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I’m not coming back from an ACL injury. Not in time for the draft. Probably not even for next year’s draft. And even if I did heal in time, nobody would want me by then anyway.
Which means I’m done.
It’s over.
Istareattheceiling for hours, feeling untethered. This body I’m in doesn’t even feel like mine.Mybody works.Mybody allows me to run down ground balls and speed around the bases.
It allows me to protect the people I love.
If somebody offered me a million dollars to do any of those things now, I wouldn’t be able to. It would be impossible.
I’ve been pushing myself to be a better baseball player since I was six years old. All this time, the dream has been the same: get to the major leagues. And here I am, much closer to that goal than most guys ever get, and it’s all gone.
What I’ve spent my entire life working toward. Gone.
What I’ve planned my future around. Gone.
All those Cs I’ve been getting in my classes are going to come back and bite me in the ass now. I’m an accounting major who doesn’t know shit about accounting.
I try to picture myself as an accountant: wearing a suit, sitting in a cubicle or small office, crunching numbers. I can’t. I try to imagine what my life will be like in two years, in five, in ten, and I see a white, empty slate.
Dad comes back into the room from a snack run, holding a Dr. Pepper. “Azalea and her dad are still here,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.
I glance out the window. It’s close to sunset. “They are?”
He nods. “Julian says she’s refusing to go home until she sees you.”
My heart lifts at the same time my stomach twists. Iwantto see her, but I know I can’t. I can’t handle it. The timing of all of this is so atrociously horrible that I almost let out a sardonic laugh. Just when things were looking up, when I was on cloud nine, happier than I’d been in months—hell,years—this had to happen. Of fucking course.
I was holding my feelings back from her because I knew that I wasn’t emotionally stable enough to begin a relationship. I lost sight of all that in Chicago, and we crossed the line. Several of them.
Now reality is staring me in the face again, and it’s even more brutal than before.
“I can’t see her,” I say.
Dad raises his eyebrows at me. “They’ve been waiting all day, Mav. Not even for a minute?”
“No. I can’t.”
He watches me for several seconds with a pinched, disapproving look on his face. I wait for verbalized disappointment about how ungrateful and rude I’m being—and he would be correct—but instead he just clenches his jaw and says, “I’ll let them know.”
Even as he’s walking out of the room, I regret it. I want to call him back, ask him to please bring her to see me. I want to see that she’s okay with my own eyes. I want to hold her hand and tell her that I would throw myself in front of that car for her again and again, even if it cost me my career. Even if it cost me my life. I want to hand her the tangle of my thoughts so we can unravel them together.
I don’t say any of that, though. I just stare at my dad’s retreating back and let him go.
Five minutes later, my phone buzzes. I snatch it up, and my heart leaps into my throat when I see her name.
I wish you would see me but I understand why you don’t want to,says her text. I picture her typing it with hurt etched into her face and want to crawl in a hole.Your dad told us about the news you got. I don’t know what to say except thank you for what you did today, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry this happened. I’ll give you your space, if that’s what you want, but please at least let me know how you’re doing. I’m here for you always.
I’m reading the message a third time by the time Dad returns. He collapses in the chair beside my bed and levels me with an unimpressed look. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing with that girl’s heart.”
OnFridayIgetdischarged. That same day, we visit an orthopedic specialist for a consultation. He’s not quite as much of a naysayer as the first doctor, or maybe his bedside manner is just better. “A lot of it depends on how it heals,” he tells us. “But, truthfully, I would be incredibly surprised if you are able to resume your previous level of athletic performance after an injury like this.” I find this diagnosis only slightly less grim than the original. It doesn’t do much for my spirits.
At home, I sleep in the living room because I can’t mount the stairs, and I spend my days camped out in front of the TV. I read and reread Azalea’s text, but never respond to it—or the texts from any of my other friends and teammates. I’m sometimes able to put on a cheery persona for Lilly; mostly, though, I’m a moody dick, and I can tell that my dad is beginning to lose patience with me.
I’ve been home for three days when the doorbell rings. Lilly thunders through the house, screaming, “I’ll get it!” I assume it’s Emma, her friend who comes over pretty much every day, and preemptively turn up the TV.
A minute later, Lilly’s timid voice cuts through the noise. “Mavvy?”
