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chapter one
Bishop
“I have a half-caff latte and an americano for Bam!”
Stepping forward to the drink counter to grab my order, I nod at the barista, who I recognize from high school. Doesn’t matter where I go in this town—that nickname has stuck to me like glue for as long as I can remember. When you hold a record at your smalltown high school for most home runs in a single baseball season and your initials are B.A.M., it’s easy for a moniker like that to take hold and never let go.
I eye the two drinks then glance down at my left arm resting tightly against my chest in a sling. One of the many inconveniences I’m facing with this stupid cast is shit like this. All I want to do is carry two cups of coffee outside. Instead, I have to ask for help.
“Hey, would you mind grabbing me a tray?” I motion to my arm.
“Oh, sure. Gimme just a sec.” She dips down behind the counter for a few seconds before her smiling face returns with a cardboard drink holder. “Sorry about that. Didn’t even think about it.”
I shrug, watching as she slips both drinks into the little slots. “No worries.”
“How’d the surgery go? Is it true you won’t be able to play anymore?”
I freeze for just a beat but manage to keep the easy smile. “Nah, everything went great. I’ll be better than ever next season.” I pick up the tray and raise it slightly in her direction. “Thanks again. See you around.”
I turn, slipping quickly but carefully through the folks standing around the counter waiting for their own morning caffeine boost. I focus on the door, not wanting any more interactions like that one, before finally pushing out onto Main Street. The cool, early autumn morning is a balm on my soul, and I take a deep breath, inhaling the fresh, crisp air.
It doesn’t surprise me that word has spread that I’m home…and home with an injury at that. Even so, I don’t like knowing people are already speculating about whether I’ll be able to play anymore. I’ve had surgery, and I have a rehabilitation plan I’ll be following to the letter. What I need right now is relentless optimism, not people asking questions that lean toward the negative.
I drop into a seat at one of the open tables in front of Ugly Mug, set the tray down, then take a few seconds to adjust the straps of my sling that are starting to rub uncomfortably against my neck.
I’m no stranger to injuries. It’s rare to be an athlete and never face a broken, pulled, or twisted something, but I’ve never had to have surgery before. Never had to wear a cast and try to keep my wrist as immobile as possible.
Yeah, can’t say I’m a fan.
Slipping my cup from the tray, I raise it to my mouth and take a sip of the same caffeinated beverage I’ve ordered since I was barely a teenager. The piping hot liquid bursts onto my tongue, the warm melody of roasted beans and milk the perfect way to jumpstart the morning.
Sighing, I settle more into my chair and tilt my head back, closing my eyes and taking another deep breath. As much as being back in Cedar Point isn’t ideal, the familiarity of a Monday morning on Main Street eases some of the anxiousness that’s been a weight on my chest ever since I arrived home last week. I’ve been kind of tired and achy, holed up in my childhood home after my surgery, and it feels good to get outside.
“Hey, man. Sorry I’m late.”
My head turns at the sound of Rush’s voice, and I smile at the sight of him. I push to standing and we embrace briefly.
“No worries, man,” I say, patting him on the back a few times with my good arm. “None at all. Just stoked to see you.”
He pulls back, a grin on his face. Then his eyes fall to my sling-encased arm, and he shakes his head.
“Seriously, I can’t believe your luck.”
I scoff as we both take a seat. “It wasn’t luck. Trust me.” I push the tray his direction and motion to his americano.
“Thanks.” Picking up his cup, he takes a sip, eyeing me over the lid as he does. “So, how’ve you been feeling?
“Ah, you know. It hurts a bit still. But surgery went well, and that’s all I can hope for.”
Rush rolls his eyes. “Cut the shit, Bam. I’m not some reporter.”
I pick up my own drink, chuckling. “Not shitting you, Rush. Things are fine. I’m gonna be better than ever once this thing has healed up. It’s just inconvenient, that’s all.”
Fine and inconvenient: two words I’ve been using far too much. But what else am I supposed to say?
That I’m scared?
That I fucked up?
