My brave woman grew shell-shocked in certain situations. Instability was a trigger, and I’d spent the last three years trying to show her how fucking much I loved her. How I would never leave her. How I would never cheat, or do anything to risk our marriage, or her happiness.
Big words, considering that I was about to rip her world in two.
“It’s not just a concussion.” I rolled my neck without thinking, and my head throbbed. “They went over the x-rays with me today.”
“Okay.” She sat next to me on the couch under the back porch, her jeans tickling the hairs on my leg. “So what is it?”
“A skull fracture.” I blew out a hard breath. “It’s bad, Elle. Career-ending.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Not really.” I gently touched the side of my head, running my finger over the knot where the line drive had connected with my skull. I never saw it coming. I pitched the ball, then woke up on the table, the team doc peering down at me. It had been an away game, and Elle had watched it happen in high-definition, then left a dozen tearful messages on my cell before getting a hold of me.
“Is it dangerous? Are there long-term side effects? I looked up skull fractures that night, and it said—”
“The doc says I’m good, but the risk is too high for me to ever play again. Another line drive could kill me.”
She inhaled sharply. “E.”
She hadn’t heard the worst, and I steeled myself as I delivered the news. “And the contract renewal hasn’t been signed. We sent it back to them with some markups.” Stupid fucking markups. Use of owner’s plane and private suite, a six-figure bonus when I won the Cy Young. If I had just signed the contract, I’d have a seven-year deal with a guaranteed $12M payout. It wouldn’t matter if I tripped on a curb and shattered my femur, or if I lobbed peaches over the plate. Guaranteed money. We’d have been set and the jagged crack along my skull wouldn’t have mattered.
Her hand tightened on mine. “Don’t worry about that. Can you do a different position? One that doesn’t run a risk of line drives?”
“They cut me. I was my pitch. That’s it.”
Her eyes closed for one, long painful moment. When they opened again, I watched a tear run down her cheek, quick and frantic, as if it was racing to get offscreen before it was seen. I caught it with my finger and wiped it away.
Three years together, and she’s cried four times. Once, at the movies. Once, locked with me in a small bathroom at Wakulla Springs. Once, the night I proposed. And last week, her voicemails drenched in worried tears.
At Wakulla Springs, I swore to myself I’d do anything I could to keep her from crying in sadness again. I’d failed.
She met my eyes and my gut twisted at the heartache in her dark brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry.” I balled my hand into a fist. “I shouldn’t have asked for anything. I should have signed that contract and—”
“I’m not talking about the money, E.” She looked down at my fists, and gently opened them with her hands. Another tear dripped down her cheek and I let it fall, then felt like a failure. An even bigger failure. “You love it so much,” she whispered, her voice thick. “I can’t imagine losing that.” She looked up at me, and we were on two completely different planets.
“The house,” I managed. “The money. I don’t even know what we fucking have left.” Three hundred grand? Two? After my agent cut and taxes… I glanced into the yard and thought of the deposit I’d put down on the six-figure pool renovation. We were going to add in a hot tub. Waterfall. A slide for our future kids. We were going to sip champagne in the shallow end and fuck in the hot tub. We’d have to back out and lose that deposit.
“Ignore the money,” she said sharply. “We fell in love in shit apartments drinking Natty Light and six-dollar fried chicken. We took a Greyhound to Panama City for a romantic weekend.” She waved a hand behind her. “We can sell the house. We can get real jobs and be normal.” She cupped my face, the tips of her short nails scratching along my scruff. “We’re going to have beautiful babies and teach them your sense of humor and my intelligence, and be so fucking happy, E. I can give you that. But I can’t give you baseball and I’m so sorry about that.”
“I can’t think about that right now.” My hands tightened on her waist. “And you don’t deserve Greyhounds and Natty Light. You deserve everything and I was supposed to give it to you.”