Page 6 of Sideline Play

Looking over at our dugout where Scarlet's sitting on the bench behind Roman, digging her elbow into his left shoulder, he jests, “Yeah, if I was looking at that view every day, I’d probably be just as reluctant. Tell me, is she seein’ anybody?”

“Don’t even fucking think about it, Sweeny.”

“Wait, is something going on there? I didn’t think Daddy Jones would let any of you horny fucks near the princess.”

“And you think he’d let you?” I scoff. “Try thinking with the head north of your belt, Sweeny. Your southern one is making you look stupid. Scarlet is too loyal to the Nighthawks to be seen with the likes of you Atlanta dipshits.”

“Hey, no one said anything about being seen with her.”

Beginning to stand up from my readied crouch, I all but growl, “Come again?”

“Woah, man, hold up,” he backpedals.

Swearing as I catch our base coach’s signal to go, I snap, “Gotta run,” the burn of anger at Sweeny’s comment propelling me faster as the crowd erupts into riotous cheers from Shaw crossing home plate.

The chants of “RUN! GO! FASTER!” are deafening as I hit second and glance out to the field to judge if I should keep going. Before I can fully read the field though, Allen is waved to continue on from third and preparing to execute a perfect slide across home plate. And right behind him, our coach is all but screaming for my ass to move faster. Years of training taking over, I blindly follow the order as Richards sprints for all he’s worth at my back onto second, our fans screaming the stadium down.

Breaking through the wild frenzy and haze of tunnel vision is a train wreck unfolding before my eyes on third. Atlanta’s communication is going to shit in real time as their baseman, left fielder, and for some godforsaken reason their pitcher, all vie for the ball and the chance to tag me out. A fucking catastrophe waiting to happen, one that, thanks to physics, I can’t avoid no matter how quickly my mind has already processed what’s about to come. I have too much traction and not enough time to safely react, so the only thing I can do is brace for impact.

The hyperextension in my hip as I skid to a stop is acute and radiating. The collision with one, two, possibly all three players as gravity takes us down is teeth clattering brutal. My mind is filled with visions of my labrum ripping completely as I feel an excruciating pop less than half a second after being on the receiving end of one of Atlanta’s players landing with the full might of his body weight on top of my lame joint.

Not a single sound escapes me as I lay there, the noise of the field and stadium a forgotten buzzing. I leave the probable questions being asked by the coaches and umpire unanswered as I breathe through the pain and attempt to keep its evidence free from my face, keeping hidden the fear over the fact that my career very well may have just ended.

It’s only when I hear Scar’s voice that I crack, my lips loose as I say, “Hey, baby girl,” before I’m rushed and flooded with the volume of noise being turned back on. The only thing clear in my mind as I begin answering questions about my pain is the irony that not 90 seconds ago, I said they would have to carry my ass off this field when my time in baseball was up.

FOUR

SCARLET

The classroom Jenningshad set up when the Nighthawks joined the rotation of professional teams taking on interns is surrounded by weeks of MRIs cataloging the deterioration in Remington’s hip. Off to the right, shrouded in shadows, the projection screen has been pulled down and is prominently displaying his collision with Atlanta from various angles in slow motion. Around me, the other students that make up my classmates are fielding questions and defending their hypotheses as Jennings pokes holes, their pens scurrying across their notes. Each one of them is engrossed in the unexpected real life experience with season ending injuries we’re now receiving. All of them desensitized to what we witnessed not twelve hours earlier and continue to experience each time the recording loops back through.

I want to tune it out. To let it fade into the background. To keep myself as detached as everyone else is. A clear line drawn in the sand between the staff and the players we care for. But it’s like a trainwreck. My eyes are stuck on the replay no matter how desperately I want to look away. Not to have to see the hyper extension of Remington’s hip as he hits the ground or feelthe jarring impact when Atlanta’s third baseman lands on top of him, quickly followed by their fucking moronic pitcher. All night it had played in my head, over and over again, until I gave up on the faint possibility of sleeping.

Seeing him injured and knowing there was a chance that this was it, that his career was over, was a very real fear of mine. I didn’t realize I held that level of concern for him. We weren’t anything more than whatever teasing flirtation had transpired between us during the slow moments of practice, training, and games.

Tucking away the realization that Remi might mean more to me than I’d thought was hard though. Even harder than preventing myself from watching his collison and stopping my breath from hitching and my face from wincing at the impact. The hardest yet being his words to me as I was consumed by the sight of him laying there in pain on third base.

Hey, baby girl.

What space in my mind wasn’t taken up by the brutal impact of the accident has been occupied by those three little words.

Hey, baby girl.

What possessed him to say that? So publicly no less. We had been surrounded by the umpires, Atlanta’s players and coaches, our players, my brother—andmy dad.All night, I watched them both for any indication that they had heard Remington. Studying them as closely as I could to see if, through the chaos, their catcher’s words had been caught.

However, in the last twelve hours, neither one of them had given any indication to lead me to believe they had. And, of the two of them, Roman most definitely would have said something about it and made his opinion on the matter unerringly clear if he had. Possibly going as far as to injure Remington’s other hip to insure he wouldn’t play again and thus be removed from the Nighthawks and my presence.

Hishypervigilanceover me has existed since he came to live with us. At first it felt stifling. Especially when I wanted the true high school experience—or at least what I had assumed it to be based on the movies I saw and books I read having always been homeschooled. But I soon realized he wasn’t trying to smother me. He merely wanted to shelter and preserve my naivety from the callousness of people and the world.

Then, after what happened when I joined him at the University of Tennessee for college, I clung to his protection. He provided a much needed sense of security by having full control over who came around me, because clearly both our judgements were compromised. It was easier in the aftermath to simply close ranks than risk ever being hit like that again. And while I knew—and if in a rational state of mind, Roman did as well—that Remington was nothing like them, likehim, my brother was anything but rational anymore when someone showed prolonged interest in me. Not even his teammates had his trust off the field. Not since that night.

Finally shaking myself free of the constant replay in my head in order to keep the doors of my past closed, I return to the flurry of discussion around me just as a stress ball made to look like a baseball comes hurtling my way.

Reaching out to snatch it, Brady’s snicker melts from his face as it’s intercepted by a massive hand. Lobbing it back so it pelts him in the chest with a smack, Remington collapses into a graceless heap at my otherwise empty table, groaning in defeat as his crutches clatter on the floor.

Shifting around in the seat, his face hardly visible around his hoodie and the low bill of his cap, he leans forward and growls, “Hey fucker, next time you want to throw something at her, make sure there isn’t someone around who gets paid to catch 100 mile per hour fast balls coming at his face.”

“Ah Tate, you made it,” Jennings announces, drawing our attention back to the front like errant children. “How’s your pain this morning? Do you want us to administer that shot now?”

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