Page 33 of Mom Ball

“Have a seat and relax.”

I try not to laugh. They always tell me to relax, then wire my arm like a car battery.

Shelby turns the dial on the machine, and my arm tingles like I fell in an ant bed. “Good, or too much?”

“It’s fine,” I lie, knowing I need it and that my arm will adjust to it soon.

“Okay, let me know if it gets too much.”

She turns and walks across the room. I wait until she’s busy helping someone else before I close my eyes and try to relax.

Every tingle in my arm reminds me of a memory.

Pitching last season. Throwing out my shoulder. Having surgery. Prepping to pitch this season. Digging a ditch at the park. Soft-tossing balls to Timothy. Moving Mom’s china cabinet—with the china in it.

Yeah, that last one was probably the nail in the coffin that caused my current discomfort.

When my arm is all but numb, the machine cuts off. I open my eyes to Shelby peeling the sticky patches from my skin. A few arm hairs come off with one and I wince.

“Sorry.” She rubs my arm.

I look away. There’s no way I’m allowing a tiny girl to sense my pain.

“Dr. Trenton will be over in a minute.”

“Thanks.”

She offers a closed-lip smile, then moves on to someone on a table across the room. I watch the other guy flirt shamelessly as she tapes up his calf. Reminds me a lot of my buddy, Ace. He flirts with anything female and breathing. He’d most definitely flirt with a cute young woman.

Some of my teammates joke that I’m playing mysterious to make women want me more.

Truth is I spent the first part of my career with Brooke, then getting over Brooke. After that I focused more on ball and didn’t date unless I knew the woman well enough to make sure she didn’t have an ulterior motive. And the last few weeks I’ve moved into my Seeing Brooke Again Era, which brings up all kinds of emotions I don’t want to deal with.

I lean my head against the wall and squirm against the rubber padding on the table where I’m seated. I should be in Florida for spring training, but I’m here working with a team-approved specialist, still recovering from an injury. It’s becoming more of a recurring injury. One that’s made me think about retiring sooner than later.

I’m not even thirty, but pro athletes age in dog years.

Speaking of aging, Dr. Trenton is goals. The man is a retired Navy Seal who could pass for much younger if not for eye wrinkles and gray hair. He’s the only person I know who can make scrubs intimidating.

He marches my way, a faded bald-eagle tattoo partially showing under his short sleeve. He extends his hand without a verbal greeting. The bird’s wing turns on a flex when he squeezes my hand and gives it a firm shake.

I grit my teeth to play off the tension caused by him squeezing my already sensitive hand. Dang ant bed machine.

“Did that hurt?”

I narrow my eyes, trying to decide if he’s referring to the machine or the handshake.

“That’s what I thought.” He pulls a pen from his scrubs pocket and jots down a note.

“It wouldn’t bother me if I hadn’t been on the tingling machine first.”

He jots down something more. I lean forward, attempting to peek at the notes. But he’s also fast and slaps the folder shut.

“Nate, I’m going to work your shoulder through some different exercises than before. What’s concerning me most is that the pain is now crawling down your arm.”

Well, yeah, when you clip shockwaves to me.

Instead of answering, I do as I’m told when he stands behind me and pulls on my shoulder. Going through the motions of rotating my arm has never hurt so much. I’m blaming the china cabinet. Why does she even need that thing? We eat off her Pioneer Woman collection from Walmart.

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