Page 37 of Pitcher

“It’ll be fine,” I argue, ignoring Coach Anderson’s stern look. Really. I’ve had a sore shoulder before. No need in getting dramatic about it just because I can barely move today. What happened to the “rub some dirt on it and you’ll be fine” approach?

“You need a shot of cortisone and ice.”

I disagree with Dr. Phelps’s assessment wholeheartedly. I’ve had a cortisone shot in my elbow before, and it was like liquid fire being shot into my arm. I nearly cried. I’m man enough to admit it. The shit hurt, and I never want another one.

“I’ll take the ice and pain reliever.”

Coach Anderson lets out a deep, deep sigh. I don’t see why he’s so frustrated with me saving the team money. Cortisone shots cost a hell of a lot more than ice and pain relievers. I could take both of those at home and save the team even more money. How’s that for being a team player? Bet the school never saw that kind of dedication coming when they offered me a scholarship.

“Theo.” Coach’s voice is tired. “Dr. Phelps’s medical opinion is to take down the inflammation immediately. Ice and Tylenol will take time.”

I don’t see how that’s an issue. Time means riding the pine—or bench, whatever you want to call it. What I call it is a fucking vacation.

“I can live with that.” I shrug before cringing when the pain zaps through me. I definitely need a pain killer. Pronto.

“You can live with the possibility of your AAA contract being revoked by an injury?”

Goddammit. No, I fucking can’t.Thanks for reminding me of my responsibilities, Coach Anderson.

No contract with a minor league team means staying here and working for my father in the insurance business. No matter how much I want to stay with Anniston, I won’t work for my father. Computers and uncomfortable desk chairs are not for me. Fucking in a desk chair maybe.

But not working.

Don’t be a pussy, Theo. Do what you gotta do. Take it like a man.

“Fine, but I need to make a call first.”

I’m taking it like a man, but not alone. Judge me if you want, but until you’ve seen the size of this needle and experienced the medicine within it, you have no idea of the whining I’m about to do. Anniston McCallister is going to have one rough night. She owes me anyway.

Coach hands me my phone because my shoulder had to reiterate the fact it’s fucking useless at the moment, and I press the ridiculous icon selfie of Anniston eating a motherfucking Popsicle in my car. She knew it would piss me off when she sent it. But my irritation was quickly extinguished and replaced by pure lust as I analyzed every muscle in her tongue working that yellow Popsicle down to an abnormal shape. The picture had me fifteen minutes late getting to the car. I whacked off more times than I care to admit to that stupid Popsicle picture. Hence the reason it’s her contact icon.

She answers on the third ring.

“Do you want healthy or a side of healthy with fat as our main course?”

Dear God, can I keep her?

I smile into the phone.

“I say we go heavy on the carbsandhigh fat content tonight,” I supply.

“I couldn’t agree more. Okay, I grabbed more Mountain Dew for you. Can you think of anything else you want while I’m at the store?”

Her. Naked. Maybe tied up with a bow?

“Nah. That’s all.” I hear squeaking from a shitty buggy I’m positive she refused to swap out and cringe before adding, “Hey, do you think you could swing by the clubhouse after you finish?”

That doesn’t sound too desperate, does it?

There’s a pregnant pause before she says softly, “What’s wrong?”

Her voice is shaky, and I feel slightly guilty I cannot, in fact, take this like a man.

I try smiling so she doesn’t get the desperation in my tone over the phone. “It’s no big deal…,” I lie. “Just a little inflammation in my shoulder. Dr. Phelps wants to give me a shot of cortisone—”

She doesn’t give me a chance to finish.

“I’m on my way.”

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