And I was at the infamous game where Jackson was injured. Then along for every step of the arduous, years-long healing the family walked through. Late-night talks with O as he confessed the ways he missed his brother and the sense of responsibility he felt for the injury.
Years of supporting one another, and yet I’ve foolishly felt in control of each of those situations. Because we were together. Me and Owen. Against the world. But sitting in this fabric chair in the too-stuffy room, surrounded by so many people, all I want to do is burst into that operating room and hold Owen’s hand.
“I need coffee,” I announce to the room, popping out of my seat.
Dinah, who’s held Jack’s hand every moment we’ve been in the hospital, looks at me with wisdom in her gaze. “You need company? We could all go for a walk, right Jacks?” she suggests, squeezing her husband’s hand and calling him the name onlyshe uses for him. He nods, but his hesitancy tells me he’d rather stay here in case the doctor comes back with news. He looks so much like his brother did in this waiting room, not so long ago, when it was Jack in surgery and Owen waiting for an update.
“No, no. I can go alone. I’ll grab a couple trays of coffees, okay? Be right back.”
I rush off before anyone can stop me but only make it to the elevator before my phone rings in my back pocket. Whipping it out, I’m ready to run back to the waiting room if it means someone’s calling with a report from the doctor, but it’s a number I don’t recognize. One that I now see has attempted to call me three times tonight. I send it to voicemail, then listen as soon as the caller hangs up, hearing news I definitely wasn’t anticipating tonight.
An invitation to compete onSuite Hearts.
4
GOOD NEWS
SHABOOZEY
OWEN
“There he is.” My brother's voice breaks through the fog of confusion I’ve been trying to pull myself out of for what must have been hours. Though my eyes are still heavy with sedation, the feel of Jack’s hand on my chest is a grounding presence. A reminder that we’ve been here before, in very different roles. “Take it easy, O. They’re holding you over for the night, so you don’t have to rush it.”
I lick my lips, trying to rid myself of this dry, cotton mouth, only to feel the plastic of a straw at my lips and Jack urging me to drink more. “You already downed an apple juice, but I guess it wasn’t enough.”
“I did?” I say, confused but able to open my eyes a little more, taking in my surroundings and remembering why I’m here in the first place. The game feels like a million years ago. How hard I was working and praying to just make it through one more pitch—one more inning—only to feel my shoulder give out, and then an excruciating snap in my elbow. A possible career ending snap.Closing my eyes against the rush of tears I don’t want Jack to see, I take another sip.
“Oh yeah, ya did.” He chuckles, an unusual bit of levity for him in a place I know he hates. “Brooke all but spoon-fed you every ounce of applesauce and juice the post-op nurse instructed her to give you, and she barely batted an eye at all the confessions that slipped out in your anesthesia haze.”
“No,” I groan, lifting my good arm to feel where bandages are placed over my shoulder and down the length of my arm. “How bad is it?”
“Your injuries or your impending embarrassment?”
“Both.”
“Well, little brother,” he says with a sigh, setting the apple juice down on a cart nearby and leaning over the railing of the hospital bed so we’re sitting eye to eye. “I always say, go big or go home, and you went big. In both cases. You’ve got a SLAP tear in the cartilage of your rotator cuff and, as they suspected, a grade three tear of the ulnar collateral ligament along your elbow.”
Basically, every pitcher’s nightmare and a season ending one at that.
“Recovery?”
“Twelve to fifteen months,” he says, without sugarcoating a word. I always appreciate Jack’s honesty. It’s likely why my family chose him to break the news to me.
“And…” I clear my throat, knowing it can’t get much worse. “The other thing… with Brooke.”
He leans back, wearing a shameless grin. “You sure you want to know? We could wait. Give you a minute to get your bearings before—”
“Just tell me.” I close my eyes and let my head melt into the pillow.
“Well, the moment you woke up, you all but pushed Mom out of the way, begging foryour Brookey.”
“I didn’t.” I feel the heat climbing up my neck.
“You really did. You wouldn’t eat or drink until we brought her to you.” He does little to hide his amusement, and I wish I could disappear into the floor. “Mom all too willingly obliged, of course, and I’m pretty sure she filmed at least part of your confessions. I believe she turned off the camera right after you insisted on kissing every one of Brooke’s fingers between bites of applesauce and just before you went into astonishing detail about the way you have all of her curves memorized. You had a hint of applesauce dribble and some post-surgery gas that Brooke seemed to be really charmed by. Between all that and the way you sang “Can You Feel the Love Tonight,” I think you’ve really got a shot, man.”
“I hate you.”
“Aw, I love you, too, bro.” He slaps my good arm, and, thankfully, the rest of me is too numb to feel the jostle it causes. “Seriously, Owen, listen up.”
