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With a harsh breath in, I pulled back.
Dammit, I couldn’t let him have this effect on me.
Not again.
Not after last time.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Mason Dumpty, known to his teammates as Humpty Dumpty—how the hell does a person earn a nickname like that?—was an asshole of epic proportion. Not to mention a member of the team I worked for and likely suffering from a serious concussion.
He should not be turning me on. I gritted my teeth and willed my body to get on board with my brain. Because no part of me liked the center fielder.
“Are you the princess?” Mason asked, focus still fixed on me.
“All right.” Dr. Anderson cleared his throat and pushed to his feet. “He’s done. We need to get him off the field.”
“Done what?” Mason asked, searching the crowd around him again. “What’s going on? Are we playing a game?” He dropped his chin, taking in his uniform and glove, and reached into his mitt. “Is this the game ball?”
Even after the fall, he’d miraculously held on to the ball. But that was Mason. He always made those shocking plays. The big saves when the game was on the line. The steal to second at the exact moment the team needed it. It would be a lie to say I hadn’t followed his career over the years. He was an incredible ball player.
He held the baseball out to me. When no one stepped in to take it, I accepted it. The people around us were silent. Not one had answered his questions. Not the coach or the GM or the owner of the team. Probably because he wouldn’t remember this tomorrow. Hell, he probably wouldn’t remember this in ten minutes.
I crouched next to him and sighed. “You hit your head and need to get checked out.”
Confusion swam in his eyes as he assessed me. “You’ll come?”
“I’ll ride along,” Dr. Anderson said, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen rapidly, probably getting the ambulance ready.
Coach Wilson waved a hand to the ground crew to bring out the cart.
“Should we be worried?” Beckett asked behind me as Mason continued to stare at me.
“Of course we should,” Cortney said.
Mason finally looked away from me and focused on the blond giant.
“His brain is probably bleeding, or he might have cracked his skull. He’ll need a CT with contrast, an MRI of his neck and shoulders…”
Mason’s eyes got wider and wider as Cortney went on.
“Let’s not panic yet,” I said, cutting the spiral of thoughts known to come from our general manager. It would only make matters worse if the GM sent Mason into panic mode too.
“Let’s not say too much until we have some firm answers,” Dr. Anderson agreed as the cart rolled to a stop and the rest of the team stepped back.
“Yeah, don’t panic.” Beckett, arms crossed over his chest, glared at his GM.
“Let’s get the game going again. And you two.” Dr. Anderson waved at the owner and the GM. “Go deal with the press. The last thing we want is them chasing the ambulance for a statement. Get the PR team to put something out there like ‘heading to hospital. Condition stable but unknown.’”
Chuckles echoed around me. Stable? That remained to be seen, but unknown seemed to fit.
“Are we going to the castle now?” Mason asked. “Is this a chariot?” He homed in on the glorified golf cart we’d use to get him off the field.
“Yep, sure is.” I nodded and shot him a pacifying smile as I stood up so the guys could move Mason onto the back of the cart.
Two men helped him to his feet and kept him steady. All the while, he was watching me, his brows pinched. With a wince, he grabbed for his head and swayed, forcing the men to hold on a bit tighter.
Beckett pointed at me. “You go with him.”
