Page 55 of Curveball

It was time to move on—to put my focus back where it belonged.

On baseball.

“Well, Walker, everything looks pretty damn good.”

Dr. Howard glanced up from the laptop perched on his knee. “Dr. Bennett and I agree—you’re cleared to start throwing again.”

My chest expanded as I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

I needed this.

“Awesome,” I said. “That’s… great news.”

Dr. Howard’s fingers continued tapping as he spoke. “I’ve sent a detailed progression schedule to Coach Turner—what your elbow can handle over the next several months. Stick with your at-home PT and your gym routine. If you listen to your body, I don’t see any reason you won’t be back to full strength by next season.”

He finally looked up at me, studying my face.

“I expected a bigger reaction,” he said. “You’ve worked your ass off to get here. This injury hasn’t been easy.”

I forced out a short, humorless chuckle. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… got some stuff going on in my personal life.” I offered him a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “But seriously, I appreciate everything, Dr. Howard.”

He nodded, mercifully letting it go, and walked me through the next phase—when to push, when to pull back, the importance of patience if I wanted to avoid reinjury. I listened, nodded, absorbed it all.

On the drive home, I called Coach Turner and caught him up. We planned to get to work once the team was back in Austin for their next home series, building my throwing schedule around game days.

The idea of it—standing on a mound again, ball in my hand—should’ve lit something inside of me.

Instead, my phone sat heavy in the cup holder. I picked it up at a red light, thumb hovering over Farrah’s name. I clicked into our message thread.

Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again.

What was I supposed to say?

That I was cleared to throw?

That baseball still mattered to me?

That I didn’t know how to make room for both her and the only thing I’d ever been sure of?

The light turned green. I dropped my phone back into place.

I needed this. I needed Austin. I needed to throw.

Because right now, baseball was the only thing that was still mine.

Weston: How’s the elbow feeling?

Me: Felt strong until I started throwing again.

Weston: You’ve gotta be patient, man. This shit takes time. Give yourself a break.

Me: I know, I know. I just thought I’d feel better than this by now. I feel solid lifting, but when I throw, I feel like shit. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get back to where I was before the injury.

Weston: What does Coach Turner say?

Me: That this is to be expected and I need to chill the fuck out.

Weston: Oh. So exactly what I’m saying?