girlfriends because I never had serious girlfriends before.
Never wanted them.
Until Sway.
Now I wanted a lot of things, most of those things being Sway in my bed, naked underneath me.
Forever, if possible.
But I hadn’t told her that yet. I wouldn’t be. Not until she was well and truly trapped.
If it wasn’t immoral and a tad bit archaic, I’d just get her pregnant and play on her conscience to stay with me for the rest of her life.
I knew I could make her happy.
Hell, I knew she made me happy.
“Well, hello!” Hunter drawled, taking her hand in his and caressing the outside of it while he stared into her eyes. “Aren’t you pretty?”
She blushed and pulled on her hand, and my brother had no other option but to let it go or look like a creepy motherfucker.
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