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“I’m not sure.” Pike shrugged. “At least another two weeks. I’m doing all my PT but—”
“Rick Fogler said he saw you jogging downtown today. You should be resting and icing, not putting more stress on the injury.”
“My physical therapist cleared me to run with my knee brace,” Pike said, the muscle in his jaw leaping as he fought the urge to tell his father to mind his own business. “I’m taking care of it and doing what I’m supposed to do, Dad. Now it’s just a matter of time. I have to wait and see how I heal.”
His father exhaled audibly. “You’ve already missed the All-Star game and two weeks of play. If you don’t buckle down, you might be out for the season. The guys on Sports Center were saying the docs they talked to said this injury could be a career ender. What do you think about that?”
“I think I’d like it if you would pick up a phone and talk to me instead of getting your information from Rick Fogler or the douchebags on Sports Center,” Pike snapped. “Jesus, Dad. I’ve been playing pro ball for almost seven years. I know what I’m doing. I’m not a kid anymore.”
Jim grunted. “Well, you wouldn’t know it from the pictures in the magazines. You know your mother sees that crap, Pike. She saw that shot of you drunk on the red carpet with that girl from the vampire movies.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” Pike said, voice rising. “It was a doctored photo. Something manufactured to sell magazines. How many times do I have to—”
“There’s my boy!” His mother’s voice sounded from behind him and a moment later her arms were on his shoulders, rubbing the tension away as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. “So glad you’re home, baby. I made all your favorites. Even the green bean casserole I usually only make at Thanksgiving.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Pike sighed as he stood to pull his mother in for a hug, hating that he’d let his father get to him not five minutes into the visit. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too. I can’t wait to hear all your news,” she said, looping her arm around his waist. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen and we can have a glass of wine while Mia finishes up the salads?”
“Sounds great,” Pike said, glancing over his shoulder at his father. “You coming, Dad?”
“I’ll be in in a minute,” he said, rising from his chair and starting for the porch steps. “I need to go check on the group down at the lodge.”
Pike’s lip curled. The lodge—the hunting lodge his father had built on their property, turning their failing cattle ranch into a hunter’s paradise—was always a good excuse for Dad to bail when he was tired of dealing with his son.
“But I thought you’d already checked on them this afternoon,” his mom said, her brow furrowing. “Come on in, Jim, and do it later. I can’t remember the last time we had the entire family here.”
“I do,” Pike said. “But last time, Dad made it through the main course before he bailed.”
His mother stiffened beside him. “Now, Pike, let’s not—”
“No, let him say what he wants to say, Jenny,” his father interrupted. “He should talk ’cause he’s certainly no good at listening.”
“Like you’re one to talk, Dad,” Pike said, stepping away from his mother. “Jesus, whatever. I should have known better than to think this was going to be any different than every other time I’ve come home.”
“Please, Pike, don’t leave,” his mother begged, sounding so upset Pike wanted to kick the banister on his way down the porch steps.
“I’m not, Mom. I’m just going for a walk,” he said, turning back to see his mother’s eyes wide in her perfectly made up face. She’d dressed up for his visit and gone to a lot of trouble with the meal, otherwise he would be out of here. He didn’t need this tonight, not when he was already stressed out about his future and reeling from his encounter with Tulsi. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and aimed his body toward the mesquite trees, down the trail leading to the fifty acres of family property where his father’s lodge guests weren’t allowed to hunt. As a kid, Pike had spent half his life out here, riding horses and ATVs, fishing and camping with his friends, dreaming of the day when he would never have to go back home to Jim Sherman’s house again. He’d loved his dad, but he’d also resented him. No matter how hard Pike tried, no matter how many games he won or trophies he brought home, it was never good enough.
In interviews, Pike credited his father’s relentless drive and devotion to the game for getting him to the big leagues years sooner than other pitchers. When the St. Louis Cardinals’ star pitcher tore his rotator cuff seven years ago and the recruiters started scouting the minors for a mid-season relief pitcher, Pike immediately rose to the top of the list of contenders, even though he was only halfway through his first season pitching for the Springfield Cardinals. He’d been a star at twenty-two and was now well on his way to being a legend, but when people asked, Pike always passed the glory on to his father rather than talking about his own passion for the game.
The truth was, Pike didn’t know if he loved the game anymore. He still fought hard to be the absolute best player he could be because that was the way he was wired, but playing ball hadn’t been fun for a long time. Not since he was a kid and his Little League coach told his dad that Pike was a prodigy, setting a lifetime of events in motion.
Sometimes Pike wished he could go back in time and tell his younger self to play soccer instead. He was grateful for his success and knew he was living the dream, he just wasn’t sure whose dream it was—his or his father’s.
“Hey, Pike, wait for me,” Mia called from behind him.
Pike paused on the dirt trail, waiting for his sister to catch up before he started walking again. “I’m sorry,” he said with a sigh. “I was determined not to let this happen, but the man just…pushes my buttons.”
“I know.” Mia crossed her arms and kicked a rock farther down the trail. “I should have realized Dad was going to be worse this time, not better. He’s scared, Pike. I think he’s afraid you’re never going to play ball again.”
“And then what good would I be to anyone, right?” Pike said, but his joking tone fell flat.
Mia’s fingers curled around his bicep and squeezed. “Seriously, Pike, it’s not that bad, is it? I thought it was just a minor thing, and you’d be back on the mound in a week or two.”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” he said, surprised to find his chest loosening as the words came out. It felt good to finally say what his trainer and therapist had been dancing around for weeks. “It’s definitely better, but it’s not good enough, you know? My doctor wants to give it another week or two, and if I’m still not snapping back, she thinks surgery might be the only option.”
