baseball.
He stared at the phone a minute before picking up the handset and dialing his father’s number, bracing himself for the questions to come, questions he didn’t have any definitive answers to.
“Hi, Dad,” Jace said when his father finally answered on the fourth ring. “Sorry I missed your call. I had my cell off during PT.”
“How’s it going?” His dad sounded out of breath, and not for the first time Jace wondered if he shouldn’t be the one getting medical treatment.
“Good. My therapist says I’m ahead of schedule.” Jace crossed the fingers of his good hand behind his back. “How about you? You sound tired.”
“I’m fine. I ran in from the garage when I heard the phone.”
“Working on something special?” Jace leaned back against his pillow, stretched his legs out on the bed and smiled, imagining his father tinkering with an old Crosley radio or vintage Pioneer television. It had been a hobby when his dad played ball, but when his career on the field had ended in Double-A he’d turned it into a viable business, repairing all kinds of small electronics, new and old. If it had wires, Patrick Monroe could fix it.
“A jukebox.” His father’s voice radiated excitement for his new project, even over the phone. “Wurlitzer, mid-1940s.”
“That’s gotta be rare.” To Jace’s knowledge, his father hadn’t worked on one that old before. They’d restored a 1970s Seeburg together when Jace was in high school. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“Well, you’ll have to. I don’t want you rushing home on my account. Listen to your doctors and take your rehab one day at a time. Baseball’s not going anywhere. It’ll still be there when you’re ready to play. And the team needs you at full strength.”
Oh, goodie. Lecture time.
“I know, Dad. I’ll be a model patient and follow doctor’s orders to the letter. Promise.” Good thing his fingers were still crossed. “Now what was it you needed to talk to me about? You said in your message it wasn’t urgent, but it must be pretty important if it couldn’t wait until our Sunday call.”
It was a ritual, the Sunday call, one they’d never missed in the ten years since Jace was drafted into the minors straight out of high school. 6:00 p.m. on the button unless Jace was on the field or in the air, and then he’d call as soon as the game was over or he touched down.
“It’s nothing, really.”
“C’mon, Dad. Whatever it is, it’s not nothing or you wouldn’t have called.” Jace sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “Are you hurt? Sick? Do you need me to come home?”
“No, no and no,” his father insisted. “I told you, I don’t want you cutting your rehab short for me. I’m just a little low on cash is all.”
Again? Jace wanted to scream. But this was his father, the man who’d made sure he was fed and clothed and got to school on time, who’d scrimped and saved so his son could attend baseball camp every summer. And Jace had more than enough disposable income. Who was he to deny his own flesh and blood?
“How low?” he asked.
“Well, the basement’s leaking and the refrigerator is on its last legs...”
Already? He’d bought a practically brand-new house for his dad eight years ago when he was called up to the majors.
“How low?” Jace repeated.
There was a long pause before his father answered, and when he did his voice was barely a whisper. “Ten grand.”
“For a leak and a fridge?” Jace spat out before he could stop himself.
“The leak’s pretty bad. The whole basement’s underwater when it rains. They want to install a drainage system and a sump pump.”
“They?”
“The waterproofing company.”
Jace sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “How soon do you need the cash?”
“As soon as you can get it to me. The contractors want to start before the next big rain.”
Jace glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 3:00 p.m. Still plenty of time to call the bank before it closed. “Okay. I’ll have the money transferred into your account this afternoon.”
“Thanks, son. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Love you, Dad. Talk to you Sunday.”
Jace ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed next to him. He’d get to the bank in a few minutes.
But first he was taking that damn shower.
* * *
NOELLE CRACKED THE door of the physical therapy room open and peeked inside.
All clear. No Jace. It was crazy to hide from him like a scared rabbit. Her luck was bound to run out sooner or later. But she’d rather it be later. Much later.
With a sigh of relief, she pushed the door open the rest of the way and limped inside.
“Noelle.” Sara waved her over almost before she’d crossed the threshold. “Come meet our newest patient.”
A boy who looked to be in his late teens sat on an exercise mat next to the kneeling Sara. One of his arms was missing below the elbow, the stump wrapped in a compression bandage.
“This is Dylan,” Sara continued, sitting cross-legged in front of him and connecting a resistance band to a strap around his bicep. “We’re getting him ready for his prosthetic.”
Dylan looked up at Noelle through long, sandy bangs. “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve only got one and it’s occupied at the moment.”
“What have I told you about the amputee jokes?” Sara handed him the other end of the resistance band.
“The more the merrier?” Dylan suggested with a sarcastic grin.
“More like one is one too many,” Sara countered.
Dylan rolled his eyes. “Hey, I might have lost my arm, but I haven’t lost my sense of humor.”
“Good thing.” Noelle smiled in spite of herself. She liked this cocky kid. “You’re gonna need it in this place.”
“Everyone’s a comedian.” Sara shook her head. “Dylan, this is Noelle. She’s an athlete, too.”
“Oh, yeah?” He brushed his bangs out of his eyes to study her. “What’s your sport?”
“Ballet.” She watched for some sign of disdain, but instead, he nodded and continued to stare at her, his expression serious. “What’s yours?”
“Baseball.” His gaze shifted to his injured arm. “At least it was.”
“Baseball?”
