"My knee."
When I tried to stand again, the pressure alone had me seeing stars. For fuck's sake, I was not about to pass out on this field because of a bum knee.
Matty dropped down beside me. "I don't want to add insult to injury, but your girl looks like she's about to rush the field and give you mouth-to-mouth."
"Might be worth the pain, bro," Tuck added.
I chuckled and then groaned. Even laughing hurt like hell.
I didn't dare look over my shoulder to find Clarke. Even though I loved to tease her, I never wanted to hurt her. I'd rather pass out right here on the field than see her in pain.
That's a wild take.
Apparently, at some point during the last few weeks, I'd started prioritizing her emotional wellbeing over my physical health. I wasn't sure how I felt about that, but now wasn't the time to think about it.
"Do you need a hand?"
"Maybe two?" Tuck added.
I closed my eyes and sucked a calming breath in through my nostrils before blowing it out my mouth. Maybe this was my penance for loafing on my yoga poses for the last few weeks. When the pain finally subsided to a dull throb, I opened my eyes, only to find my two teammates watching me in curious fascination.
"Dude." Amusement colored Tuck's words. "Do you do yoga?"
"Yeah. Got a problem with that?"
"Not at all. Can you teach me?"
He waited in earnest. On the other side of me, Matty arched his brow.
I shrugged. "Sure."
"Dope."
He extended his hand, which I took. At the same time, Matty tucked an arm under mine, helping to my feet. My shin might be bruised, but my ego wasn't. I knew better than that. It was going to take a helping hand (or two) to get me off this field.
They took the bulk of my weight as we walked off. I couldn't stop myself from scoping the seats behind the dugout or zeroing in on the golden-haired goddess clutching her hands to her chest. The question behind her eyes was clear. Hopefully, my forced smile would be answer enough.
"Uh oh," Tuck teased. "She cares about you, Sinclair."
"Shut up," I said through gritted teeth.
Matty sighed. "Told you to be careful, man."
I pretended not to hear him. My feelings for Clarke were growing deeper and deeper by the day, but that didn't mean I was ready to talk about them. Especially not when I could barely admit them to myself. Doing so would mean having to face some hard truths about myself, and that was one of my least favorite pastimes.
"You got one more inning in you, Sinclair?" Coach Ward asked once I cleared the steps of the dugout.
I grimaced, torn between trying to save face—and my spot in the lineup—and bursting into tears. I could already feel both my ankle and knee beginning to swell.
"Eh, give it to Kleiner," I said, feigning benevolence. "I'm sure he'd love a shot."
Our backup infielder, a twenty-two-year-old rookie fresh off the tractor from Kansas, hadn't seen the dirt once this season. I caught a glimpse of him on the other end of the bench practically bursting with excitement at the prospect of playing time.
Ward nodded. He knew better. He knew I wasn't bowing out of the game out of the goodness of my heart.
"Grab some ice from the trainer and have him look you over. I know it hurts now, but that knee's going to feel like shit tomorrow."
That was exactly what I was afraid of. I gave him a half-hearted salute from the bench before resting my head back against the wall.
