Cathryn Parry - Out of His League

Here he was. Scheduled to get the tumor immediately removed and tested.

A chill socked him in the gut. This could not be cancer. Could not.

What would Bobby and Francis do if it was?

His smile stiffening, he turned to the nurse. “What’s your son’s name?”

“Kyle.” She pulled out his baseball card from her bag and handed it to him. “He’s a Little League pitcher, but he missed his spring season because he broke his arm.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jon signed his name on the card. “Do you have a piece of paper? I’ll write him a personal note.”

The nurse produced a memo pad, and on it he scribbled, “To a fellow pitcher. Hope you stay healed and well for next season.”

He handed the card and the note back to the nurse. She was looking at him thoughtfully. “You’re very good at being a public person. You have a way with people.”

Jon shrugged. “I’m the oldest in my family. Two younger brothers.” Bobby and Francis. And if it weren’t for this issue, he would’ve told them he was going to be here today, and Francis probably would’ve come, Bobby, too, seeing as he was a college student in Boston, just back from Italy on a junior semester abroad. “So I know what kids are like.”

The nurse put a blood pressure cuff on him. “We get celebrities and famous people in from time to time. But usually, they have entourages who instruct us not to interact with them.”

Because it sucks thinking you might have cancer. Jon smiled at the nurse as he watched the needle move on the gauge. “No worries.”

But there were worries. Tons of worries. Maybe after today, he’d be unemployed. Or worse, handed a death sentence. Then what would his family do? His father...cripes, he hated to think what Dad would do. He’d barely survived what had happened to their mom. Jon had held them all together emotionally, for years. It gave him a purpose, and with the money from his contract, he was taking care of them still.

The nurse handed him a paper cap for the operating room. “They might ask you to tie back your hair,” she said, winking at him. “I know how the girls love it. Getting long, isn’t it?”

Yeah, it was his thing—his trademark. Shoulder length now, he had promised not to cut it until the Captains made the playoffs, and then he’d lined up somebody to shave it off for charity. The team had been planning to make a big deal of it for their cancer charity.

That word again. Not that he’d ever told anybody on the team about his mom.

He forced himself to smile. “It’s fine.”

He was a good liar, when he needed to take care of others.

Finally, the nurse left him. He was used to people lingering over him, and that was okay. Being famous served a purpose. It was the thought of not having a purpose that threw him into a tailspin. Just get through today.

He changed out of his jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt into the hospital gown.

A male aide entered his room. “Hey, man! I love you guys!” he said. “You were the best pitcher on the team this September—they should put you at the top of the order!” Then the man wheeled Jon into what looked like a holding room for the O.R. His gut twisted into a million knots.

Do or die. Cut the friggin’ thing out and test it. Am I done, or do I get to come back for another season?

But as someone pricked his arm—shit, his pitching arm—with a needle for an IV, he looked away, knowing that it wasn’t the season that counted.

It was his family. And for them, he was flooded with the worst fear he had ever felt in his entire life. And that was saying something.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He felt more helpless and alone than he wanted to admit to himself.

More preoperative patients were wheeled into bays; the room became busy. As doctors, nurses and orderlies came inside, they all looked his way, to the farthest corner.

Word was out that he was here. Publicity-wise, Jon had it covered. A tweet was prepared to go out this evening, if necessary—Routine elective surgery on a stiff finger, non-pitching hand. Looks good. Thanks to Wellness Hospital. For now, though, he just needed to calm down, get the knots out of his stomach. He closed his eyes again.

“I’m Dr. Elizabeth LaValley. I’m your anesthesiologist this morning.”

He opened his eyes a slit. Saw a pretty doctor with chin-length, glossy hair. A cute pug nose. Slight but sure hands that gripped an iPad to her chest.

He opened his eyes all the way, because he needed to pay attention. It was his body that they’d be cutting into. But when he looked up at the doctor, it was what he saw in her eyes that made him sit up.

From the dampness in her lashes, and her puffy face, he could tell she’d been crying. And whatever the reason, she was trying to hide it. She kept her gaze drilled on her tablet computer instead of looking at him.

“And you are...” Blinking fast, she touched the screen. “Jon Farell.”

She pronounced it wrong, like “barrel,” which was his first clue.

“It’s Fair-ell,” he said.

Her brow knit. He waited for her to recognize his name.

Nope, nothing.

“You’re here for surgery on your finger...” She swiped another page. Tears were welling in her eyes, and she blinked fast.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Of course.” She seemed to shake herself. Tapped at the screen. “Do you have any concerns I should know about?” she said to the tablet’s screen.

Other than the fact that he might have cancer? And that his pretty anesthesiologist had just been crying?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he repeated.

“Yes.” She took a breath. “I need to double-check some questions. Are you...” She squinted at whatever his computer files were telling her. “Right-handed?”

A very good question. “I’m left-handed,” he said. “I pitch left-handed. This is my catching hand.” He held it up to her, as if that made a difference.

“I see.” She glanced at the chart. He noted that she wore no rings on her left hand. “And you...play sports?”

The one woman in Boston who appeared not to know who he was. He would have laughed if what he was facing wasn’t so important.

“At a very high level,” he said. “They pay me lots of money to do so.” At least, he hoped they still did after today.

She nodded, still staring at the tablet. “You are worried that the surgeons might cut into your left hand by mistake. Duly noted.”

“You’ve never heard of the New England Captains?” he asked her.

“I...don’t follow sports.”

Even more fascinating. “Do you know anything about baseball?”

“I... No.” She blinked. Again, those eyes were filling up. Eyes that were warm and brown. Like the root beer he’d liked as a kid.

“My nephew likes sports,” she whispered.

His antennae went up. He was absolutely certain she hadn’t meant to divulge this fact, that she was nothing at all like the others—people who knew he was coming into surgery, knew he was good-natured by reputation, and had therefore used the opportunity to provide a gift or a story for their own children.

Not that he blamed them. It was just...refreshing...to meet somebody—especially a single woman his age with a solid career and goals in her own right—who didn’t look at him as public property.

“Please sit down,” he said to her. “I’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s all right.” There was a chair next to his gurney.

She continued to stand. “Certainly. In five minutes, your surgeon will be stopping by, and after that I’ll put a relaxant in your IV drip. Do you have any allergies?”

He’d been through all of this at his last appointment, but he just smiled at her. “No allergies. Tell me what’s upsetting you?”