Page 71 of Switch Pitching

Then I remember that showering is hard when one of your arms is basically immobile and the hand on your other arm can’t grip anything.

Turning away, I hide my glowering, resigned expression. “Do you think you could help?” I ask.

“Absolutely. Let’s get you into the shower.”

As Ethan leads me to the bathroom and gives me a thorough, clinical, entirely unsexy shower, I have to keep telling myself that I’m not completely useless.

Even though it sure feels that way.

27

ETHAN

SEPTEMBER

James isn’t himself. I mean, he’s getting better physically, as in he can move his left shoulder and wiggle the fingers on his right hand, but he’s not doing well. While he keeps insisting that everything is fine, his usual upbeat moods have been replaced with resignation and sighing.

It’s understandable. What James is going through, recovering from a potentially career-wrecking injury, would take a toll on anyone.

Between being on the road, practice, and games for most of the week, I’m not home a lot. Sure, I have days off, but James has to leave for physical therapy appointments, and other than that, all we do is stay in bed together. Not even in a sexual way. James sleeps and I hold him. That’s it. He sleeps alot, and he says it’s because he doesn’t have anything better to do. I’ve tried coaxing him out of the house to go on walks with me, but he doesn’t see the point.

Long story short, we went from being together 24/7 to maybe getting an hour or two a day with each other. I miss him all the time, even when we’re right next to each other.

A few weeks in, I suggested that James should try talking to one of the team therapists because he’d said all of three words to me in just as many days, and he only shrugged and mumbled “sure”. To his credit, he started calling them once a week, so that’s something positive, especially since I’m not equipped to help him get out of his emotional slump in any way beyond just being there for him. I did some late-night research and dug myself into a terrifying hole of information, but I’m starting to suspect that James is depressed. Maybe not clinically, but situationally. At least that’s what I hope it’s limited to.

The days go by, and honestly, nothing drastic happens. James’s recovery is slow and steady, but his mood doesn’t pick up. He’s quiet and distant, which is the complete opposite of how he usually is. I want to be with him through it all, laughing and joking with him like usual, but I can’t just drop everything to stay by his side. The career that we both chose doesn’t stop.

When I’m not home, I can’t shake the thought that things could go downhill, that there’s something that might happen that will widen the gap between us. As much as I hope that things change, that James will get better, I can’t help but dread some nebulous, uncertain event that makes everything harder.

It happens as soon as I come back from a three-day trip to New York. As usual, I book it back to the apartment from the airport, eager to see James again. Even though he’s been down, seeing him still makes me light up inside. I still get that warm calmnesswhenever I see him, even four months and two injuries into our relationship.

When I open the front door, James is sitting on the couch, dressed in something other than sweatpants and an old shirt. All shaved, styled, and groomed, he’s a lot more like his old self.

“Hey.” I greet him.

He runs a hand through his untrimmed but combed hair. “Hey.”

Smiling, I walk over and plant a kiss on his cheek. “You look good, are you feeling better?”

No response. I pull back and rub his shoulder, hoping that prompts him to reply.

“I’m going back to Toronto for a bit.”

My stomach lurches, and it takes everything in me to keep my expression neutral.

He’s leaving?

But I dispose of that thought almost as soon as it enters my head. This isn’t about me, it’s about what’s best for James and his recovery. If time at home is what he needs, he should go, that’s for sure.

“Right,” I start. “That sounds like a good idea.”

James glances up at me, not saying anything and wearing the same resigned, neutral expression that I’ve come to know too well.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m gonna have to get used to not having you around, but I’m never home. You might feel better after spending some time with your parents.”

“Sure.” James fumbles next to him, searching for his phone between the couch cushions. After a while, he fishes it out and lazily begins tapping on it. “Besides, Boston is headed for the playoffs, so you can focus on that without me distracting you at home.”

Instinctively, I hold up my hand. “James, you aren’t a distraction,” I insist. “You’re my boyfriend. I have enough energy to be with youandplay baseball. That hasn’t changed since we got together.”

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