Page 81 of Lucky 22

Again.

The American League beats the National League in theAll-Star Game the next day, but we still have a great time. Plus, I love havingfamily in the stands with me, so I don’t feel so alone. It isn’t like a regulargame. The two teams are comprised of the top players from all the differentteams, so I barely know any of the other WAGs. Still, everyone I met is supernice.

We head back to St. Louis, and with all the excitement ofthe weekend over, I notice that Christian’s still not quite himself. I don’tknow how much longer I can let him pretend that he’s fine.

The reality is that he’s not playing like he used to. He’smaking mistakes and missing plays that should be easy for him. I try not toharp on it, but I’m not quiet, either. His game is changing. His thoughts andreactions are slow, and he’s striking out constantly. Christian never strikesout. He has excellent vision and can make contact with the baseball no matterwhere the pitcher throws it—it’s what he’s known for. Now, the balls are flyingpast him, and his bat isn’t even coming close. But the scariest part is thathis memory isn’t the same. Christian has always had a photographic memory. Hecan recount each game, pitch by pitch, with exact detail. But now, his memoriesaren’t as sharp. They’re even fuzzy at times.

“Christian, this has to do with the concussion,” I state,hating that things have gotten to this point. “We need to get you to aspecialist. You can’t keep going like this. All of these symptoms have to dowith that injury.”

With his ever-patient smile, he replies, “I’m fine. Everyday, I feel a little better.”

But it’s a lie. He’s getting worse each day, and he’scompletely in denial about it. I understand being passionate about the game andyour career, but to what end? Is it worth dying for? Because that’s all I canthink about. That something more traumatic than anyone realizes has happened tohis brain.

Needless to say, I’m terrified, and I can’t understand whyno one is doing anything about it. Like…how can his coaches and trainers keepletting him play? How can I make them listen?

As luck would have it, someone finally—finally!—realizesit isn’t going away.

Christian comes home from a Sunday-afternoon game lookingincredibly defeated. I was at the game, and it was impossible to overlook howpoorly he played. I would never say that to him. I always try to be positive,but it was getting harder and harder to find the right words.

“Hey,” I begin cautiously. “Is everything okay?”

"The trainers brought me into the office after thegame,” he begins miserably, tossing his hat onto the sofa again. “They saidthey think I have post-concussion syndrome."

I do my best to keep my expression neutral. “And what didyou say?”

“What could I say? I told them, I don’t think, I know.”Raking a hand through his short hair, he lets out a ragged breath. “You’ve beensaying it for weeks, but I didn’t want to believe it.” He collapses onto thecouch, his head thrown back.

I’m immediately beside him. “So, what happens now?”

He looks tortured, his blue eyes dull and without theirusual sparkle. “Now, I don’t get to leave with the team for Cincinnati for ournext game. I have to stay here and see our team’s eye specialist tomorrow. Takesome sort of an exam.” Another sigh. “I hate this. I can’t believe this ishappening.”

It would be wrong not to point out that injuries are commonin sports, and that he’s had them before—and will, more than likely, have themagain.

Or the fact that this was inevitable, considering how longit has been going on.

Instead, I take one of his hands in mine and place a softkiss on his palm. “Now that we know this is something, we’ll get you the helpyou need. Head injuries really need to be taken seriously, Christian.”

He glances at me only briefly before carefully pulling hishand from mine. “Is that your way of saying I told you so?”

“What? No! That’s not what I’m saying at all. All I’vewanted all this time is for you to be okay and to give yourself time to heal. Iworry about you. Don’t you get that?”

“What you don’t get is how bad it is to be on the injuredlist. The Archers are having a great season, and I don’t want to miss out onany of it.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind him, again, that ifhe had taken the time off right after he hit his head, he might not have to beon the injured list again.

But I keep that commentary to myself.

Hopefully, we’ll getproof tomorrow that he needs to take this seriously, and he’ll stop playinguntil he’s fully healed.

I can tell he’s upset and that talking about this won’thelp, so I do the only thing I can. “Are you hungry? I made your favorite—friedchicken, Southern-style green beans, mashed potatoes, and those dinner rollsyou like. They’re in the oven right now.”

Turning his head, he gives me a weak smile. “I’m sorry, EllaRose.” His voice is soft, barely a whisper.

“For what?”

“I’m sure you think I’m just being stubborn, and I know I’vebeen in a surly mood. I don’t mean to be. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m justfrustrated with the situation. But that doesn’t give me the right to take itout on you.” He picks up my hand and mimics my earlier move, kissing my palm.“I love you.”

I caress his jaw with my free hand. “I love you, too.” Hetugs me in close, his arms going around me, and we stay like that for severalminutes until the oven timer goes off. Lifting my head, I smile. “Let’s eat.”