Page 20 of Sideline Play

That would explain it.

2019 would have been my second season with the team, which was the year my ma was diagnosed with breast cancer. I spent most of that season taking her to chemo appointments, caring for her afterward, arguing about her coming to games for fear she would catch her death, and researching every option under the sun to try and buy us more time. In the end, no amount of money or years of faithful belief in God were able to change the outcome.

She was diagnosed in February. By September, she decided to stop treatment, and I knew I would regret my stubbornness over keeping her safely at home away from germs and had relented to her coming to games again so long as she sat in a box. Then in November, three days after she saw us win the World Series, she was gone.

Clearing my throat from the clog of emotion, I nod, “Yeah, let’s get this over with,” suddenly no longer comfortable in the hospital.

NINE

REMINGTON

One cupof bland chicken broth, a few spoonfuls of unpalatable jello, no less than fifty reminders to take it easy the rest of the afternoon and start my rehab off slowly, two dozen questions from Scar about what to watch out for in the hours and days following my post op, and one short lived battle with Jones and Jennings that resulted in my ass getting plonked in a wheelchair, I was already exhausted but thankfully discharged.

Out front, Jennings and my doctors were handling the traveling media circus that had showed up in the hours since my arrival. Though the team had held onto our lead and we further positioned ourselves for the playoffs, all anyone was talking about in the two days since was my injury. What and why it was such an issue for a catcher, the subsequent surgery and just how much needed to be repaired, the likelihood of me returning to the game in the spring, and at some point between falling asleep on the phone with Scar and her arrival just a few short hours later at the hospital, the cat had slipped the bag about her overseeing the initial phases of my recovery. It was turning into a firestorm and had she not already agreed to going home with me to the mountains, I would have insisted upon it to keepher from the shit I was just beginning to get a glimpse of them saying.

The sports world liked to paint a pretty picture about the inclusion of women, but it was things like this that shined a light on their forgery. It was as misogynistic now as it had always been.

They weren’t talking about her academic record and how she was set to graduate the program before her twenty-second birthday. There wasn’t a word about the various certifications she had already achieved. They weren’t even discussing how her entire life had been lived inside The Nest, giving her a first look at numerous injuries, recoveries, and abrupt retirements.

No, the few minutes I saw before Scarlet snatched the remote and clicked the TV off, telling me to pay them no mind as my heart rate monitor spiked, made her look like a vapid, bubble headed doll. They talked about what she wore in and out of the stadium and the endorsements her pretty face and prominent name secured for her then splashed photographs from when she hadgone wildand agreed to model for the line of activewear that sponsored her dad and brother. Because apparently it was okay and not a sexual objectification to make women compete in sports bras and bikini bottoms that covered little more than a thong, but when the MLB’s darling was making money off it, it was tantamount to her posing as a centerfold. Then there was a quick blip about her dating Reeves Dawson in college, the return of the age-old question about her and Roman, and now added to the lineup, a still shot of her and I talking before I went up to bat on Thursday, her dad and Jennings conveniently cropped out.

Though I had to admit, even the quick glimpse I got before she shut it off didn’t exactly paint me in a professional light. Maybe because I knew and accepted my own infatuation with her, but it was clear that at least for me, there was more going on between us. Or at least, the desire for more.

So out the front my medical team went and out the back we were going. Colt and Roman were leading the way, my bags tossed over their shoulders, as Scar impressively kept up with their brisk pace given how high her wedged shoes were, wheeling me through the labyrinth of corridors. At my side, Winnie stood proud, effortlessly keeping up, her face alert and zeroed in on our destination. And behind us, a poor nurse trotted to keep up with the Jones family parade, occasionally muttering about our contraband Doberman and blatant disregard for hospital policies

Rounding a corner a little faster than I would like, my concern beginning to rise over her driving skill, I ask, “Y’all do this a lot?”

“Not often, but when they think there’s a story to be had, even sports media can be quite tenacious.” Squeezing my shoulder as she navigates me into an elevator, she promises, “Don’t worry Remi; in a few days they’ll realize how ridiculous they’re being and let off.”

“What?”

“About you and my little sister sleeping together,” Roman sneers, dropping my bag. “Completely ridiculous, rightRemi?”

Coming in after holding the door for the nurse, Colt swears, “Do they really have to bring that picture out? Jesus fucking Christ,” repeatedly punching the button for where they’re parked until the doors hiss closed.

“Well your son is hot, and he and your daughter definitely have that whole, Taylor Swift ‘Style,’ ‘Wildest Dreams,’ vibe going on. So I don’t think it’s entirely out of the realm of possibility; good girlslovea bad boy,” the nurse comments, drawing all of our attention.

“Ew! Gross,” Scarlet enunciates, making me stifle a laugh as I see her reflection give a whole body shiver in repulsion. “Ew, ew, EW! Oh I think she just ruined two of my favorite songs.”

Tilting my head back, I smile, “We can fix that.” I can feel Roman’s glare lock back in on me as his sister’s face softens upon meeting my eye.

“Thank God,” Colt praises as the elevator dings, Winnie right behind him as they both make a break for Scarlet’s Nighthawks’ green Rover with pink plates featuring a princess’s crown.

“Here Squeaks, let me take Remington while you sign his paperwork,” her brother smoothly says, easily getting her to step aside as he takes over pushing me into the garage.

“Thanks, Ro-Boat,” she smiles, innocently oblivious to the poorly concealed malice rolling off her brother as she begins peppering the nurse with her final questions, her face just a little less sunny after the woman’s comment about the possible parallels between her, Roman, and her favorite songs.

Forgoing the ramp and dropping me off the curb with a hard thump I feel deep in my hip despite the nerve block, Roman leans down by my ear and hisses, “If you don’t want me to make sure you never play another game of professional ball again, you’ll stay the fuck away from my sister, Tate. I mean it; touch her and I’ll break every bone in your hand before fucking up your other hip.

“She’s too naïve to see what you're up to, but I do. So I’m going to make this idiot proof for you: Do. Not. Fuck. My. Sister. Don’t fuck her. Don’t touch her. Don’t even fucking look at her. Are we clear?”

Planting my crutches on the ground as he jerks me to a stop at her SUV’s passenger door, I stand up shakier than I had hoped and hobble around to face him, the stoop I’m forced into dragging me down the spare few inches I have over him.

“No.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘no.’No, I will not stay away from Scar.No, I will not stop looking at her. Andno, I will not stop touching her—notunlessshewants me to. Make no mistake Roman, you don’t have the power or control here.”

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