The Player

by K. Bromberg

  He struggles with what to say, his eyes narrowing as he looks away. I lower the wand and wipe the excess gel from his shoulder. “How about all of the above?” he finally says.

  “That’s a fair answer. I tell you what—how about we stretch it today, go through some new exercises that you might not have done yet, and then tomorrow we take it to the field and get a ball in that hand of yours?”

  “Really?” He sounds like a little boy finding out he gets to play after sitting on the bench for the last six innings. It breaks my heart and fills it simultaneously.

  “Really.” I walk around to the back of him and begin to move his arm to feel for any clicking or popping with the movement in his rotator cuff. “Let’s get started then.”

  “So, I think it’s on the right track,” I say with a conclusive nod, needing to step away from him and the connection that our bodies have had for the better part of ninety minutes.

  I’ve worked his arm every which way and now have a better grasp on what I need to do to strengthen it. How to make a plan of attack.

  “It might be a bit sore later and tomorrow. Your hissing tells me I pushed you a little further than your previous trainer did, but I’m pleased with how solid the repair feels. We just need to get you back into the routine slowly, and then the motions will begin to feel natural again.”

  “Does that mean I get to throw a ball tomorrow?”

  “It does, indeed.” His smile is lightning-quick in response, and completely disarming.

  I’ve seen Easton-the-skeptic’s smile. I’ve even seen the Easton-thinks-he’s-being-played smile. But Easton’s I-get-to do-what-I-love-tomorrow smile is bright enough to light up the room.

  “Easton. My man. You doing good?” Luckily we’re interrupted so I stop staring at him. J.P. Gaston, another player, walks into our training room. He grabs hands with Easton in some kind of handshake and pulls him in for a manly hug before slapping him on the back in greeting.

  “Hanging in there. Way to kick ass last night. Your bat’s on fire, man.”

  “Don’t jinx me, dude. Bad juju is everywhere these days.”

  “Look who you’re talking to,” Easton says with a shake of his head. “I feel like I’ve been swimming in it for months. My luck has to return soon.”

  “Fucking bad juju,” J.P. says with a laugh before leaning closer to Easton and murmuring so I can barely hear it, “But dude, the DL has never looked as appealing as it does right now.”

  “Watch Guzman’s slider tonight,” Easton says, talking right over the comment as if he didn’t hear it. “I was studying him against the Yankees the other night, and it’s starting to float some.”

  “Ah, the beloved hanging curveball,” J.P. says as he takes a few steps backward toward the door. He slides his eyes my way and offers up a smile before looking back to Easton. “Good thing I know how to swing my stick.”

  Easton picks up his shirt sitting beside him, balls it up, and throws it at him, just as he darts out of the doorway and past the windows, into the depths of the now-full clubhouse. I avoid the natural inclination to watch him, because the pregame ritual has started out there, and that means men in varying stages of undress, shooting the shit as they mentally prepare for their night of work.

  “Hot damn. She’s as hot up close? Shit,” someone says loud enough for me to hear. Seems that J.P. was the one elected to come on in and get a closer look at the new female trainer.

  There’s one in every clubhouse.

  “Hurt me, baby,” someone else cries out.

  “Oh, Easton. Let me stretch you and bend you and do naughty things to you,” another teammate mimics in a high-pitched voice.

  Without glancing up, I lift my middle finger to the men, who I’m more than sure are watching and waiting to see my reaction from their schoolyard ribbing. Laughter rumbles through the locker room at my response, but I hear a muttered, “Goddammit,” beneath Easton’s breath.

  “Let me guess? Tino and Drew?” I ask, completely unfazed.

  “Yep,” he sighs with a roll of his eyes.

  “Good to see they’ve matured since high school,” I say lightheartedly as I continue to put the ultrasound machine away. But when I turn back around, I’m stopped in my tracks by the look on his face. His expression is guarded, and yet there’s something about it—a hint of surprise maybe—that holds my feet still and my attention hostage. “What is it?”

  “Just trying to figure you out, is all,” he says with a shake of his head.

  “There’s not much to figure.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” I say as I spray disinfectant on the table and start to wipe it down, anything to avoid the softening of his eyes and the questions I don’t want to answer. “I’m boring. A what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girl.”

  “Except you wear your heart on your sleeve.” My hand falters mid-motion then I continue to clean with a renewed vigor, but he doesn’t turn to leave like I had hoped. “You come off tough as nails, like you don’t let shit get to you, and yet that heart you’re wearing says there’s a helluva lot more than the tough exterior does.”

  “And your point?”

  “Nothing. Just making an observation.”

  Those words scrape nerves already raw after the last few months. Comebacks and rebukes all swirl in my head, but every single one of them is on the defensive. And while the defensive implies he’s right—and he is right—I sure as hell don’t want to let him know that.

  This is work—the reputation I’m trying to establish. And he’s a client who holds the ticket to achieve two of my goals.

  “Scout and Easton sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” someone sings above the fray outside the door.

  “Let it rest, guys,” Easton shouts over his shoulder.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “Of course it is. Anything to save you from having this discussion, right?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with wearing your heart on your sleeve.” I may say the words to play it off, but my tone doesn’t sound as forgiving.

  “Sorry.” He sighs. “For what I said . . . and for the assholes.”

  “Don’t be. I’m here for you. Not them.” I risk a glance their way and smile. “Hopefully none of them get hurt, because I’d be a lot less gentle if I have to rehab them.” I get the chuckle from him I was working for and hope the discussion is now buried.

  “Good to know, but I’m sorry, anyway. We can train somewhere else if you want. Or if it bugs you, I’ll have a talk with them.”

  “No need to . . . but thank you for the thought. Besides, it seems like their ribbing is minor compared to the legendary pranks you’ve pulled on them.”

  “True.” His lips break into a smug smile. “But it’s not fair to you.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl. I can handle myself. I’ve got a sword tucked in my purse in case I need to slay any dragons.”

  “Your purse?”

  “Yeah, it’s big and roomy.” I smile, more than glad to change the subject, as I grab said purse from the cupboard I stashed it in.

  “Keep anything else in there besides a sword?”

  “High heels,” I joke, earning a raise of his brows. “This girl likes her heels when she’s kicking ass.”

  “Gotta love a woman who’s multidimensional. You heading out, too?” he asks, but neither of us makes a move to leave as his eyes continue to ask more questions than I want to answer or even acknowledge.

  Suddenly flustered by the intensity of his stare, I begin to ramble. “So, alternate ice and heat every twenty minutes or so for the next few hours. That will help with the swelling and inflammation I caused today. Okay?”

  I take a few steps, as if the conversation is over, but Easton doesn’t move out of my way. He just stands there, eyes still searching, continuing to pull at parts of me that need to stay put.

  I lick my lips. I shift my feet.

  “I know the drill,” he finally says.


  But we still don’t move.

  “Same time tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  Quit looking at me like that.

  “And depending on how the week goes, we might bump up our sessions to twice a day.”

  “Okay.”

  You’ve run out of things to say, Scout. Time to go now.

  “Well, I’ll see you then. Tomorrow, I mean.” I roll my eyes at myself.

  “Obviously. Tomorrow, I mean.” A half-cocked smile turns up one corner of his mouth.

  Move. Go. Walk.

  “You’re nothing like I expected.” I cringe once I realize I’ve just blurted my thoughts out and hate myself the minute I do. My cheeks flush with heat, but my embarrassment gives me the motivation I need to take the first step away from him.

  “I’m never what anyone expects. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

  His comment begs me to ask more, but I don’t. Can’t. This space is too small for us—it feels like there’s not enough air when he looks at me that way.

  “Good night.”

  “’Night, Scout,” he says as I reach the doorway. “Hey . . .”

  “Yeah?” I turn around, one hand on the doorjamb, my eyes falling back on him.

  “For the record, how is it you know that I know how to please a woman in bed?”

  Crap. I walked right into that one.

  The cocky grin he flashes me is the lasting image burned into my mind as I walk away without a word.

  Because I know.

  “Hi. How are you doing?”

  “What’s the assessment?”

  I fight back the tears that burn at hearing his voice again and knowing, even now, he’s still putting the business between us. I take a deep breath to control the emotions spiraling out of control, because I know he’ll get upset if he hears a waver in my voice when I answer.

  “Scouty?”

  “Yeah, Dad. I’m here.” He may only be a two-hour drive away, but right now it feels like a million.

  “And?” he presses.

  How are you?

  I miss you?

  Are you in pain?

  Are you getting worse?

  I’d rather be there with you than here.

  “Clear mind. Hard heart.”

  I clench my jaw when he repeats the mantra he expects me to live by, and I sense the rebuke is because he knows I’m about to fall apart. Of course he knows. He knows me better than anyone.

  I clear my throat, compose myself, and then try my best to be what he needs me to be right now. “Easton Wylder. Four months post-op from a torn labrum. The onset of injury was due to a questionable play by the opposing team when the patient was sliding into home plate. He was tagged unnecessarily, arm hooked by the opponent and yanked backward with force. The injury presented immediately and surgery commenced within twenty-four hours. Easton completed his initial three-plus months of post-op rehab, but was not cleared for play by the previous physical therapist. Upon initial observation, he seems to have good mobility. I’d say he’s at eighty-five percent. The joint seems stiff, as is to be expected after restricted use, but during stretching would allow me to push its limits, which indicates that full mobility is within reach. The patient has indicated that in previous attempts to bat and throw he has felt pain. I plan on getting a ball back into his hand as quickly as possible to work on the mental aspect, because I feel he is holding back for fear of re-injury. Prognosis is good, but I need more time with him to know if my assessment is accurate or not.” Confident I’ve covered the bases, I wait for my dad’s feedback.

  His rattle of breath reaches through the line and draws out my need for approval.

  “You mean the player, right?” It’s all he says, and I die a little inside.

  “What?”

  “You said Easton.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. Twice.”

  “Yes. Once for the patient introduction and the other was a simple mistake.”

  “Scout. How many times do I have to tell you that you’re to remain impartial?”

  “I am. I was. His name’s in my notes. I was looking at them and accidentally repeated what I saw.”

  “Don’t let it happen again.”

  “Yes. I won’t.”

  “And questionable play. Why add that in? It’s not your job to decide what’s questionable or dirty or accidental. It’s your job to get your player back to optimum performance, not to pass judgment.”

  “I know, but the play was dirty, Dad. You can’t argue that.”

  “Do you like him, Scout?”

  The question catches me off guard, and I’m uncertain what exactly he means by it. “I’ve only just met him.” It’s a safe answer.

  “But do you like him? Is he going to work hard? Does he want to return? Or is he a prima donna riding his dad’s coattails with no respect for the sport?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I stutter. “The man plays with more heart than anyone I’ve seen in a long time. He’s a throwback. A real gamer. The guy you want at bat when you’re bottom of the ninth, full count, with the World Series on the line.”

  “You’re too close, Scout.” It’s all he says, but it’s enough to make me realize how ardently I just defended a man who, seconds before, I said I barely knew. Did I just prove my dad’s point that maybe I’m already too close, because Easton’s just another player and it’s my job to get him ready.

  But he isn’t just another player.

  He’s the player who can give me what I need to fulfill my dad’s wishes.

  And he’s the man who has invaded my thoughts and taken residence there.

  “That’s the player you’re talking about. What about the man?”

  It’s the oddest of questions for my dad to ask, and yet I feel like there is more to this conversation that I’m not quite getting the gist of. I take my time to respond. “Like I said, I’ve only assessed him twice, so I don’t know him that well. First impression is that he’s a good guy. I mean, he stood up for me when the guys were doing their usual bullshit about me being in the clubhouse.”

  “Really?” It’s a leading question, but I don’t buy into it. If he wants to ask me something, then he needs to ask it.

  “Dad, what are you—”

  “What’s your plan of action with him moving forward?” he asks, as if I never even spoke. And while I hate being disregarded, this razor-sharp focus of his on a player has been gone more days than not, and so I acquiesce.

  I sort through my thoughts, explain them point by point, and then outline what I plan to do with the player. My dad makes suggestions, and I take notes, heeding his advice on possible drills.

  But I catch myself holding the phone to my ear with two hands and just listening. Memorizing the sound of his voice. The timbre of it. The little inflections only he has. I lose myself in the presence of the only person who has ever been a constant in my life.

  “Sounds like a good plan, Scouty. You’ll need to adjust as he does, though. Nothing good ever comes from setting your plans in stone.”

  “I know,” I whisper, thinking of all the plans we’d made over the years for when he retired. And now that he unofficially has, we’ll never get to fulfill them.

  “Scout.” It’s a warning. A reprimand. A plea for me to toughen up.

  I clear my throat. “He seems eager to return,” I say to save face, in the hope that he’ll see I’m unaffected by Easton. But before I can finish my thought, he erupts into a fit of coughing.

  It sounds worse than last week. That’s all I can think as that rattle makes chills race across my skin and dread sink in my stomach. The questions I want to pepper him with, but know he won’t allow, are getting harder to bite back. The need to jump in the car and drop my foot like a lead weight on the gas until I’m beside him is getting tougher to resist.

  “Daddy?” The word slips out in a whisper just like the lone tear that escapes and slides down my cheek.

  “I’m fine, Scouty.
Just fine. It’s just the damn cough,” he finally says when he catches his breath.

  But it’s so much more than that.

  “What did the doctor say yesterday?” I ask, prepared for the rebuke.

  “Did Sally tell you I had an appointment?” he barks.

  “Someone has to.” Please. Talk to me.

  “Everything’s the same. Nothing’s going to change, so it’s ridiculous to be worrying about me when you need to be worried about getting the player back up and behind the plate. It’s a rarity to have a cuff tear when it’s not a pitcher, so make sure you heed caution. And make sure to learn from it.”

  “Okay,” I agree, but my mind is lost searching his voice for what he’s not telling me. Did the doctor tell him he has less time left than he thought? Is that why he won’t talk about it?

  The notion stuns me when I’ve already been stunned enough over the past few months. And I’m so lost in my fear that I almost miss his soft words when he speaks them.

  “I’m counting on you. I know it’s a lot to ask . . . and I’d do it if I could . . .”

  Words escape me as the tears slide freely down my cheeks, and my heart twists inside my chest. “Dad.” It’s all I can say through the onslaught of emotion I’m trying to hold back.

  “We’ll talk soon. Clear mind, hard heart, Scouty. Remember that and you’ll be fine.”

  But I won’t.

  I’ll be far from it.

  And that’s why I’m more determined than ever.

  I nod my head and lift the neck of my beer in thanks to the knockout blonde across the bar who just sent it over.

  “You need to jump all over that,” Tino says with a little hum of appreciation to follow.

  I smile at her—doe-eyed, legs for days, with a skirt pulled up and a shirt plunging down—and fuck, I could use a good lay right now. “Nah,” I murmur, my mouth contradicting what my dick is agreeing to as I raise the bottle to my lips and look back to the guys at my table.