Page 86 of Lucky 22

“Athletes have a short shelf life, Ella Rose. There willcome a time when I can’t play the game anymore. But until then, I’m going togive it my all. Every injury, hardship, and bit of life I’ve missed out on isworth it to me. I’m doing what I love.”

I swallow hard and nod because I get it.

Although my career doesn’t have me doing things that cancause permanent damage to my body. When I sigh again, Christian squeezes myhand and gazes at me until I look at him.

“I hate that you’re this upset again. And I hate knowing I’mthe reason for it.”

My heart races, because this is the point where I usuallyback down. The time in the discussion where I accept things for what they arebecause I don’t want to upset him. So, no one’s more surprised than me when Iblurt out, “And I hate that you’re constantly taking unnecessary risks. I hatethat you’re being reckless for the sake of a game. You say that you hateupsetting me, but you’re not willing to do anything about it. For the lastseveral months, I’ve been a ball of anxiety, tiptoeing around you. And you knowwhat? That’s not how I want to live. I have always taken your thoughts intoaccount with every role I take, and I don’t feel like you consider me or myfeelings at all where your career is concerned.”

His expression turns fierce for just a second, but I see it.

“We talked about this years ago,” he says after a moment,his voice completely calm. “It’s why I said you needed to experience a fullbaseball season before I proposed. You knew what this life would be like.”

“No,” I say adamantly, pulling my hand from his. “No, Ididn’t. It wasn’t like this. I never even imagined it would be like this. Iunderstood and came to accept the loneliness. But seeing you in constant painand not being able to do anything about it wasn’t part of anything wediscussed.”

Now he’s annoyed, but so am I.

“There’s a difference between being passionate about yourcareer and being stubborn. I have watched you lie to me, your trainers, andyourself. And for what, huh? You’re walking around like an eighty-year-old manwhen you’re only thirty-one. You’re being held together by athletic tape andlies, Christian. I feel like the only voice of logic.”

He doesn’t say a word.

“And what’s worse is you expecting me to sit here day afterday, night after night, while you destroy your body just so no one can sayyou’re a quitter. I’d rather have you retire and know we can live our lives theway we always dreamed instead of the possibility of you being permanentlyinjured because you refused to listen to reason.”

“I would never ask you to quit acting,” he says quietly.“Even when I haven’t agreed with some roles you played, I never asked you notto act. You’ve worked your whole life with one goal, and you know that,sometimes, the things you have to do aren’t ideal. And they’re not forever. Ithought we were on the same page with that. I will always support you. Nomatter what.”

For a moment, all the wind goes out of my sails. Like…how doI fight back? I’m not asking him to quit playing out of selfishness; I’m simplyasking him to think about all the repercussions.

“The difference is, Christian, those roles aren’t destroyingmy body. They’re not physically destroying my health and well-being.”

That’s it. I’ve put it all out there. There’s nothing leftfor me to say.

My conscience is clear. I spoke my truth out of love.

He may not realize it, but I’m fighting not only for him butalso for our marriage. I’ve lived by the rules he set for us, all centered onbaseball. I’ve been a good teammate. But that’s not all there is to our lives.His wants and needs aren’t the only ones. I can’t be the only one learning howto balance it all.

I know he’s not doing it maliciously. Christian is one ofthe sweetest and kindest human beings on the planet. But when it comes to hiscareer, he’s got tunnel vision.

Without a word, he rolls away from me and turns off hisbedside light. With nothing left to do, I end up doing the same. It’s the firsttime in our married life that we don’t snuggle together while watching TV untilwe fall asleep. My side of the bed feels vast, empty, and cold.

Maybe I’m wrong, but I can’t cave. And I’m not going toapologize for loving him and being concerned about his well-being.

I most certainly won’t apologize for speaking from my heart.

I’ve made sacrifices.

I’ve missed out on some amazing acting opportunities.

I’ve moved away from where I wanted our lives to be.

I’ve sat in uncomfortable social situations for the sake ofsupporting my husband.

And now I sound selfish, even though I did all those thingsselflessly.

How’s that for irony?

I love my husband. That’s never been the issue. But I wanthim to be around for our future.

I try my best to get comfortable, willing myself not to cry.I’m tired of crying. But more than anything, I’m tired of crying for thingsthat will never change. Am I fighting a losing battle? Or am I being stubbornand holding on to a version of our lives that I created in my head?