Page 107 of Wild Hit
CHAPTER 39
AUDREY
I, and a few other back office employees watching from the clubhouse, jump to our feet the second Miguel is hit. The difference between us is that I run to the dugout.
A mess of people blocks me right at the entrance. Franklin and the rest of the physical therapists team, including Hope, make their way through the players to go on the field. I don’t know if everything is silent because it really is, or if all sound is drowned by the buzzing in my ears. I try to jump a little, see if I manage to get a clearer view, but of course I don’t stand a chance among the sea of giants.
My sneakers make a horrible squeaky sound as I pivot back to the clubhouse. Now I’m the one elbowing my way through people to see the screen. The cameras are trained on Miguel’s face, scrunched almost in anger. But I’ve seen him really angry before—every time Henry showed his face and grubby hands—and this is different. This is a mask of pain.
I’m going to freaking murder that pitcher.
Franklin and Hope get in the way of the cameras for a moment as they verbally assess Miguel. He’s not a showboat in his pain like other players, who start jumping or rolling aroundto really milk the beanballs. Rather, Miguel is stoic by the plate other than how he sometimes shakes his head.
I only realize that the place was really silent until the audience starts booing again. The camera pans to the Longhorn pitcher, who looks completely stunned by what’s happening. I don’t know if he really intended to hit the best baseball player of our time, or if it was an accident. I’ll murder him anyway, but after I make sure to check on Miguel.
The minutes after that pass excruciatingly slowly. Lucky scores our first run and the bases are still loaded, and now that the pitcher’s caught in whatever his game was, we move through the batting order until eventually the inning finally freaking ends.
Then I take off for the dugout again.
“Make room, make room,” someone’s saying. The team moves like a school of fish, absorbing Miguel into the mass as the inning ends and blocking him from view.
He startles a little upon finding me there, waiting for him. Our eyes meet and it’s like a conversation that happens in a single second. In my mind, I ask if he’s fine, he responds that he is, and I don’t believe him.
“Go back to your places, everyone,” a clear voice cuts into the tense quiet. It’s Logan with his team captain voice. “The game’s still going.”
“You heard the man, let’s go.” One of the managers starts shooing people off, players back to the dugout, staff members back to work. Even the back office folks get sent away on the off chance that anything they see may leak to the media.
He finally turns to me and stops cold. I fold my arms. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Uh, right, boss.” He clears his throat, checks one last time that the only ones in the clubhouse are Miguel, Hope and her boss, and me, and returns to his place outside.
Franklin gets to work right away. “Garcia, we need the kit and the cooling pads.”
“On it.” She rushes to the trainers room.
Miguel is calm as he pulls up his jersey off his pants, but I don’t miss the tiny flash of frown that appears on his face before it’s gone. He works the tight undershirt off, exposing gleaming brown skin covering rippling muscles—and the bruise already forming at his ribs.
I fuss without making a sound, fluttering at a distance as Franklin digs his gloved hands in different places to check on the extent of the injury.
“Does this hurt?” he asks Miguel.
He answers honestly, “Yes, but like a five out of ten.”
“What about here?”
“Nothing there.”
Hope returns with a case that she splays open on the floor, reaching for a tub of something. Hanging off her shoulder is a long gel ice pack. She’s so fortunate that she gets to dosomething. All I can do is watch and pray that this isn’t a major injury, and also that I don’t commit a felony after this.
“You’re lucky that the ball hit your elbow pad first,” Franklin says, getting the tub from Hope and opening it. “I do have to check in with Beau to see if he wants to bench you for the game, though.”
Miguel sighs, throwing his head back and exposing his neck, like the prospect of not playing is more exhausting than that of playing with a fist-sized bruise on his ribs.
“I think he shouldn’t play again tonight,” I blurt out, calling their attention to me. Miguel’s eyebrows rise. “For all it’s worth, I mean. He’s probably running on adrenaline right now. We need to see if the damage is actually worse than he feels right now.”
“Exactly.” Franklin finishes applying the ointment thing and wraps some sort of adhesive patch on top as if it was an open injury. “I’ll bring the news from Beau in a second. Garcia, I trust you with the rest.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, already at work at wrapping the cold pack around his ribcage.
