Switch Hitter (16 page)

He’d wished for many things in his life, and rarely gotten any of them, so why was this any different? As long as the asshole insisted on walking through life with blinders on, he’d see what he wanted to see. Bentley didn’t want to see anything outside the path he thought he should walk.

Face it, Ashley is smack in the middle of his path, and
you
are not.

Ashley is safe. She’ll never challenge him to be more than an adequate husband or an attentive father.

You challenge everything he believes.

Not a thing had changed since St. Louis. He might have admitted to himself he had desires beyond the social norm, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the world know. When push came to shove, he retreated back into the small closet society said was appropriate and pulled the door shut.

He wasn’t much better. He loved playing baseball, but telling the world he was gay would pretty much end his career. At the very least, he’d always be known as the gay player. Everything he did, any record he might achieve would be prefaced by the words “openly gay player, Sean Flannery.” He did not want that to be his identity or his legacy.

He’d much rather be known as “two time All-Star player, Sean Flannery” or even “Major League veteran, Sean Flannery.” Why his sexual preferences had anything to do with his ability to play baseball was beyond his understanding. But he wasn’t stupid enough to believe the press wouldn’t have a field day with the information if they got their hands on it.

Fuck you, Randolph.

He grabbed his glove from the bench. Following the third out, he took his place on the field. Just three outs away from a win, he cleared his mind except for the game and his part in it. Jeff Holder, the Mustangs’ ace closer, came in from the bullpen, shutting down the first two batters with ease.

One more out, then we’re done. I can get the hell away from here.

His mouth watered, imagining the first taste of the cold beer he intended to down as soon as he could find a bar. Getting rip-roaring drunk sounded like a plan. The team had tomorrow off, perfect timing in his opinion.

The next batter swung at and missed the first two pitches. Sean relaxed as Jeff consulted with the catcher, his brother, Jason, on what pitch to throw next. The umpire broke up the discussion, and the players resumed their positions. Sean settled in, focused on the batter.

Make it quick, Jeff. I want to get the hell out of here.

As soon as the bat connected, Sean’s feet were moving, tracking the popped up ball with his eyes. He lifted his gloved hand high to block the glare from the stadium lights that had come on midway through the game to chase away the early evening shadows.

I’ve got it. I’ve got it.

He shuffled to the left another foot then suddenly the ball was gone. Lost in the lights. His heart jumped into overdrive.

Fuck. Where is it?

He wavered, spotted the spinning orb again. Realizing it had traveled farther foul, he stretched his arm out, glove up. His feet left the ground as he launched himself toward the spot where his glove might, with a dose of diamond dust luck, intercept the ball for the final out.

He felt the impact of the ball against his palm at the exact same time someone slammed a sledgehammer into his left hip. Stars blinded him. He reached out with his free hand for anything solid to stop his momentum but came up empty handed.

Time slowed as he tumbled over the railing like a rag doll. Life flashed across his retinas like a Picasso painting—jumbled fragments came together to create a surreal tableau he had no control over. Railings. Concrete. Faces. The lineup card on the dugout wall. A television camera.

Pain clouded his brain. His hip. His ribs. His knee. They all hurt. He was flying. Then he wasn’t.

He landed face-up on the dugout floor. For a heartbeat, he saw nothing but white pain. Someone called his name. He opened his eyes, saw open sky above him, then everything went black.

Chapter Fifteen

Holy shit!

Bentley froze. He watched from his position in left field as Sean disappeared head, then feet-first over the dugout rail.

Blood roared past his ears as he waited, breathless for him to pop up, laughing and smiling triumphantly at having caught the final out of the game. Except he didn’t pop up. Not the first heartbeat, the second, or the third. A sick feeling took hold in his stomach.

He’d never seen an uglier fall in all his years playing baseball.

No.

No.

No.

He forced his feet to move, the mantra playing through his mind with each running step.

Please, God. Let him be okay.

He pushed his way through the crowd blocking the steps.

“Move. Goddamn it. Out of my way!”

Doyle Walker stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Hold on. Let the medical personnel do what they do.”

Bent looked over the older man’s shoulder at his lover’s crumpled body. Tears blurred his vision, clogging his throat.

“Is he…?”

“He’s alive.”

Closing his eyes, he silently thanked God for the miracle.

“Clear out folks.” Doyle’s voice was calm as he urged the players to make room. “Go on to the clubhouse. I’ll update you as soon as we know something.”

Bentley wasn’t going anywhere. When the Mustangs’ manager pushed against his chest, he balked. “I’m staying.”

“Nothing you can do here,” he said.

“I’m staying,” he repeated, his gaze locked on Sean’s pale face. The Mustangs’ trainers and team physician knelt over him, their faces screwed up with concern.

“The EMT’s are here, Randolph. We have to make room for them,” Doyle reasoned.

Bent glanced up, saw the uniformed crew spilling out of the ambulance parked on the field. His gut twisted. They never called the emergency people unless the injury was life threatening. He took a step back then another as they piled into the dugout with their cases of equipment.

“Bring a backboard,” one of them called to the last guy out of the truck.

He was going to be sick. He swallowed back the bile rising in his throat, clenching his fists at his side to steady himself. Going to pieces now wouldn’t help Sean. He had to be there for him.

Bits of their last conversation flashed through his brain, and he fought the urge to wail. He’d been so stupid. So fucking stupid. He’d let the man down by not fighting for their love. He wasn’t going to let him down now.

I’m here for you. I love you.

He’d never felt so helpless in his life. The EMTs worked like a well-oiled team. In minutes, they pronounced the injured man stable, strapped him to the bright orange backboard, and carried him up the stairs to the field level where a stretcher waited at the open ambulance door.

No one stopped him as he followed them up the steps. After they secured their patient to the gurney, he stepped forward.

“I’m going with him.”

“We’ve got it,” one guy said after a silent consultation with his co-workers.

“I don’t give a shit if you’ve got it or not. I’m going with him.”

“Bentley.” Doyle Walker’s voice. “Let them do their job. I’m going to the hospital as soon as I change clothes. You can ride with me.”

He shook his head. “No.” He toed off his cleats then kicked them toward the dugout. “I’m going with him. Bring me some shoes when you come.”

Doyle regarded him with questioning eyes, then nodded to the emergency crew. “Let him go along.”

Nothing more was said as they loaded Sean into the ambulance, and Bentley climbed in. He’d never been in an ambulance. The ride was harrowing, but he held on, his focus trained on the man on the stretcher.

“Is he going to be all right?” he asked.

“He’s unconscious,” the guy who’d ordered the backboard said. “Probable concussion. Possible broken bones. He could have a spinal cord injury, but there’s no way we can tell for sure without tests.”

Spinal cord injury.

The words sent a chill through his body. Baseball players didn’t come back from that kind of injury.

“They’ll do all kinds of tests at the hospital. You should know more in a few hours.”

Panic screamed louder than the sirens clearing their way through the Dallas traffic.

I’m here. No matter what happens, I’m here. I’m so damned sorry. We’re going to get you through this. I won’t leave you.

In sock-clad feet, he paced the emergency waiting room for what seemed like an eternity. Belatedly, he understood why Doyle had taken the time to change out of his uniform. Everyone recognized him. Some knew why he was there, had seen him on TV getting in the ambulance with his teammate. All wanted his autograph. Some wanted news about the condition of the player he’d accompanied.

He’d never been so glad to see his team manager as he was when he arrived carrying a familiar duffle. Doyle brought his civilian clothes from his locker. Such a little thing, but once he was dressed, he felt more in control. Miserable, but more in control.

Team management threw their weight around, getting them moved to a private waiting room. They all looked at him with questions in their eyes. Why was he here? Didn’t he hate Flannery? Of all the players on the team, why was he the one who refused to leave?

There was an answer to all their unspoken questions. He wanted to tell them, but he had to talk to Sean first. He had to make it right with him before he told these people what they wanted to know. Until then, he kept his own council, quietly praying for the man to recover soon.

“Why don’t you go home,” Doyle asked late in the night when they still had no answers. “There’s nothing you can do here.”

“Maybe not, but I’m not leaving.”

“Don’t you have a fiancée to go home to?”

For the first time since he’d seen his lover tumble into the dugout, he thought about Ashley. He searched his pockets for his cell phone. “I’ll call her. She’ll understand.”

“Just so you know, you don’t have to stay. We aren’t going to leave him alone.”

“I know. He doesn’t have much family.” One of the many nights, exhausted from a game then sex in his hotel room, they’d lain in bed talking about their families.

“We called his sister. She’ll be here in a few hours.”

Bent nodded. “That’s good. He likes her.”

“She saw it on TV. Said she was halfway out the door when we called.”

“He’ll be glad to see her. Siobhan, right? Lives in D.C.?”

Doyle nodded. “I didn’t know you two were close. After the brawl in the clubhouse….”

“Yeah, well, that was old business.” Business he didn’t want to discuss. “I’ll call Ashley.” He held up his phone. “Let her know where I am.” With the help of a friendly nurse, he found the nearest exit not swarmed by the media and powered up his phone. He had half a dozen missed calls—all from his fiancée. He hit redial on the latest one then pressed the phone to his ear.

“Bentley!” she screamed in his ear. “Where are you?”

“At the hospital. Sean….” His throat closed up, and he couldn’t continue. Damn. He needed to get a grip.

“I saw it on TV. Is he all right? The news people are saying how awful it could be.”

“I don’t know anything yet. They’re still doing tests. He was still unconscious when we got to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry. I really am.” She paused, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to fill the silence. “When are you coming home?”

“Not until I see him. We had another fight, a verbal one this time, right before the game. I can’t leave him…not until we talk.”

“I understand.” Her voice was softer, almost sad. But what the hell did she have to be sad about? “Look. I’ve been getting calls from the network. They know we’re engaged. They want information. I promise, I won’t tell them anything you tell me. If you need to talk, I’m here.”

“Thanks.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I appreciate it. I’m sure he will, too, when he comes to.”

“Bentley…I’m sorry. Tell Sean, I’m sorry.” She disconnected before he could ask her what she meant.
Sorry? For what?
As long as she didn’t feed private information to the press vultures, she had nothing to be sorry for.

If only you could say the same for yourself. You’re a grade A asshole, Bentley Randolph.

He was unraveling, one silent minute at a time. When the team of physicians treating the first baseman stepped into the waiting room, he was one taut rubber band away from snapping.

“Gentlemen.”

Bentley recognized Phillip Sanderson, the Mustangs doctor. Of course, he would be at the hospital—it was his job to keep the players healthy. He introduced the others—an orthopedic surgeon, a trauma specialist, and a neurologist. From the introductions, it sounded as if they’d called in the best, but impatience ate at him. He didn’t want to hear how many Board certifications they had.

“How is he?” he interrupted.

Dr. Sanderson glanced at him, blinked as if he was seeing things then stammered. “Uh. He’s…well…there’s a lot to discuss.” His gaze traveled over the group. “Does he have family here?”

“His sister is on the way,” Doyle said.

“Okay, then. I can tell you he’s awake. He knows what happened to him. He’s in a lot of pain from a variety of injuries. I’ll let the others here tell you, as they’re treating him within their own specialties.” He looked at the orthopedist. “Dr. Williams, why don’t you go first?”

Dr. Williams didn’t look more than thirty years old. Bent wanted to ask if they had anyone with more experience but held his tongue. There’d be time for that later, if need be. He’d move whatever mountains stood in the way to see Sean had the best care possible.

“Mr. Flannery has two cracked ribs he sustained in the fall, as well as a broken hip. The break is severe and will require surgery, but we’ve elected to postpone it for a few days so other issues can be addressed first.”

“What other issues,” Bent asked.

The shorter doctor stepped forward, clearing his throat. “I’m Dr. Schmidt,” he said. “Mr. Flannery has some bruising along his spinal cord, and a CT scan revealed a minor concussion. Because of the concussion, I’ve advised against surgery until we know more. There doesn’t appear to be any permanent spinal injury. He has use of all his limbs, and he responded appropriately to stimuli. For the time being, he’s on mild pain killers to be increased as needed once we’re sure he’s out of danger from the concussion.”

Dr. Schmidt stepped back to allow the last of the team to come forward. “I’m Dr. Hollowell,” he said. “I get to deliver the best news. Mr. Flannery doesn’t appear to have any damage to internal organs, but we’re going to keep a close watch on him over the next few days. It appears he landed hard, and there could be internal bleeding we can’t detect right away. But, all things considered, his injuries appear to be more skeletal than anything else, and bones heal.”

“When can I see him?” Bent asked.

Dr. Sanderson stepped up, taking charge once more. “His family is on the way?” he asked the general gathering.

“It’s going to be a few hours, at least,” Doyle said. “Bentley knows Sean as well as anyone on the team. I don’t see why he can’t go in.”

The doctor nodded. “Okay.” He turned to Bentley. “Let him sleep as much as possible. Try to keep the jokes to a minimum. It’s going to be a while before he feels like laughing.”

The medical team left with promises to keep Mustangs management informed of Sean’s progress. Bent was aware of the curious glances as he left the waiting room with Dr. Sanderson, but none of it mattered to him any longer. All that mattered was seeing the man he loved.

He was asleep when they entered his private room. The doctor checked the monitors hooked up to his patient then with a whispered reminder to let the man sleep, he departed.

Bent stood for a few minutes, watching his chest rise and fall, reassured by the steady rhythm. Every once in a while a grimace would pull at Sean’s face, and he’d moan a little. His color was better than it had been when he was lying on the dugout floor, but he was far from having a healthy glow. There was a scrape on his left cheekbone, and bruises were rising to the surface along both arms.
Christ! He must have bounced around like a pinball before he hit the ground.

Satisfied he was sleeping as comfortable as possible given his injuries, Bent pulled a chair up close to the bed and sat. Sean’s hand was outside the covers, a clothespin style heart monitor clamped to one finger. He placed his palm over the back of his hand then closing his eyes, dropped his forehead to the edge of the mattress.

I’m so fucking sorry. Everything you said before the game was true.

His back ached like he’d slept in the back seat of a Volkswagen Beetle. Strange sounds stirred his consciousness. He opened his eyes. His eyeballs stung, and he had to blink twice to make sense of his surroundings. A nurse in flower print scrubs stood on the opposite side of the bed, writing something on a clipboard.