A few minutes later, he straightened up and said over his shoulder, “Trina told me about the photo shoot,” which got my attention.
I glanced up to meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Yeah. It should be great. You’re in it too, you know?”
Matteo’s posture changed as he shifted nervously in his seat. “I am?”
“Yes. But not until after the baby is born. I’m going to shoot Trina now while she’s showing and then all three of you after.”
“Just make sure you take the most pictures of her. She’s the one who sells magazines, not me,” he offered humbly.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh yeah, ‘cause being forced to look at your mug is really hard on the ladies,” I said with a laugh.
“I knew you wanted me,” he teased and I almost choked.
Rolling my eyes, I shook my head and gave a little snort. “Not this again.”
Since Jack forgave Matteo, acknowledging his hotness no longer made me feel completely awkward. Granted, I wouldn’t be walking around and announcing it to the world anytime soon, but still. It also didn’t hurt that Matteo eventually realized that his feelings for me weren’t based in reality. He figured out quickly that he had gotten caught up in protecting me and caring about me. It muddled his emotions, but once Trina entered the picture, any romantic feelings he thought he had for me were out the window. Thank God for Trina.
The car slowed to a stop as I gathered my things. Matteo reached for the driver’s side handle and I stopped him. “You don’t have to let me out. I got it.” I opened my own door and scooted out before leaning into the open passenger window, “See you later, future cougar prey.”
“Cassie!” Matteo called out in mock indignation as I turned away and walked toward the entry gates of the stadium, laughing. I knew Matteo would love every minute of attention he would get once the article was published.
I scooted into my regular seat next to Tara in the wives’ section, my presence here now a familiar sight amongst the other girlfriends, wives, family, and friends. No longer a girlfriend, the players’ wives accepted me the way they only accepted other wives. And as much as I hated to admit it, being married changed things. I never planned on treating any of the players’ girlfriends the way I was treated, but I acknowledged the difference between being married and not. The social hierarchy existed for a reason, and after seeing the number of girls that came and went with some of these guys, I understood now in a way that had only offended me before.
When I glanced down at the field, the sight of Jack warming up forced my heart to squeeze with pride. His gray sliding pants hugged against the muscles as he lifted his leg into the air before each pitch. The black shirt-style jersey waved in the breeze he created as his arm flew down to release the ball.
I watched as Jack grabbed his hat and tipped it twice, and I couldn’t hide my smile. That was his sign to me. He had started doing it when I couldn’t travel with him on his road trips, which had become more and more frequent with my work. Whenever he pitched, he’d tip his hat twice and his face would light up with a soft smile. He never knew if the cameras were on him or not, but he tipped his hat regardless.
Eventually it became a habit, because he started doing it at the home games as well. Sometimes his eyes would flash to the stands and meet mine. When they did, I swear my heart would stop beating, causing my breath to catch. Every. Single. Time. If anyone noticed, I would have been embarrassed, but no one ever seemed to.
I more than loved this man. My husband. My ball player.
My Jack Fucking Carter.
Even his name still gets me all hot and bothered.
Jack bent over deeply, looking at the catcher through the glove covering half his face. With a shake of his head, he indicated no to whatever pitch the catcher wanted him to throw. Another shake and the catcher called time out, than ran over to Jack, who stood waiting on the mound, kicking the dirt.
After a short conversation, the catcher gave Jack a pat on the ass before jogging to his position behind home plate. The umpire pointed at Jack and Jack’s feet touched the rubber mound. With one fluid motion, the ball left his hand and the batter swung and missed. The ball crashed against the catcher’s glove, the sound of it echoing throughout the stadium as the crowd erupted into cheers and I smiled. I loved watching him play. It seemed silly to call Jack beautiful, but when he played baseball … he was.
Someone yelled from the dugout area, but Jack waved them off with his glove hand. I scooted to the edge of my seat and automatically held my breath, anticipating the pitch. Jack leaned down, eyeing the catcher before nodding his head in agreement with the called pitch. He lowered his glove to his waist before bringing it back up in time with the rising of his knee. His entire body lurched forward with the release of the pitch and the crack of the bat meeting the ball distracted everyone else’s eyes but mine. My eyes stayed loyally focused on the guy I loved.
Because my eyes never left Jack, I witnessed the entire incident. The ball screamed back at him and he reacted as best he could; his body twisted to get out of the way as his pitching hand instinctively reached out to stop the flying ball. I watched as the ball crashed against Jack’s exposed hand before dropping to the ground near his feet.
He scrambled to make the play, but a pained scream tore from his lips as he tried to close his hand around the ball. Face contorted with pain, Jack took a knee and pressed his chin tightly against his chest.
Someone yelled for time out and Jack’s manager bolted onto the field. He helped Jack to his feet and walked him out of view.
“Shit,” I muttered to myself.
“Go, Cassie,” Tara demanded. “Get down to the locker room. That’s where they’re taking him.”
Without a word I nodded, grabbed my things, and hurried toward the staircase that would take me underground. I flew down the last set of stairs to where anyone in the public could go before heading through a private door. Once inside, the air of the cold brick tunnels hit me. The tunnels ran the length of the stadium and unless you’d been under here before, you wouldn’t know they existed. I rounded the corner and jogged up toward the burly security guard.
“Hey, Jimmy, is he here? Did you see them bring Jack off the field?” I asked, my voice distraught.
His forehead creased as he answered, “Jack? No. What happened?”
I released a shaky breath. “He hurt his hand.”
“Really? Damn. I hope he’s okay.” He stepped aside, revealing a small clearing between the guardrails, and I rushed through, walking as fast as my nervous legs would allow.
I followed along with the bricks as they curved gently, noticing the Mets sign attached to the wall up ahead. My pace quickened as I ached to reach the double mahogany doors that read NEW YORK METS CLUBHOUSE.
Another security guard sat in a folding chair next to the entrance, his face pinched with concern. He stood upon my approach. “Cassie. He’s in there with the doc.” The sympathy in his sad eyes rattled me even further, and my mouth went completely dry.
“How did he look, Joe?”
“He was in a lot of pain,” he admitted grimly.
My throat constricted, making it hard to swallow. I realized in that moment that I’d never once considered the possibility of Jack getting hurt. He seemed invincible in a way … like his body was born to play this sport and it would never allow him to be hurt by it. It would never betray him like that.
But it did.
And I found myself scared to death about what this meant for him. Jack without baseball … well, that wasn’t Jack at all. I wouldn’t even know who that person was; I’d never known Jack when baseball wasn’t a huge part of his life. Worry shot through me and I couldn’t stop a nervous shiver.
“Cassie?” Joe’s voice echoed in the tunnel, followed by the sound of him hanging up the rotary phone. Unable to speak, I looked up at him helplessly. “No one else is in there,” he said gently. “You can go in.”
He opened one of the large doors for me and I walked through into the one place at the stadium I’d never been before. I eyed the oversized couch and the carpet patterned with the team’s logo, before my gaze fell on the lockers bearing each player’s name and jersey number, a soft spotlight highlighting each one as if they were museum exhibits. I laughed to myself that the guys called them “lockers” when they looked more like the thin oak closets you would find in hotel rooms.
I found myself longing to photograph the room as each individual detail called to me in ways that only new places can. Occupational habit, I supposed. Or denial, maybe.
“Kitten?” Jack’s voice rang out through the large space, an undertone of pain causing it to sound different somehow.
Snapped back to the present, I called out, “Jack? Where are you?”
“Walk to the back of the room and make a right.”
As I hurried past the row of lockers, number 23 grabbed my attention and I couldn’t resist the impulse to pause for just a second at Jack’s locker since I’d never seen it, and might never have the chance again. His travel bag and street clothes hung inside, waiting for him, and I ran my fingers down the fabric, moving them slightly. Taped against the back wall was a picture of the two of us on our wedding day, flanked by other candid shots of us. I loved how much this man displayed his love for me.
With a slight smile, I headed toward the back of the room and rounded the corner just as the team doctor injected a shot into Jack’s arm to help ease his pain. I noticed that he didn’t even wince.
“I think it’s shattered,” Jack admitted as soon as his dark brown eyes met mine.
SHATTERED.
And in that moment, that’s exactly how my heart felt. I rushed to his side, needing to be as physically close to him in that moment as I could.
“We don’t know that yet,” the doctor interjected. “I’m Dr. Evans.”
I extended my hand to his. “I’m Cassie.”
One look at Jack’s face and my chest ached with the need to protect and comfort him. I stroked his shoulder as I asked, my tone all business, “What do we know?”
“It’s definitely broken, but to what extent I’m not sure yet.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “But it will heal just fine, right? People break their hands all the time.”
Dr. Evans nodded. “True. But we need to make sure it won’t require surgery, or pins or metal plates.”
Pins or metal plates? Oh my God.
Jack swallowed audibly and I continued to prod the doctor, my growing concern overruling all levelheadedness. “And if it does, then what? People have surgery on their hands all the time too. They get better.”
“Yes, Mrs. Carter, they do,” he said with a frown. “But most of those people aren’t major league pitchers.”
My heart sank. “So, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I need to x-ray his hand first and then I’ll have more answers for you.”
Jack’s chin dropped to his chest and I watched his eyes close.
“Do I need to take him to a hospital?” I started to reach for my cell phone to call Matteo.