A halting gap appeared between her questions, endless seconds when the words cowered against her lips. “A stent?”
On the other end of the line, the physician cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to rush through all of this, but surgery is in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes?” Heather repeated, peering at her watch. Her father’s operation would be underway before she boarded a flight. She needed to be there. Now.
She tapped her keyboard and brought up screens with flights.
“Yes. Given the degree of atherosclerosis and his symptoms, it’s best to act quickly. I have every confidence in this procedure. His prognosis looks good if he makes some changes in what I understand is a stressful life, including healthier eating, exercising and more relaxation.”
Heather blinked in surprise. Her wired father never took a day off. And if Pete was no longer managing the Falcons, Dad was under more pressure than ever.
“That being said, I can’t make any promises,” the doctor continued. “Do you have any questions?”
Heather pinched the bridge of her nose. She knew that life didn’t come with guarantees. Yet somehow, naïvely, she hadn’t believed that rule applied to her father. He was her rock. Tough. Unyielding. Immune to weaknesses. Here was a chink in his armor, and it shook her to her core.
She scribbled a question on a note card, then read the question aloud: “When will he be out of surgery?” It was a speech therapy trick she hadn’t used in years. She’d outgrown most of her speech issues except in the most extreme situations.
“If all goes well, two hours, then another hour or so before he’s released to his room.”
“Will you tell him...” Heather’s words halted in her tight throat, the passage blocked. She clicked on an online ticket and noted the arrival time. “...tell him I’ll be there by five? Eight your time.”
“I’ll note it in the chart. Your father is in good hands.”
“Thank you.” Heather hung up and studied her palms. No matter what the doctor suggested, Heather knew the truth from a lifetime of lessons drilled into her by a demanding parent.
Talent was no guarantee.
* * *
“LET’S DRINK TO Mr. Gadway’s recovery. Two days post-op and he’s already up and bossing the nurses around.”
Garrett Wolf nodded in agreement then stared at the glass of Jameson his teammate plunked down on the pub table before him. His hands were clenched in his lap. He inhaled the familiar, woodsy smell of the whiskey, imagining its smooth taste on his suddenly parched tongue.
His sponsor’s phone number ran through his head. He’d call if he couldn’t resist those three fingers of whiskey. And he could use it tonight. Down the whole bottle until the sting of his miserable performance at the game earlier floated away. Luckily he’d attended an AA meeting this afternoon. It helped.
“Drink up, buddy. The night’s young and the season’s still early. Don’t let tonight get you down. You’ll win next time.” The Falcons’ starting catcher, Dean, pulled up a wooden stool and gulped an identical beverage.
Garrett’s dark thoughts grew blacker. As a starting pitcher, he’d screwed up this chance to prove himself. A win would have confirmed that his past, as a Minor League player who’d squandered his potential, wouldn’t repeat itself. He needed to show that the Falcons’ risky decision to sign him would pay off.
But playing competitively after a three-year hiatus had rattled him, catching him off guard. Self-doubt, not booze, had impaired him this time. Ironic. Tomorrow, he’d hit the field and work on the control he’d lacked. Get his act together. If he didn’t, he’d miss his last opportunity to move up to the Major Leagues. It was the childhood dream that’d gotten him through foster care, the adult goal that’d turned his life around.
“Aren’t you going to drink that?” Dean asked, eying the whiskey. “Toast to Mr. Gadway?”
Garrett shoved the glass away, his fingers lingering, before forcing himself to let go. “I’ll send a card.”
“More for me, then.” Dean studied him, then shrugged and threw back the drink.
Garrett looked away, not wanting to see the guy swallow the tempting brew. Yet all around him his new teammates were drinking beer so frothy he felt it on his upper lip, taking shots that made his own throat burn. He wanted a drink in the worst way. And with only twelve months of sobriety under his belt, he didn’t trust himself to resist.
Not in this place.
Not ever.
In a couple of minutes, he’d leave. He’d already congratulated the new shortstop who’d been called up from their Double-A team. It was the reason they’d gathered here tonight to celebrate.
Dean squinted up at him. “Are you one of those devout types?” He ran a hand through his short brush of red hair. “Didn’t mean to offend you.”
Garrett relaxed. The guy meant well. It wasn’t like the world conspired to make him relapse. Though sometimes it seemed like it.
“You didn’t. And I’m not.” He pulled a bronze coin from his back pocket and placed it on the table, leaving it out long enough for Dean to get a look before sliding it away again.
Without a word, Dean swept the glasses away and deposited them on another table. When he returned, his face had lost its jocular expression. “My dad was an alcoholic. It’s something to earn one of those chips, and I wish he’d done it. You should be proud.”
Garrett nodded. He was proud. It’d been a hard year spent getting sober and back in competitive shape to pitch again. If he hadn’t run into his old foster friend, a one-armed veteran who’d scolded him for wasting his God-given talents, he wouldn’t have quit his construction job and tried again.
“Today wasn’t the best debut,” he murmured. He kept his hands busy shelling peanuts, his eyes on Dean instead of the rowdy beer pong game by the pool table, or the group raising their glasses every time someone hit the dart board’s red center. The smell of fresh popcorn wafted from a machine by the bar while a rock song pulsed through the dark, wood-paneled room decorated with sports paraphernalia and TVs playing every MLB game in progress. It seemed as though the crowd moved to the same thrumming beat, everyone in sync, all but him.
Dean crinkled his stub of a nose and shrugged. “It wasn’t all you. Sure, you gave up those walks, but if it wasn’t for Jogging George, we would have tied in the eighth.”
“Jogging George?” Garrett smiled at the nickname that suited their third baseman. Dean was right. If George had hustled on that play, he could have beaten the throw to first, rather than letting the runner on third score.
Dean nodded and signaled to a passing waitress. “A couple of Cokes over here. And more peanuts.” He turned back and leaned in, his voice lower. “Defensively, our outfield didn’t show much effort on that fly ball in the gap either. They got three runs off of that.”
Garrett nodded, thinking the game through. Dean was right. He was putting all the pressure on himself. It was the same bad habit that’d led him
