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“Jerk.”
“That, too.”
Chapter twenty-two
Ian
Although I don’t thinkthe other writers believed there was some big love triangle between Brendan, myself, and a player, the question was out there now, and I did notice a few of them looking a little closer at us both. Our coming back from the cafe together probably didn’t help things. But to be honest, I don’t think I care if they know about us. They all seem like pretty good guys. It’s not me I’m worried about. This is so new for Brendan, and I’m not sure he’s ready to put that label or any other label on himself. One day he will be ready, at least I hope he will.
About halfway through warm-ups, a scream echoes through the field and all attention moves to left fielder, Nate Buxton on the ground clutching his arm. My stomach flips. It’s sitting at a really weird angle. That can’t be good. Stevie Peterson crouches beside him and waves over the team physician, Dr. Aram. I rush forward with the others.
“What happened?” Dr. Aram asks.
Stevie links his hands behind his head. “I didn’t see him until we hit. I think I landed on his arm,” he tells him, and I push up on my toes to try to see over the players surrounding them.
Nate is growling in pain.
“I’ll be good, right, doc?” Nate groans, but the doctor touches his arm, and his groan becomes an ear-chilling scream.
“We need to get you to the hospital. Looks like a dislocation, but I don’t want to risk resetting it if there is something else going on, too. We need to get an X-ray. Where’s my board?” Dr. Aram calls, and only a second later, the team trainer and OT are pulling up on a quad bike with a medic stretcher attached to the back.
“Try not to move it or it could make it worse,” Dr Aram tells him, lifting the dislocated arm slowly onto Nate’s waist before they steady him onto the board. They strap him down, keeping his arm held fixed to his body, and though he isn’t screaming anymore, his face has paled. This will be it for his season, maybe even for good, depending on the damage.
“Keep this to yourselves, pen pushers, or I’ll have all of you removed from training indefinitely,” Dr. Aram calls, jumping onto the quad and riding off the field with Nate. One of the players suffering a major injury right before a game is big news and would get people talking about Banana Ball. But none of us will risk losing out on access to the training sessions by posting anything. We might have a deal with the league, but I’m pretty sure the doc could make good on his threat if he had to.
Stevie is still crouched on the ground, his hands wrapped around his head as he rocks a little back and forth.
“It was an accident,” Benny tells him, kneeling beside him.
“It’s still my fault. I should have been paying attention. I should have seen him.”
“You understand what accident means, right? He didn’t see you either. There was just as much of a chance of it being you taken away on that stretcher. You wouldn’t blame him, right?”
He shakes his head.
“So stop blaming yourself.”
Dennis claps his hands three times, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Right, we still have a game to prepare for, so if you’re done with warm-ups, let’s go. You,” he says, pointing at Brendan. “You’ll fill in for Nate in the choreography. Think you can handle it?”
“No problem,” Brendan says, and training moves on. Quieter than before. The energy is different now. As much as Dennis tries to get everyone’s spirits up, they’re all still worried about Nate and speculation about the outcome is all anyone can talk about.
After they run through a few numbers, we head inside for the players to shower and change.
Doc arrives while the team is changing, his expression tells me it’s game over for Nate before he can even mutter a word.
“Don’t say it,” Stevie begs, sitting on a bench, his face sinking into his hands.
“Sorry, boys, but Nate suffered a full dislocation and an ulnar fracture. He won’t be back on the field for a while.”
“If ever. Rehab is going to be rough,” Benny says, and the doctor nods.
“How is he taking it?” I ask, and a few eyes glare my way. “Off the record, I just…”
“He’s optimistic. They’ll know more about his recovery plan once he’s out of surgery. But he wanted me to tell you all not to slack off. He doesn’t want this to affect the success of the tour. And Stevie,” the doc says, turning to face him directly. “He wants you to not blame yourself. I’m sure the other players havetold you already that this was an accident, but he wanted you to know, he doesn’t blame you.”
I don’t think Stevie believes him. Or he won’t let himself believe it. No one wants to be the reason another player’s season ends. We head back to the hotel, and Brendan jumps in the shower. He’s all sweaty from practice, and as much as I want to be in the shower with him, he’s in a rush to get changed for his dinner with Carter.
