Page 1 of Caught Stealing

Chapter One

Andrew

No one anticipates a shower curtain ending his career, but here I am, sitting on an examination table after a shower gone wrong.

“We’ve been over this before, Andrew. You’re not as young as you once were.” Dr. Hastings drops this bomb on me while writing a prescription for pain medication as if I haven’t noticed all of the baby-skinned newbies flowing into the locker room like they own the place. It’s a constant reminder of how close I am to retirement if only because my body doesn’t want to cooperate. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to sit out again. Hopefully only for couple of weeks until we get the inflammation down.”

I give him a curt nod. “Perfect. This is probably it, Doc. I can’t afford to sit out again this early in the season.”

The Savannah Sharks’ team doctor frowns and scribbles more notes on his tablet. “I know, Andrew. But you’re thirty-two years old. You have to admit you’ve had a good run, but pitching in the pros for ten years is bound to ruin your body. If we don’t take our time with this and allow for proper healing, you’ll be looking at surgery that will put you out for the whole season.”

The fact that he’s right does not make this pill any easier to swallow. My whole life has been about baseball, and my last four years with the Sharks have been the best of my career. Until now. It seems like my body is falling apart.

“I’m doing what is best for your health. You know that, right?” Dr. Hastings peers over his glasses and adjusts his tie. The ties always have something baseball related on them. This time it’s a pattern of baseball bats in alternating order but it’s an awful shade of bright pink and neon green.

“I understand. Doesn’t make it any more fun.” The paper lining the examination table rips and crinkles when I stand, almost mocking the crunching sound in my shoulder. It’s more than inflammation. I know it. He knows it. We all know it, but no one is willing to sit me down and break the news to me. Formally, and with a great big retirement incentive. I should retire and take what I can, but I don’t know what comes after this. It’s probably something I should have thought about long before now, but when a man as pig-headed and determined as I am sets his focus on something, it’s hard to catch what flies by in the peripheral.

“Rest and recover. I want to see you back in a few weeks,” he says and opens the door. He has other patients to see, including the backup pitcher whose routine physical will likely show he’s a much better bet on the mound than me. The Sharks deserve a fearless pitcher who can win, not an old man who can barely throw a fast ball.

I lumber out the door as if I can change my fate if I wait long enough to face the real world.

“Rossi, what’s up?” Marco Martinez tips his head back at me when I pass him in the waiting room. He knows exactly what’s up. He was present when the whole locker room heard me curse the day a flimsy sheet of plastic was born. Who knew closing a shower curtain could cause so much damage to a human body part? I’m here to tell you, they’re instruments of orthopedic destruction.

“Nothing,” I grumble and exit without making eye contact. The little rookie is a great pitcher, but he needs to learn a thing or two about respect. Most of the new players are a little showy in the beginning, but they settle in and learn from the rest of us. Not Martinez. The toddler actually laughed when I injured myself, and kicked it up a notch when Keaton and Pruitt chewed him out.

I shoot a message to Koa to let him know I’m not going to make it to The Salty Dog tonight.

In the parking lot, I scan for my truck before I remember I parked it in the shade of the lot next door. It’s in front of a donut shop I visit often, with inside seating and an enticing aroma that always pulls me in. Junk food is on my do not eat list, but with the way I feel right now, I’m throwing my rules out the window and indulging in a donut. I might even go home and enjoy reading an actual book. It will be a nice break from reading the daily emails from Coach Conyers, the sports articles about the Sharks and my fading career, and social media posts about the up-and-coming Sharks star, Marco Martinez.

Opening a bakery door should not make a full-grown man wince, but I can’t stop using my dominant hand for everything. My pitching hand. With a scowl and another whispered curse word, I step up to order.

“Hi, Andrew.” Evalina smiles and slides a cup of green tea my way.

“Eh, I know that’s my usual, but I’m going to need something a little stronger. Coffee. Black. And whatever donut you have with the worst reputation.”

Evalina’s smile turns into a frown. “It can’t be that bad. What has you resorting to carbs, sugar, and caffeine to get through the rest of the day?” She tucks her dark hair behind her ear and shoots a death glare to the two teenage boys who are supposed to be helping customers. Not throwing sugar packets at each other.

Something about this woman’s sweet nature—which is usually uplifting—has my gut sinking even deeper. I want to ponder that for a moment, but she clears her throat.

“Oh, well, you know how it is. My shoulder is out again.”

She raises a dark brow and reaches for a paper towel. “You’re going to want the double chocolate.” With a glance in my direction, her frown deepens. “I’m sorry, Andrew. I know you’ve been worried about this. Is there anything we can do?”

She means her and her son, Banks, but right now all I can think about is how much I’ve missed out on in life. All at once it hits me. At thirty-two I also do not have a steady girlfriend, let alone a wife or a family. My career has demanded every free minute of my life since college. Even before that, if I’m honest.

“Andrew?”

I blink from my haze and accept the donut and coffee with my left hand. She’ll add the items to my monthly tab which, until now, has consisted of only green tea and the occasional fruit cup. Okay, and donuts when I’m a little more down than I should be.

Evalina eyes me for a moment, then rounds the counter. “Here, let me help you. Get settled and I’ll bring this to a table.”

I hate being limited, but she’s a good friend. Has been since I came to Savannah, so I let her trail behind me while I settle into a corner table. Once I’m somewhat comfortable and she’s busy arranging items on the table, I pull my phone out to send a message to Coach, updating him about what he already suspects. I’ve got ten missed calls, seventeen emails, and twelve text messages. I was in the doctor’s office for less than an hour, and I’ve already amassed thirty-nine attempts at communication. I shoot off a response to Coach and scroll to see what might be important. There’s a message from my best friend, Owen.

Hey, man, gimme a call when you can. I have some news!

I’m just about to respond and see if he wants to hang out tonight when a shrill voice startles me.

“Oh. My. Gosh. Aren’t you Andrew Rossi? The Sharks pitcher?” A woman in the opposite corner booth bolts from her seat and practically knocks Evalina off her feet. Evalina rolls her eyes and disappears behind the counter to take the next order. I wish I could follow her and hide behind the brick-veneered counter until this fan disappears. This is not the first time this has happened, but I do have an escape plan if necessary.

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