Plunking Reggie Jackson (11 page)

Cute
, Coley thought. From the corner of his eye he could see his father working his jaw. He wanted to give the old man credit for keeping his mouth shut, but his excruciating pattern of toe wagging and rubber band snapping had the effect of breaking the silence.

Coley sighed before he asked Dr. Nugent, “Okay, what's the best-case scenario?”

“That would be two weeks in the cast and two weeks in rehab.”

“And then I could pitch again?”

“Only a couple of innings to start with. You have to remember, you won't be in shape; you aren't going to be doing any running for at least a month.”

Coley was trying, by the numbers, to put the best face on this. “If I could pitch in a month, that's still before the play-offs. Maybe I could be in shape for the play-offs.”

“Maybe. But you have to remember, that would be best case scenario. When we talk in these best- and worst-case terms, we're talking about the extremes that might develop. Reality usually falls somewhere in between.”

“We have a good chance to make state,” Coley informed him. “We could even win it.”

“I know,” said Dr. Nugent.

“You do?”

“Yes. I read the sports pages.”

For the first time Coley's father spoke up. He wanted to know when they should come back.

“Let's be optimists,” replied Dr. Nugent. “Let's take the cast off in two weeks and reexamine the ankle at that time. No promises, though.”

“Will there be any permanent damage?” Ben Burke asked him.

“There shouldn't be, not if he goes strictly by the book in his rehab.”

On the drive home Coley tried to make his right leg and ankle comfortable by tilting his seat back. It didn't work; all he was doing was causing pain by stretching his groin muscles awkwardly.

The quarrel began when his father looked for the silver lining. He said, “At least you can still lift.”

Bored by this observation, Coley replied, “I can still lift.”

“With the extra time you can lift even more than you have been.”

“Now, there's somethin' to look forward to.”

“Don't be a smart-ass. Just because you can't run doesn't mean you have to stop strengthening your upper body.”

Coley thought of Bree.
I didn't realize you were so big; it's hard to reach my arms around you
. It was the first pleasant thought he'd had all day. He said, “I'm two hundred fifteen pounds, Pa, and it's all muscle. I'm not exactly skin and bones in my upper body.”

“You know what I'm saying, and don't call me Pa. The second thing is, you'll have more time for homework.”

“That's even better than liftin' weights. Why should I be bummed at all?”

“Don't be a smart-ass,” his father said again.

“I'm okay with my grades.”

“You are? Not according to Mrs. Alvarez. She sent us a note that you got a progress report in English.”

“Why the hell did she do that? I explained it all to her.”

“You're on the bubble in English.”

“I'm not on the bubble. Grissom turned in the report before she read my book summaries. I explained all that to Alvarez. Why the hell did she send you a note?”

“Because she doesn't have any choice, that's why. If she gets a progress report from a teacher, she's required to notify the parents.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You're swearing too much these days. It wouldn't hurt you to clean up your act. Anyway, how many times do I have to lay it out for you? With your ACT scores, you can't get less than a C in any of your classes.”

“I know, I know. If I want to keep the baseball scholarship I can't get less than a 2.3. How many times do we have to go through this?”

“Until you
act
like you know, I guess. And you have to get at least one B. Where's the B going to come from?”

Human dynamics
, Coley thought. But his frustration had escalated too far to talk about it. “Can you get off my case? Isn't it bad enough I have this ankle?”

“The ankle's the whole point. Bobby Esau saw you pitch the game you got injured. He thinks you're ready. He thinks you'll go high in the major-league draft.”

“I know. And he's not the only one. Who the hell needs college anyway?”

“That may be your only good option, because of the ankle. If the pros think you're damaged goods, if they don't see something more out of you again this spring, they'll probably back off.”

“I'll pitch good again before the season's over.”

“Maybe.
Maybe
you will, but you can't predict that. The point is, nobody can take a scholarship away unless you don't qualify academically.”

Coley's back hurt. He flipped the lever to maneuver his seat into the upright position. He moved his ankle to the side before he said, “This is just great. The ankle knocks me out of the major-league draft, or Grissom's English class knocks me out of the scholarship.”

“Stop whining, for God's sake. There's nothing on your plate that you can't handle.”

This rebuke made Coley feel like a child. “Are we done now?” he asked.

“Done with what?” questioned his father.

“With this conversation. It sucks.”

“I guess we can be done.”

“Good.” Coley thought of Bree and wondered if he would see her tonight.

It was two days later, and Bree didn't bother knocking. She simply let herself in the front door and then bounced her way down the steps. Coley, who was lifting weights, hadn't heard her enter the house.
Oprah
was on.

Bree had a box of cookies, which she'd baked herself. She gave him one, then another, and then a third. Chocolate chip. He devoured them rapidly. “You bake these?”

“Yes, I know how to bake cookies. Don't they say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach?”

“That's not the way I heard it, Bree. I heard it was through something else.”

She laughed and then teased him, “Ooooh, Coley. You're not going to be bad, are you? I'm here on an errand of mercy; are you going to be bad?”

“Not me,” he replied.

“Oh, I love Oprah. Isn't it awful boring lifting weights?”

“Boring as hell.”

“Are you glad to see me?”

“What do you think?”

“Are your parents home?”

“Nobody's home. It's just you and me, babe.”

Bree giggled. “Maybe we can find something more interesting for you to do.”

“Let's hope.” Coley was flat on his back on the vinyl weight bench, wearing an ancient tank top that said
SARASOTA
and a pair of fleece gym shorts. “How'd you get here?” he asked her.

“Rico brought me. He said he can even drive me home if I need him to.” She took off her sweater. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse and a miniskirt. The skirt flared even higher when she spun to lay the box of cookies on the entertainment center.

“We don't need Rico,” Coley said. “I can drive you home.” He had the weight bench adjusted so his feet could reach the floor on both sides. He didn't use his feet for weight bearing, but their contact with the floor gave him the proper leverage for bench pressing without straining other muscle groups.

“I brought you some homework, too,” she informed him.

“Wonderful.”

“There's a printed form for your human dynamics survey.”

“Even more wonderful.”

In order to kiss him, she got on her knees next to the bench. The first kisses were the little darters, rapid on his face and neck, like a bird feeding its young. Then she fastened onto his mouth to work her active tongue inside. As soon as she pulled away, she asked him, “Do you love me, Coley?”

“What?”

“I want you to tell me you love me.”

It was a surprising request, but then Bree was nothing if she wasn't a source of the unexpected. “Yeah, I guess I do. Why?”

“I have to be sure, that's why.” Her hand was inside his tank top, where she was exploring his pectorals and abdominals. “God, I love your muscles.”

She swelled his ego like a pump. He was thoroughly aroused by this time. When he tried to sit up though, she pressed against his chest to keep him still. He could feel his voice going husky with breath: “You love a lot of stuff today, Bree. You love Oprah and you love my muscles.”

“I love you, too. It wouldn't hurt you to say it.”

Coley was about to say it, if for no other reason than to speed up the foreplay, when Bree noticed his Cindy Crawford poster. “Do you think I'm as attractive as she is?”

“Oh, sure.”

“I mean, do you really think it though? Cindy Crawford is so beautiful, do you really think I am?”

“I said yes, right?” He ached for her. “They make these big stars look so good with makeup and lighting. In real life they wouldn't look so perfect.” Maybe that would satisfy her.

It didn't. “But you might just be saying that. I don't want you just to say it.”

“I'm not just saying it.”

Bree ignored his denial. She was removing her blouse and bra, in a manner so rapid and nonchalant he was startled again. For a few seconds she let her eyes travel from the firm contours of her own flesh to the body of the supermodel. It seemed to Coley that she was attempting some sort of confirmation.

Then she locked her hands behind her neck and smiled at him. “You like?”

“Are you kiddin' me?” But when he started to sit up again, it was the same result: She pushed him down. “You love my body, but do you love me? If it was my picture on your ceiling instead of Cindy Crawford's, would that be just as good?”

“It wouldn't be just as good, it would be better.” Coley pulled her head down so he could kiss her. It was a rough kiss, with a clashing of teeth.

“And you really mean that?”

“Yes, I really mean it. I don't have a condom, Bree.”

“Why do we need one anyway?”

“I think we need one.” As lathered as he was, it seemed miraculous that he retained some sliver of judgment.

But almost before these words of caution were out of his mouth, Bree said, “Look what I found.” The packet she showed him was gold foil. She began to open it at the corner.

“Where did that come from?” Coley asked her.

“I don't know, I guess it's magic.” She was giggling again in the dark but lyrical mix that somehow joined her unlikely blend of child and seductress. It was amazing the way she seemed to bring the same playful approach to sex as to the joy of miniature golf.

“Tell me you love me, Coley.” She wasn't giggling now, or even smiling.

“Okay, okay, I do.”

“No, but you have to
say
it. You've never told me you love me.”

“Okay, I love you.”

“And you really mean it?”

“Yeah, I mean it. I love you, Bree.”

Chapter Nine

Sometimes he walked on his crutches, but at other times he used the cast as a walking cast. Bree carried his books for him even when he didn't need the help. She was as indulgent as a first-class flight attendant, at his side from class to class, helping him at his locker, up and down the stairs, and even after school when he needed his books carried to the parking lot. After a day or two, when he was confident on the supports, she nevertheless was still at his side.

She met Coley's parents for the first time the night they had the cookout. His father grilled steaks on the deck while Bree helped his mother chop the vegetables for a large tossed salad. Afterward he showed Bree the bull pen while his father made a few desultory passes on the tractor mower. He was taking a swipe at the taller grass on the far side of the lawn, near the fence.

“Does your father take care of all this landscaping?” Bree asked.

“Nope, he's just playing games with his newest fifteen-horsepower toy. My mother takes care of all this.”

“It's so beautiful, she must work hard at it.”

“She works too hard at it.”

Coley demonstrated (as best he could) how you could gong the Reggie Jackson statue by hitting it in the right spot. By supporting his right side on a single crutch and lobbing a few balls in the direction of the statue, he tried to make his point about the location strategy that would have to be achieved.

“I don't get it,” said Bree.

“I guess there's not much to get.”

“Even the statue itself is, like, kind of weird. It doesn't belong with all the beautiful flowers and stuff.”

“You sound just like my mother. Gonging the statue was just a hoot me 'n Patrick got going. He had the advantage, though, because he was right-handed. If he dropped down and threw sidearm, he could get right in under that elbow. He had a better angle.”

“Who's Patrick?”

“He's my brother. He died four years ago.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I just blurted it out like that.”

“It's okay. You didn't know, so why should you be sorry?”

“But I really am.”

Coley's father approached to say, “You shouldn't be throwing.”

“This isn't really throwing, we're just goofin' on the statue.”

“I suggest you find some other form of goofing around, something that keeps you off your feet.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“This would be an easy way to hurt your arm or pull a muscle. Even worse, you might lose your balance and fall down.”

“Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?”

“Don't be a smart-ass,” said Ben. “If you need to impress Bree, find some other way of doing it.”

Coley reddened angrily, but Bree began to giggle. “I don't need to look for ways to impress Bree,” Coley said.

“I'm afraid he's right, Mr. Burke,” Bree confirmed with a smile. “I'm already impressed.”

“Don't let him snow you,” said Dad to Bree. “He's not as good as he thinks he is.”