Page 1 of Off the Trail

Chapter 1

Shawn

When I wake up, it takes me less than five seconds to realize I’m in a hospital. The smells give it away—plastic and acrid antiseptic. Then there’s the IV attached to my hand, the scratchy bed linen touching my skin. I’m no stranger to hospitals. I’ve broken both arms, sprained ankles, broken my nose, had emergency surgery—twice. There was that one time when I was five and I had a rash so bad my mom rushed me to the ER; it turned out I was just allergic to the new laundry detergent she’d bought.

But this is the first time I’ve been in a hospital and not known why. Did I take a pitch to the head? My head does hurt, a jagged line of pain across my crown, now that I think about it. But who were we playing? Boston? Philly?

A nurse comes into my field of vision—has she been here the whole time? She smiles when she sees my eyes are open then glances at the monitor. None of this worries me overmuch. Again, not my first time.

“Hello, Mr. Camden. How are you feeling?”

My mouth is dry, but I’m able to form words without much difficulty. “Headache. What happened?”

“I’ll get the doctor. And you have a friend here—she says she’s your agent.”

Callie’s here? The nurse moves the cloth partition and is gone before I can voice the question, so I sag back into the bed.

When a doctor comes in and I don’t recognize her, that’s when the thing that’s different about this particular hospital visit hits me. It’s not trusty old Dr. Windsor or any of his team who comes to check me out, it’s someone called Dr. Morita. And she treats me with cool professionalism, not the chummy warmth I’m used to from Doc Windsor.

Now I remember. I couldn’t get hurt playing Philly because I’m not on the team anymore. I’m no longer treated by the best sports medicine professionals in the country. I’m just a regular Joe in a hospital room with a headache.

“Your vitals are strong,” she tells me. “How’s your pain level?”

I try to wet my lips with my dry tongue, and the nurse brings me a plastic cup of ice chips. They don’t help a lot, but I manage to say, “Four.” I’m probably more like a seven, and the furrow between the doctor’s eyebrows tells me she’s not fooled. “What happened?”

“You were in a car accident, Mr. Camden,” she says calmly. “Your airbag deployed, which is probably how you were knocked unconscious. You could see some bruising develop over the next few days. You don’t seem to have any lacerations or broken bones. We’re going to treat you with the standard concussion protocol.” She asks me a few questions about nausea and memory loss. I know the drill, and my answers seem to satisfy her that I’m not experiencing more than mild symptoms. As a professional athlete, I should know. Former professional athlete, my brain hisses at me.

“Would you like me to send in your visitor?” The collision is coming back to me now, and I’m pretty sure my visitor isn’t going to be particularly happy with me. But I can’t avoid Callie forever.

“Sure,” I croak. I lift my arm experimentally, managing to bring the ice chip cup to my mouth all on my own. As I regain my bearings, I’m realizing I’m fine, just banged up. Mild concussion fits the bill. I suck on my mouthful of ice chips while the nurse types some stuff into a computer and the doctor tells me she’ll be back in a while.

“Shawn.” Callie walks around the fabric curtain and straight to my bedside, her big, brown eyes full of concern. “Are you okay? What did the doctor say?”

“Mild concussion,” I say around the ice in my mouth. “Bumps and bruises. I’m fine.” My head doesn’t even hurt that much anymore.

Her broad shoulders drop slightly, but the worry doesn’t leave her eyes. I’ve known Callie Roman for over a decade, but she’s only officially been my agent for the last couple of years. Before that, her dad took me on as a client when I was a rookie fresh out of college ball, a fourth-round draft pick. I was just happy to have a spot on a team, even if it wasn’t my first or second or even fifth choice.

Jamal Roman was a good agent, and a good man. Callie was his right hand before he retired and she took over his list. She might be an even better agent than her father.

“Shawn.” She has a way of saying my name through clenched teeth that makes me feel like a naughty child.

I maintain my eye contact with her even though everything in me wants to look away. “Callie.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

I give in and close my eyes. Yeah. I remember. “Mostly.”

“What the hell, Shawn? Jesus, you scared the shit out of Jett and me. Someone saw the footage and texted him. All we knew was that you’d been in a car wreck and the ambulance brought you here.”

“What footage?” The headache’s coming back. “Did you let Jett know I’m okay?”

“Tell him yourself. He’s here.”

“What time is it?”

“Two in the damn morning. Luckily, they’re being flexible about the visitor policy for dumbass athletes.” Her tone contains her normal level of sass and makes me feel marginally better, even though guilt swamps me. She shouldn’t have to be here in the middle of the night because of me. Neither should Jett. He’s the starting catcher for the Hartford Laurels baseball team, and they’re going on the road tomorrow.

The man himself walks through the door, thighs like tree trunks and shoulders to match. “Hey, brother,” he says, taking up the spot next to Callie. He’s sporting a two-day-old beard and purple smudges under his so-dark-they’re-almost-black eyes.