Page 9 of I Still Love You

I’m a fool for thinking it, for being so…hopeful.

After a minute passes, I turn over the ignition and head for home. Just like I did when I left Quaint, I put Luke in my rearview and force myself to stop thinking about him because no matter how much I’d like to apologize and fix the mess I made, it’s clear he has no interest.

3

Luke

Two days after being stuck in that godforsaken emergency room, I’m back at work in Quaint, Maine, the place I’ve called home since Mason and I took off for college, though it’s not far from the tiny suburb we grew up in. I’ve been over my time in Austin a million times, played out what would’ve happened if I had kept to myself, or if I hadn’t consumed one too many drinks. I had a moment where I pictured beating him to a bloody pulp until police officers came to arrest me. I also imagined what it would’ve been like if I hadn’t seen Layla Robinson. My trip to visit my brother and his family would have been a lot more pleasant.

The shiny rivulets of golden hair that cascaded down her back. The eggshell-colored streaks in her gray-blue eyes. The allure of her sharp, model-like cheekbones. And that sassy fucking attitude. By the time she walked out on me, her outward reserved attitude had vanished. I can’t say I blame her. I wasn’t exactly charming, nowhere near the level that oozed from me when we first met.

The moment I laid eyes on her in that gym’s coffee shop years ago, I knew she was one of a kind. She always will be, but I’m not a fucking idiot. I have two eyes that work perfectly well, and they noticed the beauty in her appearance, even with the dark blanketing us that night. What people don’t know is that her exquisiteness covers the ugliness on the inside. It hides her shady ways, keeps them shadowed. I couldn’t stand there and act like all was well. Why the hell would I? Her lanky piano fingers reached into my soul and yanked all the decency from my body when she told me she was leaving Quaint and everything in it behind. Including me.

My chest still twinges with bitterness at the thought. When I remember how hard it was to let her go or how I didn’t have a say with the woman I would’ve destroyed civilizations for. Because I would have back then, I would have brought down the damn horizon for her had she given me the chance. Had she allowed me in instead of pushing me away.

One day she was here; the next, she was gone. I called her endless times. Left voicemails, begging her to let me be her rock, for her to come home to me. Messaged her on social media, demanding she tell me where she had fled to. Until one day, she fell off the face of the earth. Her number went out of service, and her social media accounts were gone. I knew I didn’t have a fighting chance, especially since her family wouldn’t share a damn detail about her whereabouts. The only thing on my side was time, and it didn’t pan out in my favor.

“What the hell happened to you?” Jett, a shortstop for the Quentin Wolves, strides over to my area with a devilish smirk on his smug face. If I didn’t like the guy so damn much—and he wasn’t my best friend—I’d slap his grin off. Turn those pretty cheeks of his pig pink.

I point to one of the leather padded chairs the major leagues’ donation paid for the last fiscal year and snap, “You’re five minutes late. Get comfortable so we can start.”

His hands lift in surrender, his palms facing me. While he may tower over me by a couple of inches, he doesn’t intimidate me. He’s too easygoing for me to worry that he’d lash out at my sharp mouth or ridiculing. He reserves his wicked arm for the baseball field, which is precisely why he’s here after practice.

“How’s the elbow feeling?” I question, shifting my focus back on my work as I dig a handful of ice from the automatic chest freezer in my physical therapy office. I scoop it into a cloth bag and grab a rag to wrap around it.

“Eh, not too bad. Coach wants me back in shape by our opening game. Think that’s doable?”

Opening day is around the corner, and while I’ve been an ass in other areas of my life, I’m a damn good sports therapist. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have the privilege of working with the minor leagues or one of the best shortstops on the east coast.

“Keep showing up, and we’ll work on it,” I tell him, my hard tone easing up. “What does Coach think of the upcoming season? The Quentin Wolves going to pull through and bring home the World Series again?”

Jett shrugs a shoulder and turns his baseball hat backward, his black stubble shaped flawlessly as if he just came from the barber. “The team and I are all over that. It’s the goal every year.”

I open one of the shelving units next to where he sits and grab the brace I need, then set it with the ice on a small table next to Jett’s chair. “No shit, but you’ve also never had two major players down with injuries.” Searching for my stool, I locate it under the windowsill at the far corner of the room and roll it over.

“It’ll be a challenge, but we’re here for it. You don’t join the leagues to let something like that keep you from succeeding,” he says, his blue-grey eyes catching mine as I settle next to him.

“How’s Henderson?” I’ve come to be close to a few of the guys on the Wolves. Though our hectic lives keep us busy, I’d do just about anything for the lot of them. Henderson Wills, the Quentin Wolves’ pitcher, has been in the back of my mind since he finished his appointments with me weeks ago. His shoulder injury will keep him out this next season, and it’s getting to him more than he lets on.

“Coach makes him come to practices. He’s doing as best as a guy whose career is on the line can.” Jett shakes his head once. “I mean, we’ll manage. Always do. Shit, I’ll play through this suffering if it means holding that perfect, shiny trophy in my hands again.” A smirk plays at his mouth, and he licks at his lips, daydreaming about the commissioner’s trophy like it’s a buffet of his favorites.

I motion to his elbow. “Your tendonitis is minimal now. But ignore that for field time, and you’re looking at turning it chronic,” I tell him. “Worst case? Permanent degradation of your tendons, so let’s take it one step at a time, champ.”

That wipes the smile clean off his face. “Degradation? Simplify it for me, man. I’m not a genius like you.”

I bypass his compliment and explain, “You’ll wear down your tendons. Once that happens, there’s nothing I—or any doctor—can do for you. You’ll be shit outta luck, my friend, kissing that trophy goodbye for years to come. You won’t throw like you used to. Not even like you can now.”

“Jesus,” he breathes out, swallowing down the intensity of my truth. “That’s harsh.”

Which is exactly why I’m good at my job; I’ve spent years studying and researching how the body works and how to heal it when it’s pushed too hard. It’s easy to order an x-ray and write a script for pain relief or to reduce inflammation. I work with the body. Let it tell me what it needs so we can avoid heavy drug use and surgery. I know how to manipulate muscles and cater to tendons. I know what prevents injury, and I know what causes it. Besides, the last thing the league wants is their players running around with drugs in their system.

Jett overworked himself and his joints. Last season, he didn’t take long enough breaks in between his rigorous schedule. I get that it can be difficult during the season, but it caught up with him. When he and Coach—red-faced with annoyance—came to me after playing the World Series, I realized why. He was a fool for even playing in such an important game—like an idiot, he concealed his pain and played anyway.

I squeeze a dime-size amount of lotion onto my fingertips and begin deep tissue massaging his elbow, being careful around the inflammation while tending to the outer areas of muscle and fascia where I know he’ll get the most relief.

“Just saying it how it is,” I tell him, focusing on the minimal swelling around his most important asset. With an injury like this, his career could be on the line if he’s not careful, just like Henderson’s is.

“Man, I hope you weren’t this depressing with Henderson. Maybe that’s why he’s cooped up in that condo of his when he isn’t at practice.”

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