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I shifted, backpedaling, my eyes glued to the ball that was flying straight for center field. I turned and picked up my pace, running for the royal blue wall that separated Revs baseball from the rest of Boston. Kyle was headed my way from right, but I had this. I didn’t need back up.
When the ball began to drop just a fraction, I knew I had a chance. I made it to the back wall just as the ball did. With my glove open to make the grab, I jumped up and flew. This was exactly the type of jump they paid me the big money to make. At the slight pressure at the tip of my glove, I forced my fingers shut, snapping the mitt tightly around the ball.
The crowd roared behind me as the stadium horns sounded.
My heart was soaring along with our fans, but before I could land and celebrate with the victory dance that had become my trademark, the spike of my cleat caught in the blue padding along the wall. Momentum and gravity pulled me, even as my foot was stuck three feet in the air.
I tipped, shoulders and head dropping fast. I had one second to make the choice. I could drop the ball and catch myself so I didn’t smack headfirst into the dirt, or I could lock the ball up and save the out.
Who was I kidding? There was no choice. I’d never let my team down. Not with the game on the line. I locked my fingers tight in my glove and braced for the inevitable hard smack against the dirt.
“Shit, Humpty,” Bosco called from a few feet away as he dove toward me.
It was too late. My head hit the ground, though the sensation barely registered before the world went black.
I can do this.
Not that I had a choice. I was the trainer assigned to treat neck and shoulder injuries. And our center fielder had just knocked himself out cold. The catch had been one for the books, but he was known for those plays—the ones ESPN would replay for weeks on end.
The three-and-a-half-foot jump to steal the home run away from the Bandits had been perfect.
Until it had gone horribly sideways.
Or, more accurately, upside down. Seconds after the ball had landed in his glove, the baseball star tipped. His foot had stayed halfway up the wall while the rest of his body headed fast and hard to the ground below.
The way his head bounced and tossed dirt around him would have made even the toughest of souls wince. He might be alert now, but he’d definitely be hurting by morning.
If it had been anyone else, I would have felt bad for the guy. Honestly, I almost felt bad for Mason Dumpty, and that was saying something. Since I’d started working for the Revs, I’d mostly avoided him. The few times we’d almost crossed paths I was able to dodge him, and I still wasn’t sure if that left me angry with myself for being a wimp or relieved I didn’t have to deal with him.
Maybe both.
I stepped up next to Kyle Bosco, the Revs’ right fielder, and nodded to the team’s doctor, letting him know I was here. Mason was sitting up, which was a whole lot better than dangling from his cleat. But his brows were pulled together as he scanned the not-so-small crowd that had gathered around him.
“You okay, Humpty?” Bosco asked.
Mason’s frown deepened, creating a deep crease between his brows. “Am I Humpty Dumpty?”
Coach Wilson cocked his head to the side, and a few of the players chuckled. But Mason’s expression remained confused as he looked past us to the field.
“The king’s horses and all his men?” he slurred.
My stomach sank. He was talking nonsense, and that was not a good sign. I looked over my shoulder to see what he was talking about. The Revs mascots, dressed like soldiers on horseback, stood in their normal place along the sidelines. And Beckett Langfield was walking across the grass. When he approached, he pushed his way through the players and stood next to me. The Revs’ GM, Cortney Miller, was right behind him.
“The king. We should kneel so the giant behind him doesn’t take us out.” Mason dropped his hands to the grass and pushed, trying to get up, but the doctor tightened his hold on his right arm and held him in place.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. He thinks Beckett’s the king.” Coach Wilson chuckled.
“Beckett thinks so too,” Cortney muttered. But his expression was one of pure concern as he looked from the doctor to me and then back to Mason.
Mason blinked twice and rubbed his head.
With his hands on his hips, Cortney bent down. “How bad is it?”
Before I could answer, Mason turned to me. His jade green eyes were impossible to forget, even after eleven years. That single look sent a stream of memories whirling in my mind: the intensity flashing in his irises when he was working a puzzle, the spark when he laughed, the desire I thought I’d seen once upon a time.
My stomach flipped as a moment years ago took over. An instant when he pressed his full lips against mine.
Here, now, he ran his tongue over his lower lip and studied me, his gaze drifting from my eyes down to my mouth. The look sent a tingle rushing down my spine. Just like all those years ago, his attention lit me up from the inside out. I’d angled in a fraction before I realized what I was doing.
