The Shortstop (18 page)

I’m breaking her heart
.

The one thing I promised never to do. She deserves better than this, than me. I’m nothing more than a shell of my former self.

With each thrust, the deeper I go into her warmth, the deeper I go into my dark thoughts. A tear escapes from my eye, and she catches it with her thumb before raising it to her mouth. I can feel her tightening around me, and normally I would be ready to come from the sensation. My thoughts won’t shut off long enough to allow me this pleasure. Even as I desperately want to finish what I started, release all my angst into her, my fucking body won’t allow me to have this moment.

With a soft moan, she clenches around me and kisses me deeply as she does. I’ve stopped moving. I’ve stopped feeling once again. Actually, I do feel something. Not love or passion but self-loathing. It’s strong enough to take over my libido, my mind, and my heart. It’s strong enough to once again push her away, further away.

“Q?” she asks, when she realizes I’ve shut down emotionally.

“I can’t.” Gently, I lift her off my body, cowardly avoiding her gaze. It’s only a matter of time when my push is strong enough for her not to come back to me. The thought terrifies me, renders me crippled with fear.

Yet, I can’t bring myself to act differently.

Annie

Since Quint’s injury, he and his dad have had to meet with Yankees
management regarding the details of his disability, salary, and contract. The good news, he’ll be receiving his full salary while on the disabled list. The bad news, there are three types of disabled lists. In Quint’s case, he’ll be on the sixty-day list, the worst kind. This will give the team the option to replace him both on the active roster and the MLB roster during regular and post-season. What this means for him is he’s indefinitely on the disabled list for the rest of this season. He would have to return during the off-season to enable the Yankees to add him to next season’s roster. If this doesn’t happen, he may be forced to retire from the sport. I was given all this information via his father a few days ago.

Quint shared none of it with me. That definitely explains some of the comments he’s made regarding never returning to baseball. In his mind, he’s done. He’s concluded he can’t bounce back from his injury. Yes, he’ll be able to walk, be active, and resume a normal life. But no, he’ll never be good enough to fulfill his obligations to the Yankees.

Despite how he’s been acting at home, yesterday he gave me a glimmer of hope that we’d be fine and back to our normal selves. It was short-lived and humiliating. The tear that slowly rolled down his cheek as we were making love was a blinking neon confirmation of his internal battle. I’ve tried to get him to open up. When he does, he says things that scare me like his happiness is contingent on his career.

I was stunned and hurt by his admission. I’m getting the brunt of his hostility. If this is just his way of handling his situation, I understand. I’ll do whatever it takes to get him through this. Unfortunately, it’s more than just transferred anger on his part. I now believe that if he loses baseball, he truly can’t be his normal, happy self. It’s the guilt of that reality that’s tearing him apart, which is also tearing us apart.

My life turned on a fucking dime. Just like that, it’s changed. There are two people who know the hell I’ve been in. My mother has been very supportive, while at the same time reminding me this person I’m living with isn’t the real Quint. She trusts he’ll eventually come to peace with the situation, and he’ll expect me to be there ready to pick up the pieces and put us back together. Daphne feels he may never come back and I need to prepare for that reality. There’s only one person who can answer all my questions.

As difficult as it will be, I need to talk to him and force him to tell me what it is he wants. I’ll wait until his surgery is over. He’s hurting enough, but so am I. The crushing pain in my chest is getting worse every day. It began because of his injury and how heartbroken I felt for him and all that he most likely lost. The uncertainty of where I stand in his future is contributing to the agony, making it impossible to function normally.

My logic argues I need to give him time, and he’ll come around. The Quint who pledged his undying love and promised to spend every day by my side is buried beneath the hurt and the anger, but he’ll fight his way out. It’s my heart that tells me otherwise.

Today we’re at the hospital, discussing his surgery. He sits beside me, but he may as well be miles away. Hostility mars his normally gorgeous face. A permanent scowl leaves no doubt to what he’s feeling inside. His parents sit on the other side of the table, alternating their glances between their son and me. When looking at me, the concern and pity they feel is clear as day. They are hurting for us and they don’t know how to change it.

Quint will be having his first surgery in a few days. There may be at least one other required. That will be decided after he recovers from this one and how well his physical therapy goes. His surgeon points to X-rays of Quint’s knee, explaining what will occur during surgery. Quint isn’t even paying attention. I can tell he’s in his own world. One filled with frustration, despair, and anger…although anger is too tame a word to describe what he’s truly feeling right now.

I’m not even sure why I’m here. I can’t believe I’m even thinking that. A few weeks ago, I would have expected to be right by his side, holding his hand, and discussing his treatment as a team. When I asked if he wanted me to come, he shrugged and said it was up to me. I couldn’t help but think it was a test. Another firm shove to keep me at a distance, and another reason for me to prove that I’m still here for him.

Through the rest of the consult and on the ride back to our condo, the sinking feeling I can’t shake returns with a vengeance. His parents follow us home, wanting to discuss his recovery. He asked them not to, claiming he was tired. They adamantly refused to listen to him and followed us anyway. As they sit here discussing his life, he sits seething.

“Quint, you are not helping yourself,” his father says impatiently. “Yes, you’ll never play again as long as you take your horrible attitude and let it dictate your recovery. Is that what you want me to say?”

“No, I want someone to be honest. I’d expect that from my own father,” he spits back through clenched teeth. “Let’s call it what it is, Dad. They paid three million dollars for Quint Lawson, the possible MVP. Were you in the same room as me today? Did you hear Dr. Oliver say I will never have my mobility back to the same degree I’ve had? I’m a fucking shortstop! I can’t play shortstop if my knee doesn’t fucking work!”

He snatches his crutches and furiously storms out of the room, thus leaving us gawking after him. His mother closes her eyes to stop the tears that threaten. His father sits quietly, clenching his fists in frustration. There’s only one reason he didn’t follow Quint or argue with him. Quint is right. The possibility is there, and no one will come out and say the words.

“Annie, I don’t know what to say to you to help you feel better,” Mrs. Lawson says quietly. She takes my one hand and watches as I swipe away tears that fall freely with my other hand. “I know you love my son. I just want you to keep reminding yourself that he loves you too.”

“I know he does. I’m not sure it’s enough, though. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried everything. He’s not responding.” My nerves get the best of me. All these thoughts have been in my head. I’ve had a lot of time to think. Saying it all out loud is scaring me to death, but it needs to be said. “We know baseball is as big a part of Quint as you or I or the blood in his veins, the bones in his body, the heart in his chest. His injury has, in essence, put him on life support. He may be breathing, even living as long as he’s plugged in. If they pull that plug, we lose him.”

His parents look lost, their silence proving they really can’t argue with my analogy. When it’s clear he isn’t coming back out, his mom asks, “Do you want us to stay the night?”

I desperately want them to stay and make it all better. Contradicting myself, I shake my head and decline their offer. We exchange hugs and I see them out. They arrived today for the consult and are staying at a hotel, not wanting to impose on us. The original plan had them leaving and then coming back for the surgery. The recent chain of events with their son’s emotional state may change their minds. It needs to be their decision to stay or leave. I can’t ask them to stay. They promise to call me later to check on us, and a quick nod is all I’m capable of giving them.

“Did you and my parents solve my problems?” he asks when I come into our bedroom to check on him.

“Quint, not now. It’s been a long morning.” If he starts with me now, I won’t have the strength to hold back. “Are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich.”

“No.”

He picks up his laptop, dismissing me in the process. He’s done talking. I feel like a prisoner in my own home. I need to get out of here. Wordlessly, I leave our room, shutting the door behind me. Deciding to call Ava, I dial her number, hoping she’s around to talk or meet for lunch. I need something to talk about besides Quint. Ava knows he’s upset. She also knows that we’ve been struggling, but other than that she doesn’t know to what extent we’ve been struggling.

Quint hasn’t spoken to Jeff, and that alone paints a pretty clear picture. Other teammates have also reached out, leaving messages for him. He texted back a curt thank you to each. Otherwise, he hasn’t returned their calls.

“Hey, girl. How are you guys holding up?” she asks the minute she answers my call.

Not meaning to, I release a sigh before saying, “He had his consult today. Surgery is in three days. It’s still a wait-and-see game, and it’s driving him nuts.”

“The guys are so upset about this. Jeff said the tone in the locker room has been so somber. He may have only been there a short time, but he definitely left his mark with the team.”

My chest hurts for him. His face would light up when telling me stories of their locker-room antics. He was accepted and liked. That meant the world to him. Those guys were heroes to him, unearthly gods.

“You have time to meet for lunch?” I ask, changing the subject.

“I’m actually leaving the shelter now to grab something to eat. Can you meet me here?”

“Yes, absolutely. Do you need help today? I could use a distraction.”

“I’m sure I could find something for you to do.”

“Great. I’ll see you soon.”

This is just what I need. When I go to tell Quint I’ll be gone for a few hours, I find him sleeping with his laptop open on his lap. The webpage that’s open breaks my heart.

RECOVERING FROM EMOTIONAL TRAUMA

I scribble a note on where I’ve gone and leave it on his keyboard. I ache to kiss him, touch him. He looks so peaceful, so much like his old self as he sleeps. I hope his dreams are pleasant ones. If he must be in hell while awake, hopefully while asleep, he can relive the dream he was robbed of.

“Hey,” I say when I walk through the door. He’s on the couch, his normal spot.

“Hey.”

“You ate the sandwich I left you?”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

Normally, I’d scold him and tell him he has to eat. I don’t have the energy today. He’s an adult. I’m not his mother, and I’m not going to nag him. “Okay. If you get hungry, let me know,” I offer as I mindlessly fold laundry to avoid looking at him.

He stares robotically at the zombie movie he’s watching on TV. The volume is blaring. My head is pounding from the sound, but more so the tension between us. I’ve had a headache for days, and no matter what I take, it won’t go away. I’ve been forfeiting painkillers and choosing wine as my drug of choice. Deciding that’s what I need, I help myself to a generous glassful and take it out to the balcony to escape the noise and him.

It’s sweltering outside, but it’s a nice distraction. I’ve felt a chill in my bones that I can’t shake. Our view is of the George Washington Bridge. I solemnly stare at all the cars traveling to and from their destinations. He’s traveled over this bridge so many times these past few weeks. Most dread their commute. Quint loved it. The perpetual smile on his face whenever he’d leave for “work” was infectious.

He truly doesn’t deserve this. It’s not fair. I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs. I’m struggling to find the positive in this. If I can’t, then how can I blame him for his attitude? How can anyone fault him for feeling this way? I’ve tried to put it into perspective. His parents have been preaching that we should be happy that he’s healthy and alive. He doesn’t have a terminal illness. It’s a knee injury. People are fighting for their lives every day.

I can argue that Quint is as well. He’s fighting for the life he had. Who’s to judge on what’s an acceptable reason for heartbreak?

When the heat becomes unbearable, I walk back into the condo to find him in the same position as I left him in. He’s lowered the volume and has moved on to another stupid horror movie. Gore and bloody, mangled bodies hold his attention. Tentatively, I sit beside him, waiting for him to push me away. He sits motionless, not acknowledging my presence. We both sit side by side, in our own separate worlds, yet tethered to each other in our own private hell.

“I can’t do this,” he suddenly says so quietly, I barely hear him.

“Do what?”

“Us.”

The way he says his last word has me turning. Normally, he avoids eye contact. When my eyes focus on his face, his eyes are staring right back at me. He holds my gaze, not flinching or turning away. He’s picking a fight, yet again. Going toe-to-toe with him is the last thing I want right now, but I’ve had it with him pushing me away. I need to know what I’m up against.

“Quint, what do you want from me?”