Page 103 of Force Play

“I hate that someone hurt you like that. I hate even more that it was him.” Taking the other half of the picture from her, I ball it up. “I think I’ll use him for batting practice today.”

“Have at it,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder. “I can’t believe I ever thought the two of you were anything alike.”

“Proving myself to you was an honor. No one should ever treat you the way he did, and now it’s my job to make sure no one else ever does.”

“And believe it or not, I’m okay with that.”

“Look at us growing and evolving.” I kiss the top of her head as she sips her coffee. A happy Indie in my arms first thing in the morning is the best way to start my day. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.” She hums.

“Take my credit card. It’s on the counter. I know you have your own money but it’ll give me some peace of mind when I’m traveling knowing that you have it. With all the bills coming up—please just take it. There’s not a lot I can do for you, but this I can.”

“If it will make you worry less, I’ll take it, but Dom, you’ve done so much already—more than I could have ever asked for.”

“Fuck, it’s hot when you’re agreeable.”

“Don’t lie, you love it when I argue.”

And she’s not wrong. I really do.

Chapter 38

Indie

This week has been a cyclone of activity and there’s no end in sight. Not enough people talk about the toll medical trauma can have on a person. Growing up my parents shielded me from it. Being on the other side of it now, I can tell you this shit is awful and the exhaustion I feel has nothing to do with my actual appointments. It’s everything else, the financial burden, hoops the insurance companies make you jump through, decision fatigue. It all adds up and makes surviving even harder.

My hand trembles as I raise the eyeliner to my lids, hovering above my lash line. I set it down, shaking out my hand and picking it back up. It’s just his parents and sisters. It’s not like I’m meeting the president, I remind myself.

It’s not helpful because honestly, this feels monumental, maybe even more so than meeting a head of state. Dom’s already at the stadium and I’m sitting with the girls tonight, so I won’t even have to face them until after the game. I’m being ridiculous. I know that, but can’t help it. And more than anything, I wish I could call my mom. She’d know what to say to calm me down. Like she always did, she’d give me perfect advice to calm my nerves without telling me what to do.

These damn hormones are screwing with my ability to keep it all together.

With my curly mane tamed and light makeup I’m hoping will cover the dark circles from the last couple days,

My phone rings with a FaceTime call that I’m not expecting. “Aren’t you supposed to be out on the field warming up?” Instead, he’s in an office I recognize from when I hurt my ankle. That day feels like a lifetime ago. So much has changed since he came to my rescue.

He pushes his hand through his hair. “Just wanted to check on how you’re feeling.” Worry creases his forehead. He’s given me autonomy over decisions about how we handle this, but I know he’d prefer I tell the girls what’s going on. He wants me to have support, but with him by my side I already feel like I have everything I need.

“A little sore.” I shrug. I’ve been poked and prodded nonstop since meeting with Dr. Smith. Fortunately, things lined up with my cycle, so I could start the hormone injections a few days after the first appointment with the fertility specialist. I’ve yet to ask, but I’m positive even getting in to see them was helped along by Dom dropping his name.

“Fuck, Baby, I’m sorry. I’m going to try using ice on it first tonight and I looked up some relaxation techniques that might help.” Dom hangs his head, and I wish I could be there with him. Guilt has been eating at him since yesterday over the bruises on my stomach from where he gave me my first shots for the egg retrieval process.

“Dom, are you kidding me? I couldn’t have done it without you. I expected it to hurt. We’ll figure out what works together.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he grumbles. It kills me that my problems have made my happy-go-lucky man so stressed, especially with the additional pressure of the postseason starting in just two days.

“I’ll let you kiss it better later tonight when I see you after the game,” I promise. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything, you know that.”

“Good. Make sure you do a few extra stretches for me before that game. I think it’ll really help me feel better.”

His rich laughter is enough to dull the aches I’m feeling from the injections.

“Are you objectifying me?” he scoffs with faux horror.

“Yep.” I’m not above resorting to his methods of banter and humor to coax him out of his guilt.

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