Josh was sitting in the doctor’s office when someone knocked and a middle-aged man in a sweater vest peeked in.
“Mr. Malvern,” he said and offered his hand, which Josh shook.
“I’m Dr. Kilborne. I’ve had a look at the images from your file.”
Josh stiffened. He hadn’t wasted time, just launched into it. Most of the doctors on retention by the league were quite busy and to the point, so this wasn’t unusual. But Josh was on edge. The ultrasound technician had made some odd noises at his appointment and sent him for X-rays. The X-ray technician sent him for an MRI, and all of that had been sent to the organization doctor on retainer. Josh had been shuttled from one lab to another in quick succession.
“Okay, so what’s going on in there?” Josh asked.
The doctor sat and pursed his lips, crossing his legs. He looked Josh in the eye. That was never a good sign.
“You have degeneration in both shoulder joints, as well as what looks to be bursitis in the right one. Not severe, but it is stiffening your joint. Both shoulders have mild calcification, more so in the right.”
“I know they’ve been stiff, and there’s the usual soreness from working out, but I’m not in a lot of pain,” Josh countered, rolling his right shoulder. It was as stiff as it normally was, but maybe that was why they were locking. The bursitis would lead to swelling, which would lead to less range of motion. Which meant a shitty swing with a bat in his hand.
“Do you have a history of arthritis in your family?”
Josh shook his head. “Nope. But it explains why my swing has been weak as shit lately.”
The doctor chuckled, and then held out his hands, sobering.
“I’ll level with you. The degeneration is early signs of osteoarthritis.
I won’t lie and tell you we can fix it, because we can’t. The bursitis is inflammation that we can reduce with anti-inflammatories, but you can’t cheat time and it will come back if you stress the joint.
Thankfully, your rotator cuff is in pristine shape, which, if you keep to a good fitness routine, will help immensely from losing basic mobility. We can do cortisone shots, but those are just a Band-aid solution and not a road you want to go down if you can help it.”
“But will it improve performance?” Josh asked. Anything at this point was under consideration.
“Given your track record and fitness, yes. Six weeks to six months of relief per injection, but we don’t like injecting more often than three or four times a year.”
“So, I would be getting a few good games then—”
“A slow decline until your next injection,” the doctor finished for him. “Your bursitis would be helped by this, too, since 2you have a fairly normal impingement. But I would be cautious because any irritation can lead to further impingements down the road.”
“What are you saying?” Josh asked quietly, lacing his fingers together, leaning on his thighs. “Am I done?”
“No, not necessarily. But this will affect your performance more and more over time. You might want to think about negotiating less time in the lineup or your plans for retirement.”
Retirement. There it was. The R word. He looked down at his hands. He could keep going, take the pills and injections, push his body, but then where would he be? He didn’t want to be the guy who was forced to retire with the words Mendoza Line attached to his profile. He wanted to be remembered as a good all-round player. One who could do his job well.
“Okay. What’s the plan for right now?” he finally said. “I assume I am going to be IL-ed with this?”
“I will recommend that, yes. The bursitis will get progressively worse if you don’t treat it now. I’ll put in the rec for physio, and we’ll get you started on some NSAIDs. Think about the injections and discuss them with the coaching team. Have you taken any prescription anti-inflammatories before?”
“I’d rather take the time off and use ibuprofen. I’ve seen what that shit can do to a stomach,” Josh replied testily. He’d only been on the strong pills once, and it was awful.
“Fair enough,” the doctor said crisply. “I also have a note here to look at your knee if you wanted?”
“No need. Straight up twisted it in spring training, and it’s been a bit weak since,” Josh replied, wanting to be out of there, his stomach turning and his nerves jumping. “It’s well on its way to being mended. Physio helped.”
The doctor stood and offered his hand again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Malvern. I know this wasn’t the best news.”
Josh shook his hand quickly, and then let out a big breath, attempting to stay calm and friendly “No, but it’s better to know now, not when I’m forced out and looking like I crashed and burned, right?”
The doctor handed him the paper prescription, agreed good-naturedly, and opened the door for him. Josh stalked out, rode the elevator down from the offices, and stepped out into the Dallas afternoon sun, more at a loss than ever before.
His mind was whirling as he drove over to the ballpark. If he retired, what did that mean for him? The idea of not being beholden to baseball and the hustle to keep playing was a huge, scary black hole. It was all he’d done for the last ten years. Longer if you counted his play in college.
His thoughts wandered to what it would look like, not playing baseball. He could go live anywhere. Do anything. Have a house that was his, not just a rented condo. Coach’s spiel about seeing the sunrise while he could poked in too. Coach would need him in the future if he had to take time off. If he wasn’t playing, maybe he could take the Neons up on an offer to coach, if a position was open.
Retirement meant he could spend more time with Gretchen; potentially forever.
He parked and sat, hands on the wheel, his stomach tight as a clammy sweat stole over him. He knew what he had to do; what he wanted to do. Could he do it? Could he really retire from being a baseball player?
Josh needed some advice, and the first person he knew he should call was Harv. He pulled out his phone.
“Josh. Been trying to get a hold of you,” Harv answered gruffly.
“What did the doctor say?”
Josh looked down at the prescription on the passenger seat, and on cue, his shoulder twitched in pain. He hissed, rolling it forward. “I have early-onset bursitis in both shoulders. Throwing arm is worse. Permanent damage.”
Harv swore, knowing exactly what that meant. “You going to take some injections?”
“I don’t think so. I need to talk with you about plans for the future,” Josh said and held his breath. This wasn’t going to be easy with Harv. What Coach had said still stung, and the voice messages he’d left hadn’t indicated he would be happy about what Josh was about to say.
“Is there another treatment plan then? Are you on the list until you get this shit sorted out?” Harv asked.
“Yes, on the IL.” Josh hesitated, unsure of how to broach the subject. “Harv, listen, I think it’s time.”
Harv grunted. “Time for what, son? A second opinion?”
“Retirement.”
“Are you out of your mind? Take a few days and think about this. That is not a hasty decision to make,” Harv snapped. “I didn’t teach you to lie down after the first punch, boy. You get back up and keep fighting.”
“I’ve thought about it. I’m ready. I want to go while I’m still in the game, not struggling to keep my ass above the cut. You have to understand that,” Josh replied, hoping he could make him understand. This was his decision, not Harv’s. He needed his support to make this decision, not try and talk him out of it.
“What I understand is that you are giving up. You’ve got a chance at another year as a free agent, sign somewhere lucrative. I 2was working on a deal with you to end up in New York, for God’s sake. You want to throw away a multimillion-dollar contract?”
Josh’s anger bubbled at that statement. He let out a breath to temper his response. “It isn’t about the money. I’ve made enough.
It is about my life, my body. I want to still be able to throw a baseball when I’m in my forties, Harv. Be a coach at little league for my kids.”
“This is about Gretchen. I knew it,” Harv said, the anger in his voice crackling out over the phone. Shit. He was still mad about that damned picture and the article.
“It has nothing to do with her.”
“Bullshit. It has everything to do with her. Since you met her, your head’s been up your ass, son. A woman isn’t worth your career,” Harv said.
“She’s worth every damned bit as much as my career, Harv.
But she isn’t why. Why are you against this? It isn’t like I’m twenty and need you to steer me around all the bullshit,” Josh snapped back.
“She is a phase. She got her hooks into you in Vegas and now—”
“I’m in love with her, and that is not changing. She is in my life, likely for good. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult my girlfriend, Harv,” he interrupted.
“She’s not your girlfriend, She’s a passing fancy.”
Wow. Josh pinched the bridge of his nose. Was that what Harv really thought of him? After all this time, he didn’t trust him to know himself? He was arguing not only about his career, but his personal life too. Had he let Harv run his life, with an influence beyond what he should have? His parents had never been there for him to advise on what he should do, and Harv had picked up 2that slack when he was fresh into the farm system and needed that guiding hand.
He looked up at the stadium at the other end of the parking lot, looming large and steady, and his determination solidified.
He was his own man now. This was his call, and he was going to make it.
“Enough. I need your support to do this, Harv,” he said in a clipped tone. “You’ve never steered me wrong, but this time, I am making the decision.”
Harv grunted again. “I’m in Philly right now. I can’t get to Dallas until tomorrow. Hold off until then, at least? Let’s talk before you make a huge mistake.”
Mistake. It would be a mistake right now to waffle on this, and the timing was good. They could set out the notice of his IL, and then he could gracefully exit with a retirement notice postseason, still on a major-league roster, not filtering out to the farm system and fading into obscurity. If he waited, he risked changing his mind. If he changed his mind, he was in for the remainder of a career that was slowly tanking.
As he absorbed Harv’s words, Josh realized it wasn’t just because of his shoulders. He was tired of the hustle. He wanted to settle down. Try something new.
“I’m at the stadium to meet with the management team.
They’ll have the doctor’s report already. I’ll conference you in.”
Harv sighed loudly into the phone. “You sure, son?”
“Yes,” Josh stated.
“Fine. Call me when you are in with the team,” Harv said, then hung up.
Josh stared at the phone a moment, understanding that the conversation he’d just had with Harv had severed their 2friendship. Maybe not permanently, but it still felt as if everything had changed. Maybe he had? Had the past few months given him that push to truly look beyond the focus of the day-to-day of his job?
He looked at his watch. He didn’t have time to call Gretchen; they needed him in there as soon as he arrived, and he’d delayed it by talking to Harv.
He pulled the key out of the ignition and made his way in to talk to his team.
. . .
Gretchen heard the news alert beep on her phone and stopped what she was doing. Her heart leaped into her mouth as she read the tag from the app notification and tapped the #Malvern tag.
Josh was officially on the injured list. They were citing an upper-body persistent injury that would keep him out for at least the rest of the regular season. It had just been released, and she let out a bleat of surprise.
“Oh no,” she said and bolted to her feet in surprise. She dialed his number, but it went straight to voice mail.
“Josh. I just saw the news. Call me when you can. I’m sorry. I love you.”
She paced around the condo, picking things up and putting them back down, rearranging the throw pillows and lap blanket.
She wandered into her kitchen, forgetting why she went in, and then walked out.
Eventually she settled back to work, and when evening fell, she looked at her phone. No texts, nothing.
“He must be tied up with things,” she muttered to herself, restlessness nudging at her to pace around her condo. Her stomach 2grumbled in response to walking from her office into the kitchen.
She opened the fridge in the darkened room, noticing that once again, she had neglected to get groceries, catching up on her work.
“Frig,” she muttered.
Her phone buzzed as she was sifting through the takeout menus magnetized to the side of the fridge. She leaped and answered it without looking, hoping it was Josh.
“Hello?”
“Hey, girlie! How’s it going?”
Sharla’s voice was not the one Gretchen had wanted to hear, but she’d take it. It would be good to talk to someone.
“Hi!” she replied, trying to sound cheerful and carefree. “It’s late where you are. What’s up?”
“What’s up is that I saw the news on Josh. He okay?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him yet. I left him a message but—” she let out a sigh. “I’m pretty sure he’s dealing with a lot.”
Sharla made a noise on the other end of the phone that sounded like irritation.
“I know, I know. I’m sure he’ll call,” Gretchen added lamely.
“Oh honey, it isn’t that. I just realized I forgot to invoice someone. Look. I’m in England right now, at headquarters. Kevin forwarded the news on Josh, and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
Gretchen pictured her friend sifting through paperwork, in some wood-paneled office at Kevin’s estate, likely in her flannel Looney Tunes pajamas, completely out-of-place in a stately home, air-quoting headquarters with an annoyed look on her face.
“Seriously, it’s like, middle of the night there. What are you doing up still?”
“Can’t sleep,” Sharla replied wearily. “Jet lag.”
“Sweetie, you need sleep.”
Sharla snorted a laugh. “I need a lot of things, Gretch.”
“What’s up, Sharla? Something’s not right,” Gretchen countered. Maybe if Sharla wasn’t face to face with her, it would help her unload what was bugging her, which she had an inkling was about Kevin.
Sharla sniffled and let out a sigh.
“I don’t know.” Sharla let out another sniffle, obviously holding in tears. “I mean—”
“You love him, but you’re afraid of what that might mean?”
Gretchen guessed, getting right to the point.
“Something like that.”
“Tell me, then,” Gretchen said.
“It’s not like we’d work long term, and I love what we’ve built here, you know? I’d have to leave if we—oh hell, Gretch. It’s not like I’m more than a passing fancy for him, I’m not what he needs.”
“I doubt that. Why wouldn’t it work, honey?” Gretchen prodded quietly. “Why don’t you let yourself have this? He’s pretty friggin’ awesome, and he obviously cares. I’ve seen it.”
“He’s an earl, Gretchen. I’m a nobody from Hicksville, Ontario.
His mother hates me, and—”
“And what?”
“If we were together, I’d have to be this polite and perfect society wife who goes to balls and functions and royal things. I’m not cut out for that. I might even have to meet the Queen, and could you just picture that disaster?”
Gretchen wanted to reach through her phone and hug her friend, who clearly didn’t think she was worthy of the guy she loved. Which was, of course, completely wrong. If anything, Kevin 2saw Sharla’s worth and how amazing she was. Intelligent, beautiful, and even though she wasn’t a typical classy society snob, she could hold her own when she put the effort in and the chips were down. She would be a force to reckon with, and Gretchen had a mental image of her friend ringside at a polo match, downing mint juleps and heckling the riders out on the field with her big, brassy voice, like the scene from Pretty Woman. Gretchen held in a laugh.
“Oh sweetie,” she said instead. “I could tell you to just do it, and it’s what I’m supposed to say. But I understand.”
More sniffles. “I don’t know how to get from where we are to what he wants. I just don’t.”
“Do you need me to come over there?” Gretchen asked.
“No, no. I’ll be fine. I need to fucking sleep, is what I need.
Sleep and figure my own shit out, right? Be the big, tough, redheaded girl everyone thinks I am.”
“I don’t have any advice for you, Shar. I wish I did, but I’m not exactly the poster girl for relationships,” Gretchen replied, getting up and pacing to the window.
Sharla yawned. “Maybe talking to you about it has helped. I’m fucking drained now.”
They said good night and Gretchen ended the call, holding her phone to her chest, thinking about Sharla and her predicament.
A pang of loneliness hit her. All of the people she loved were far away from her and hurting. One was facing a big career-ending decision and the other was in love with her boss and couldn’t reconcile it.
Her stomach growled again, reminding her she had yet to eat. She stuffed her feet into shoes, grabbed her purse, and left.
Some fresh air and a walk to the local bagel place might help. A 2late-night lox and cream cheese would be the perfect antidote to the frustrating feeling bubbling up inside her.
She checked her phone as she rode down the elevator.
Still no news. She didn’t want to be that girl and message her man incessantly until he answered, but she was worried about him all the same. She toyed with sending him another text, but then let it go. They had to come from a place of trust if it was going to work. It had been tested already, and she did not want to go there again.
She pushed through the revolving door, the cool night air refreshing. She took a big lungful, grateful to be out of her condo, cooped up all day catching up on work. Tomorrow she was running everywhere, which would be a nice change of pace. She emptied her negative thoughts as she walked, trying her best to think of positive things. She had a France wardrobe to buy before November for her trip, she had clients to secure before she did that, and she had to think about flying to Dallas soon, especially if Josh was not playing.
Before she knew it, she was at the bagel shop. The lights were blazing inside, the late-dinner crowd gathering, the talk and laughter surrounding her as she entered the shop a happy sound. The owner waved at her, and she happily waved back.
She sometimes advised him on wines, and he loved debating with her over how Italian wines were better than anything Canada could produce. It was so much fun to listen to him talk about the beautiful wines he would drink as a young man in Italy. His wife would roll her eyes and add an extra bagel into Gretchen’s bag, winking. She had promised Josh to bring him here next time he was in Toronto, as he’d never been in the years he played with the Sixers.
Gretchen wished he were with her now as she perused the flavors of cream cheese, wondering which one he would like. Did he even like cream cheese? They still needed to get to know each other, learn all their little oddities and quirks. As she thought about trying new things, she passed over the plain cream cheese in favor of herb and garlic and grabbed some packaged lox beside it. Rounding the corner to the counter to order her usual dozen sesame-seed bagels, she looked up at the line in front of her, and her heart stopped.
Josh.
He was reaching to grab a paper bag of bagels from the clerk, his overnight duffel on his shoulder, his beat-up carry-on under that.
She rubbed her eyes, not believing them. She knew that back anywhere, even with the hoodie he was wearing. It was further cemented by his favorite Sixers cap, on backward, the corner of the brim rough from where he would adjust it on the field. It was unmistakably his. His jeans were well-worn, the outline of his wallet on the right pocket.
He turned, saw her, did a double-take, and when he smiled widely, it shocked her back to life. He was here. She looked around, and then back at him, wondering if she was hallucinating.
“What—” she spluttered, the crowd in the store turning at the sound of the laugh he let out. People were looking, a couple of them figuring out who he was, and she caught the flash of phones come out as he reached her.
“For breakfast tomorrow,” he said and put his arm around her.
“Surprised?”
She just laughed and let him kiss her, his arms full of bags and bagels.
“Definitely,” she replied.