“When you say it with so much confidence, I have no choice but to believe you,” she quipped and rolled her eyes at my expense. “Tell you what. Sundays are your off-days, right?”
“Yeah, so?” I tilted my head. “Where are you going with this?”
“Bring Gideon over to the house.”
“Hell no. That’s meeting the family. No.” I slammed my fists on the table, but Bea hunkered down. Her eyes turned a darker blue and I swore they sparkled with malice. “No.”
“Then I’ll have Jade do it.”
“No, you won’t. You’re bluffing.”
“Ask him. It’ll be casual. Jade told us she wants to talk to him about speaking at the charity event, anyways. It’ll be a business brunch with booze.”
“Say that three times fast.”
“Sunday. Be there, Fiona. Bring Gideon.”
Chapter Eighteen
Gideon
I tried like hell to not overanalyze why Coach was in Phoenix during the off-season. He typically flew to the east coast and spent time with his family—this had to be serious. I cracked my neck twice, the bubble of tension in my chest beginning to hurt. If I didn’t have baseball, I had no idea what to do with my life. It scared the shit out of me.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my black dress pants and straightened my posture. The drive to the stadium took about fifteen minutes and no amount of music or positive thoughts helped. My knee ached with each step and I used the player entrance on the south side of the stadium. It had more security and fewer people around it. On game days, die-hard fans would line the fence with chairs and coolers, chanting our names with the hope of a picture or wave. It was bare today, the crisp December air giving me a slight chill.
“Mr. Titan. Good to see you up and about, my man,” Clint, the security guard who normally worked the players’ entrance, hollered at me. He held out his hand with a large smile on his face and I mirrored the gesture.
“Thanks, Clint. Glad to be back. Sure missed this place.”
“Three more months before baseball season is back. I hate pretending I like football—my heart is here. Well, good to run into ya. See you around.”
I gave him a salute and continued down the tunnel to where I knew Coach spent most of his time when games weren’t in session. His office was located to the right of the bottom floor. Monitors lined the walls, playing clips of previous games. I wondered, would my injury or outburst be on display?
I knocked on the black door and channeled my game-time zone. Focused. Determined. Desperate. I was here for baseball and nothing else mattered. I reined in all my other thoughts when he opened the door, his weathered face having a hint of a smile. “Coach Sanders.”
“Gideon. Good to see you. Come in.” He ushered me inside and I sat in an old red lounge chair that had seen better days. Its appearance had nothing on the comfort, though it felt like a cloud. “You seem to be walking fine.”
I rubbed my knee, putting a little pressure on it, and didn’t wince. “I’ll be ready to go come spring training.”
“I sure hope so. Now, we need to address a couple of things.” His dark eyebrows came together and his hard eyes narrowed on me. I tensed, but he relaxed his expression and shook his head. “You look like I’m about to fire you. I’m not.”
“That’s good news, Coach.” I gripped the armrest with my left hand. “I have some things to say, too, when you’re done.”
“Can’t wait. Now, the injury. I’ve talked to our team doctor and he says you’ll be fine at the end of February if you push yourself. His report states you’re not trusting the healing process. Any reason why?”
Not trusting? What about the goddamn pain?“I’m not sure I follow. I’ve done everything he’s asked and pushed myself. It hurts like a bitch.” I gritted my teeth in frustration. “What else did he report?”
“Stubborn.” He stopped and gave me a bemused grin. “I understand that. It’s what makes you a good player. You are stubborn. In this case, you’re not embracing the pain.”
My mouth dropped open. “I don’t understand.”
“Frankly, I don’t either. I don’t speak physical therapist babble, but I want you taking grounders. I want you throwing. And I want you getting to the cages again and working on your swing. You haven’t swung a bat in, what—six months?” He raised his eyebrows when he waited for me to answer. I gulped.
“Months. Yeah.” Shame filled me and I wondered if I’d lost everything I’d built since I was a kid.Six months off? Fuck.“I haven’t tried because the pain’s been bothering me.”
“Ice, medicate, rest and reps. Start going through the motions, slowly and only as much as you can handle, and repeat the process. Your ass is starting on opening day and I want you ready. If not, we’re going to be having a different conversation than this one.”
“Fair enough,” I replied and weight lifted from my chest.I’m not screwed yet.“I’ll get there.”
