I scooted into my regular seat next to Tara in the wives’ section, my presence here now a familiar sight amongst the other girlfriends, wives, family, and friends. No longer a girlfriend, the players’ wives accepted me the way they only accepted other wives. And as much as I hated to admit it, being married changed things. I never planned on treating any of the players’ girlfriends the way I was treated, but I acknowledged the difference between being married and not. The social hierarchy existed for a reason, and after seeing the number of girls that came and went with some of these guys, I understood now in a way that had only offended me before.
When I glanced down at the field, the sight of Jack warming up forced my heart to squeeze with pride. His gray sliding pants hugged against the muscles as he lifted his leg into the air before each pitch. The black shirt-style jersey waved in the breeze he created as his arm flew down to release the ball.
I watched as Jack grabbed his hat and tipped it twice, and I couldn’t hide my smile. That was his sign to me. He had started doing it when I couldn’t travel with him on his road trips, which had become more and more frequent with my work. Whenever he pitched, he’d tip his hat twice and his face would light up with a soft smile. He never knew if the cameras were on him or not, but he tipped his hat regardless.
Eventually it became a habit, because he started doing it at the home games as well. Sometimes his eyes would flash to the stands and meet mine. When they did, I swear my heart would stop beating, causing my breath to catch. Every. Single. Time. If anyone noticed, I would have been embarrassed, but no one ever seemed to.
I more than loved this man. My husband. My ball player.
My Jack Fucking Carter.
Even his name still gets me all hot and bothered.
Jack bent over deeply, looking at the catcher through the glove covering half his face. With a shake of his head, he indicated no to whatever pitch the catcher wanted him to throw. Another shake and the catcher called time out, than ran over to Jack, who stood waiting on the mound, kicking the dirt.
After a short conversation, the catcher gave Jack a pat on the ass before jogging to his position behind home plate. The umpire pointed at Jack and Jack’s feet touched the rubber mound. With one fluid motion, the ball left his hand and the batter swung and missed. The ball crashed against the catcher’s glove, the sound of it echoing throughout the stadium as the crowd erupted into cheers and I smiled. I loved watching him play. It seemed silly to call Jack beautiful, but when he played baseball … he was.
Someone yelled from the dugout area, but Jack waved them off with his glove hand. I scooted to the edge of my seat and automatically held my breath, anticipating the pitch. Jack leaned down, eyeing the catcher before nodding his head in agreement with the called pitch. He lowered his glove to his waist before bringing it back up in time with the rising of his knee. His entire body lurched forward with the release of the pitch and the crack of the bat meeting the ball distracted everyone else’s eyes but mine. My eyes stayed loyally focused on the guy I loved.
Because my eyes never left Jack, I witnessed the entire incident. The ball screamed back at him and he reacted as best he could; his body twisted to get out of the way as his pitching hand instinctively reached out to stop the flying ball. I watched as the ball crashed against Jack’s exposed hand before dropping to the ground near his feet.
He scrambled to make the play, but a pained scream tore from his lips as he tried to close his hand around the ball. Face contorted with pain, Jack took a knee and pressed his chin tightly against his chest.
Someone yelled for time out and Jack’s manager bolted onto the field. He helped Jack to his feet and walked him out of view.
“Shit,” I muttered to myself.
“Go, Cassie,” Tara demanded. “Get down to the locker room. That’s where they’re taking him. ”
Without a word I nodded, grabbed my things, and hurried toward the staircase that would take me underground. I flew down the last set of stairs to where anyone in the public could go before heading through a private door. Once inside, the air of the cold brick tunnels hit me. The tunnels ran the length of the stadium and unless you’d been under here before, you wouldn’t know they existed. I rounded the corner and jogged up toward the burly security guard.
“Hey, Jimmy, is he here? Did you see them bring Jack off the field?” I asked, my voice distraught.
His forehead creased as he answered, “Jack? No. What happened?”
I released a shaky breath. “He hurt his hand. ”
“Really? Damn. I hope he’s okay. ” He stepped aside, revealing a small clearing between the guardrails, and I rushed through, walking as fast as my nervous legs would allow.
I followed along with the bricks as they curved gently, noticing the Mets sign attached to the wall up ahead. My pace quickened as I ached to reach the double mahogany doors that read NEW YORK METS CLUBHOUSE.
Another security guard sat in a folding chair next to the entrance, his face pinched with concern. He stood upon my approach. “Cassie. He’s in there with the doc. ” The sympathy in his sad eyes rattled me even further, and my mouth went completely dry.
“How did he look, Joe?”
“He was in a lot of pain,” he admitted grimly.
My throat constricted, making it hard to swallow. I realized in that moment that I’d never once considered the possibility of Jack getting hurt. He seemed invincible in a way … like his body was born to play this sport and it would never allow him to be hurt by it. It would never betray him like that.
But it did.
And I found myself scared to death about what this meant for him. Jack without baseball … well, that wasn’t Jack at all. I wouldn’t even know who that person was; I’d never known Jack when baseball wasn’t a huge part of his life. Worry shot through me and I couldn’t stop a nervous shiver.
“Cassie?” Joe’s voice echoed in the tunnel, followed by the sound of him hanging up the rotary phone. Unable to speak, I looked up at him helplessly. “No one else is in there,” he said gently. “You can go
in. ”
He opened one of the large doors for me and I walked through into the one place at the stadium I’d never been before. I eyed the oversized couch and the carpet patterned with the team’s logo, before my gaze fell on the lockers bearing each player’s name and jersey number, a soft spotlight highlighting each one as if they were museum exhibits. I laughed to myself that the guys called them “lockers” when they looked more like the thin oak closets you would find in hotel rooms.