“But?”
I wrap my blanket around my shoulders and put him on speakerphone, so his smooth, deep voice fills my room.
“Shelley. Look, I don’t know how appropriate it is to talk to you about this. I’m a lot older than you, and you’re still my buddy’s little sister. I do consider you a friend, but I’m not trying to do anything that comes between you and Mike or screws up my own friendship with your brother.”
“You won’t,” I protest. “I’m only looking for someone I can trust to be honest with me and not get creepy.”
He blows out a long breath. “I can promise I’m not going to initiate any more conversations about this. At all. So, if after this conversation you still want to pretend tonight never happened, we can do that. No hard feelings.” I hear him shift his body. “All kidding aside, I’m sure it took a lot of courage for you to ask, and your first message sounded kind of serious. That’s why I called you in the first place. If you’re looking into professional help, then this is obviously a real issue for you. I’m not sure what I’ll be able to do, but if you have questions and you think I can offer any insight, I’ll answer you. Okay? That’s the best I can do.”
His measured, thoughtful response is somehow both incredibly frustrating and exactly what I needed to hear, even though the words are still mostly a rejection. I wonder if he would give the same careful answer to any other friend. Is he only hesitating because he knows my brother? Jordan isn’t really much older than I am, I think he’s only twenty-eight. A six-year age gap is hardly scandalous when both parties are fully grown. But I do appreciate him trying to do the right thing, even if hissense of loyalty to Mike is a little misguided and outdated. At least he’s willing to be a sounding board, and a guy friend I can be real with sounds like it could be exactly what I need.
“Sounds fair. Thanks.”
“Sure. Goodnight.”
“Night.”
Like I’m going to be able to get any sleep now.
Chapter 3
Jordan
"Give me three more,” Robin orders. When I glare at her, the team’s physical therapist only laughs and shakes her head.
My arms burn, and I sneak a glance at the clock. We’re nearing the end of my P.T. session, and I’m trying to think about anything except my damn elbow, which hasn’t been the same since I injured it last season.
She taps her fitness watch, a not-so-subtle signal for me to hurry up and finish my last set of bicep curls. “Come on, some of us have wives and children to get home to.”
“Sure, rub it in.” I flash her my best smile, but she’s immune. I briefly consider asking for advice about Shelley, but quickly realize it would probably only earn me a one-way ticket to a meeting with H.R.
Hell if I know whether that was the right way to respond last night, but it’s not like there was anyone I could ask when her message came through. Mike’s the only friend I might feel remotely comfortable talking to about this sort of thing, but I’m not about to approach the guy and ask him to press pause on his wedding plans so he can offer me advice on how to help his sister handle her orgasm problem. At least not if I want to keep all my teeth.
Robin narrows her eyes. “Focus. You’re stuck in your head today. That’s how injuries happen.”
“Three. Two. One,” I grunt out the countdown and set down the forty-pound dumbbells before taking a seat on the weight bench. It’s been a year since I took that hit, but weight exercises still pinch in a way I never felt before I went down.
“How did this set feel?”
“Fine,” I lie.
Robin’s brow arches, calling my bluff.
Trying not to focus on the dull, radiating pain in my arm, I let my mind drift back to the message that came out of nowhere. I was surprised to see Shelley’s name pop up on my screen. We’ve always been friendly, but we don’t see each other often, only the few times a year when she visits her brother. I probably should’ve stopped listening and deleted her message after the first sentence. It was clear she sent it to me accidentally. But it felt like something that deserved a response.
Voices rise in the hall, and I glance up toward the doorway. Our new shortstop is walking with our pitcher, Lincoln, in the direction of Coach Johnson’s office.
“Did you get a chance to talk to Beau yet?” Robin’s voice cuts into my thoughts again as she tries to make conversation.
I shrug and wipe the sweat from my face with a towel. “Not really.”
Coach brought the rookie into the locker room yesterday, where Beauchamp insisted in his trademark Southern drawl we all call him Beau. We acknowledged him with nods and polite hellos, but I haven’t gone out of my way to introduce myself to our new shortstop. He seems like a decent guy, if maybe a bit overconfident, but the reality is we only need a new shortstop because Miller’s gone. I’d rather not focus too much on the gaping hole my best friend is leaving in my life as he moves up to the majors and out of the apartment we share. Mike’s out there living the dream, getting recruited by the Virginia Foxhounds and marrying Danielle.
I, on the other hand, am stagnant. I’m sitting here in the exact same weight room where I’ve started spring training for the past four years in a row. Only this year I’m not performing as well as I usually do. I have no idea if I’ll still be here this time next year, and if I’m not, I have no clue what my other options are. I don’t have any real skills outside of the ball field. I didn’t have anything else to fall back on, so I never allowed myself to think about a Plan B. But now I’m staring right down the barrel into the bleak probability of needing one.
Robin seems as done with this session as I am, and she calls an end to it five minutes early. “That’s enough for today. Put some ice on the elbow when you get home, if you need it. You’re still favoring that arm. Come back tomorrow ready to get your head in the game.”
I nod and head over to the locker room to shower and change. Robin’s right. I’m too lost in my own thoughts, and it could hurt the team tomorrow if I don’t snap out of it. But the questions about myself I try to avoid have been lingering in the back of my mind since Shelley brought them all back to the surface last night. If she does try to reach out again, I don’t know how to help. How am I supposed to comfort anyone else about their life or their sexuality when I still don’t have a solid grasp on my own? I’ll be thirty in less than two years. I really thought I would have my shit more together than this by now.
