On the outside, no one would know that Brayden hadn’t been home for a week. The grass was mowed and the place looked cared for, like several of the vacation homes on their street. He was in there now, and her body knew it, her bones drawn to him like magnets. Her heartbeat thrummed in her wrists.
She stepped up to the door and knocked. Twisting the bag’s handle, she shook her head at herself. She never knocked at Brayden’s door. They just walked in. So, taking a leap of faith, she turned the knob and entered. The shades were drawn, giving the room a muted look. The place smelled empty, the faint scent of Brayden’s body spray barely discernible.
Brayden was in the recliner, fast asleep. His face was calm, peaceful. The pinch between his eyebrows that had been there for the last week was gone. His broad shoulders took up much of the chair. She glanced at the low arm, where she usually perched as they watched movies but mostly clung to one another.
SportsCenterwas on the television. Of course he fell asleep listening to guys talk about baseball. It soothed him. There had been a sense of restlessness about him when she’d visited in the hospital, his legs twitching, his fingers curling around an imaginary ball.
She searched for the remote and was about to turn it off when Brayden’s picture filled the screen, making her gasp. She glanced quickly at his prone form to ensure he wasn’t listening to the report, and then perched on the edge of the coffee table.
The guy with the shaved head started things off. “It’s tragic. This guy was on his way to becoming a superstar. In another season, he could have been playing for LA. All the cogs were in place and moving in that direction. And now he’s out.”
Tilly pressed her palm over her mouth to keep in her moan of anguish. Having his prognosis, his future, summed up with the practiced detachment of a broadcaster was like being run over.
The other announcer picked up the conversation. “Yeah, but come on. Rock climbing? That was a risk he never should have taken.”
Her stomach rolled. She pressed the power button to shut off the TV. The self-condemnation didn’t stop when their voices cut off, because most of it was in her head. She should have been smarter. She should have kept him safe. Brayden moaned in his sleep and lifted a knee and then dropped it again. She wobbled to him, touching his skin. He felt chilled, so she went to the closet and pulled out the blanket he kept around for her. She laid it across him and kissed his cheek.
“I can’t make this up to you,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
With silent tears falling down her cheeks, she stored the food in the kitchen and rolled up into a ball on the couch, where she too fell asleep. She’d never felt so alone in Brayden’s presence before.
Chapter Seven
Brayden
The next three days passed much too quickly for Brayden. He was back and forth from the doctor’s office. His neck brace came off and he had his first appointment with Doc and Elise, where they laid out his new routine.
He’d seen the X-rays and knew exactly where the pins were in his neck. They didn’t look natural, and movement scared him. He’d thought he’d be ecstatic to get rid of the brace, but he was nervous to be without it. The brace meant people gave him a wide berth. He wasn’t sure he could survive a chest bump or an accidental shoulder bump. Tilly seemed to understand his need for space and orbited around him. The few times she did touch him, he’d flinch first, expecting pain.
On the other hand, he was glad to have the brace off before the team came back. He didn’t need the guys taking pity on him. He’d had quite enough of that, thank you.
Tilly’s pity was the hardest to handle. She treated him like a package of eggs and hovered—oh, that woman could hover.
“I can put on my own shirt.” He took the shirt out of her hands. She’d done his laundry last night, asking what he wanted to wear to the first day of work. He’d snapped at her that he’d been to the stadium a hundred times and it didn’t matter. She’d bitten her lip and turned away. He wasn’t sure, but there could have been tears in her eyes. He hated snapping at her, but she wasn’t treating him like she used to—he’d become her project.
“Okay.” She lifted a shoulder. “Go ahead.” Her jaw slid to the side and she lifted one eyebrow in disbelief.
Brayden made sure the buttons were all undone on the polo shirt before he slid it over his head first and then worked his arms in the holes. He let the fabric drop and held his hands out, sayingSee?with a gesture.
She gave him a once-over. “All right, big guy. Let’s go.”
He reached for her hand just as she turned, intent on pulling her to him and kissing away their mutual grumpiness. They hadn’t had a chance to spend “quality time” together since before the accident. He missed her soft lips. The girl had some serious kissing skills. Surely if they could reconnect at the lips, they would settle back into their old routines.
But he missed her hand and his arm came to his side. Slow understanding broke over him. They weren’t going to get back to their old routines. They needed to find a new normal. He watched her soft hips sway as she left his bedroom.
The room had been off-limits for the two of them before the accident. Too much temptation. They’d spent the last fifteen minutes in here together, and he’d only thought about kissing her right before she left. What was wrong with him? More importantly, what was wrong withthem?
“He’s already throwing,” said Coach Wolfe.
Brayden ran his fingers along the cement wall as they walked the hallways under the stadium seats. They pushed open the metal double doors that opened in the locker room. The familiar smells of fresh paint and lingering sweat hit his nose like an old friend. Brayden kept his eyes trained on the door to the dugout. His new charge was on the mound, warming up. The ball hit the catcher’s leather with a loud crack. The kid had heat.
“95?” asked Brayden.
“96 on the fastball. Not as fast as you.” Coach grinned at him.
“Which is why you need me.” Brayden returned his grin. He didn’t feel the confidence he projected. That kind of answer was automatic. He’d always been able to give a quick answer in an interview, even if he didn’t feel that way inside.
“Actually, Andres is working on his speed. I need you for the cutter.”
