Out of His League

Another nurse came in and set him up with a hospital gown and plastic bag to hold his clothing and shoes. He smiled at her, was polite and personable, even though he wanted to lie down and grit his teeth. But if he did, it might get caught on camera, might change the public’s opinion of him and jeopardize his job.

He was up for a contract. The season was over. He’d done okay—he was a back-of-the-rotation starting pitcher and had won his last two games—but the team had gone down in flames, anyway. The radio guys and the sportswriters were on the warpath; you’d think he and his teammates had all mugged little girls and stolen their lunch money.

Yeah, he understood fan loyalty. But there was real suffering in life, and, unlike most of these media people, it seemed he understood that while they didn’t.

“It was a shame about the Captains,” the nurse remarked to him. “My son stayed up late and watched all your games this month. He was hoping you’d make it to the playoffs.”

Him and about a million other people.

“Would your boy like an autograph?” Jon asked. His finger was really goddamn killing him. Had to be psychosomatic. It knew a knife was going to be slicing right into it, down to the bone, and cutting off a tumor the size of a pistachio nut.

“He would love that.” The nurse pulled a marker out of her pocket. “Are you sure you’re offering? I don’t want to bother you.”

He hid a smile. “I know I’ve got a job most kids in Boston would do anything for.”

Under normal circumstances, there was nothing he liked better than taking care of people—making them happy.

He glanced at his bum hand. The past couple weeks wearing a baseball glove rubbing against the knuckle hadn’t helped it. Still, unless a person knew what they were looking for, the growth on the bone of his right ring finger wasn’t apparent. He’d kept it from the team doctors, wanting to finish the season and make it into the playoffs.

Playoffs hadn’t happened, but he had finished the season, pretending nothing was wrong with him. Then he’d gone for an appointment earlier in the week and...

Here he was. Scheduled to get the tumor immediately removed and tested.

A chill socked him in the gut. This could not be cancer. Could not.

What would Bobby and Francis do if it was?

His smile stiffening, he turned to the nurse. “What’s your son’s name?”

“Kyle.” She pulled out his baseball card from her bag and handed it to him. “He’s a Little League pitcher, but he missed his spring season because he broke his arm.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jon signed his name on the card. “Do you have a piece of paper? I’ll write him a personal note.”

The nurse produced a memo pad, and on it he scribbled, “To a fellow pitcher. Hope you stay healed and well for next season.”

He handed the card and the note back to the nurse. She was looking at him thoughtfully. “You’re very good at being a public person. You have a way with people.”

Jon shrugged. “I’m the oldest in my family. Two younger brothers.” Bobby and Francis. And if it weren’t for this issue, he would’ve told them he was going to be here today, and Francis probably would’ve come, Bobby, too, seeing as he was a college student in Boston, just back from Italy on a junior semester abroad. “So I know what kids are like.”

The nurse put a blood pressure cuff on him. “We get celebrities and famous people in from time to time. But usually, they have entourages who instruct us not to interact with them.”

Because it sucks thinking you might have cancer. Jon smiled at the nurse as he watched the needle move on the gauge. “No worries.”

But there were worries. Tons of worries. Maybe after today, he’d be unemployed. Or worse, handed a death sentence. Then what would his family do? His father...cripes, he hated to think what Dad would do. He’d barely survived what had happened to their mom. Jon had held them all together emotionally, for years. It gave him a purpose, and with the money from his contract, he was taking care of them still.

The nurse handed him a paper cap for the operating room. “They might ask you to tie back your hair,” she said, winking at him. “I know how the girls love it. Getting long, isn’t it?”

Yeah, it was his thing—his trademark. Shoulder length now, he had promised not to cut it until the Captains made the playoffs, and then he’d lined up somebody to shave it off for charity. The team had been planning to make a big deal of it for their cancer charity.

That word again. Not that he’d ever told anybody on the team about his mom.

He forced himself to smile. “It’s fine.”

He was a good liar, when he needed to take care of others.

Finally, the nurse left him. He was used to people lingering over him, and that was okay. Being famous served a purpose. It was the thought of not having a purpose that threw him into a tailspin. Just get through today.

He changed out of his jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt into the hospital gown.

A male aide entered his room. “Hey, man! I love you guys!” he said. “You were the best pitcher on the team this September—they should put you at the top of the order!” Then the man wheeled Jon into what looked like a holding room for the O.R. His gut twisted into a million knots.

Do or die. Cut the friggin’ thing out and test it. Am I done, or do I get to come back for another season?

But as someone pricked his arm—shit, his pitching arm—with a needle for an IV, he looked away, knowing that it wasn’t the season that counted.

It was his family. And for them, he was flooded with the worst fear he had ever felt in his entire life. And that was saying something.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He felt more helpless and alone than he wanted to admit to himself.

More preoperative patients were wheeled into bays; the room became busy. As doctors, nurses and orderlies came inside, they all looked his way, to the farthest corner.

Word was out that he was here. Publicity-wise, Jon had it covered. A tweet was prepared to go out this evening, if necessary—Routine elective surgery on a stiff finger, non-pitching hand. Looks good. Thanks to Wellness Hospital. For now, though, he just needed to calm down, get the knots out of his stomach. He closed his eyes again.

“I’m Dr. Elizabeth LaValley. I’m your anesthesiologist this morning.”

He opened his eyes a slit. Saw a pretty doctor with chin-length, glossy hair. A cute pug nose. Slight but sure hands that gripped an iPad to her chest.

He opened his eyes all the way, because he needed to pay attention. It was his body that they’d be cutting into. But when he looked up at the doctor, it was what he saw in her eyes that made him sit up.

From the dampness in her lashes, and her puffy face, he could tell she’d been crying. And whatever the reason, she was trying to hide it. She kept her gaze drilled on her tablet computer instead of looking at him.

“And you are...” Blinking fast, she touched the screen. “Jon Farell.”

She pronounced it wrong, like “barrel,” which was his first clue.

“It’s Fair-ell,” he said.

Her brow knit. He waited for her to recognize his name.

Nope, nothing.

“You’re here for surgery on your finger...” She swiped another page. Tears were welling in her eyes, and she blinked fast.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Of course.” She seemed to shake herself. Tapped at the screen. “Do you have any concerns I should know about?” she said to the tablet’s screen.

Other than the fact that he might have cancer? And that his pretty anesthesiologist had just been crying?