Page 70 of Sliding into Love
The please does me in.
Because it's not demanding, not pushy. It's genuine curiosity mixed with concern, and I'm learning that I'm completely helpless when Royce looks at me like that.
"I was recruited to play for a Division I school," I start, my fingers drumming against my thigh. "Full scholarship. I was a pitcher—had a pretty decent fastball, good control. It was supposed to be my ticket out from under my parents' thumb, you know? They wanted me in business school, grooming me to take over the family empire. But I wanted baseball."
Royce nods, encouraging me to continue.
"I was good too. Really good. My freshman year, I was already getting looks from scouts. There was talk about me going pro, maybe getting drafted after my junior year if I kept improving." I can feel the old excitement creeping into my voice, the memory of what it felt like to be on that mound, the ball in my hand, knowing I could throw it exactly where I wanted. "It was the best time of my life."
"What happened?" Royce asks softly.
I take a breath. "Sophomore year, championship game. We were up against our biggest rival, bottom of the ninth, tied score. I'd already thrown over a hundred pitches, but Coach left me in. Said I was his ace, that I could handle it."
The memory comes flooding back, sharp and vivid despite the years.
The crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that pulsed through the stadium. I could feel the electricity in the air, the weight of the moment pressing down on my shoulders. My arm was tired. More than tired, really. It ached with every movement, a deep burning that told me I'd pushed too far.
But I couldn't say anything. Couldn't show weakness. Not now.
"One more out, Meyer!" Coach yelled from the dugout. "You got this!"
I nodded, rolling my shoulder and trying to ignore the sharp twinge that shot down my arm. The batter stepped into the box. It was Jake Morrison, their cleanup hitter. The guy was built like a tank and had already hit two doubles off a pitch I threw earlier in the game.
The catcher signaled for a fastball. I shook him off. My arm couldn't handle another fastball, not at full speed. The catcher signaled again. Again, I shook him off.
From the dugout, I could see Coach making angry gestures. Throw the damn fastball.
I wound up, my body going through the familiar motions even as every instinct screamed at me to stop. My arm came forward and?—
The pop was audible even over the crowd.
Pain exploded through my shoulder, white-hot and blinding. The ball sailed wide, nowhere near the strike zone, and I collapsed on the mound, clutching my arm and trying not to scream.
The crowd went silent.
"Meyer!" Someone was running toward me—the pitching coach, maybe, or the trainer. I couldn't tell through the haze of pain. "Don't move, don't move!"
But I knew.
I knew the moment I felt that pop, the moment my arm went completely numb. This wasn't a strain or a minor injury that would heal with rest.
This was over.
They carried me off the field on a stretcher, and the last thing I saw before they took me into the tunnel was my father's face in the stands. Not concerned. Not worried.
Satisfied.
"Torn rotator cuff," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "Complete tear, plus damage to the labrum and some other connective tissue. They did surgery, tried to repair it, but…"
I trail off, absently rubbing my shoulder.
"It was never the same. I couldn't throw anymore, not like I used to. My velocity dropped, my control was gone. By the time I was cleared to play again, my scholarship was revoked."
Royce is quiet for a long moment, their expression unreadable. Then they reach out, their hand covering mine where it's still rubbing my shoulder.
"Kenny," they say quietly. "I'm so sorry."
I shrug, trying to play it off even though their sympathy is making my throat tight. "It was a long time ago. I've made peace with it."
