Ellen Hartman - Out of Bounds

He couldn’t see the dog anymore, but a truck loaded with full barrels suddenly accelerated into a gap in the traffic.

The truck’s bumper caught him on the hip, his head snapped back into the grille, and then he went flying backward into the outdoor seating at the Savion café. A crack as he landed on one of the café’s stone planters told him his barely healed shoulder was done for good.

Hallelujah, he thought right before he passed out from pain.

* * *

H E WOKE UP, momentarily disoriented in the dark, but quickly realized he was in a hospital bed. Weak light streaming in from the hall reflected off the machines surrounding him, as an electric hum droned too low to disturb the person slumped in a chair next to his bed. He rubbed his face, surprised to find thick stubble, and wondered how long he’d been out. His throat was dry and he coughed.

The figure in the chair started, sitting up straight and staring at him. Deacon. Of course he was here.

“Wes? You’re awake?” His brother stood and bent over the bed. He touched Wes’s hair and then dropped his hand to rest on his arm. “God, it’s good to see you, man.”

“What happened to the dog?” Wes asked.

“Dog?”

“Little white one.” The details were fuzzy, but he remembered the dog. “It was in the street.”

“I don’t know anything about a dog.” Deacon squinted at him. “You were chasing a dog?”

“It didn’t listen. Didn’t speak English,” Wes clarified. “Was going to get hit by a car.”

A deep ache down the left side of his body reminded him that he’d been the one who got hit. There’d been an impact and then that awful crack when he landed. The memory of the cracking sound almost made him pass out again. He moved his arm and felt a throbbing pain under his right shoulder blade. He winced and his older brother’s hand tightened on his arm. Deacon’s dirty-blond hair was limp and his eyes were shot with red behind his glasses.

“You need a shower,” Wes muttered.

Deacon rolled his eyes. “Sorry. I’ve been distracted. My brother got hit by a beer truck.”

Wes shifted again and the pain deepened.

“No more jokes. Laughing hurts.” He closed his eyes for a second. “Everything hurts.”

“This dog...”

Wes made an effort and opened his eyes.

“You were trying to save it?” Deacon hooked the chair behind him with his foot and pulled it closer so he could sit down, all without moving his hand from Wes’s arm. Which was strange. Deacon wasn’t the most demonstrative guy and, while he’d been the only real parent Wes ever had, he’d never been the motherly, hovering type. Growing up, Wes had been clipped on the back of the head way more often than he’d had his hand held.

“I didn’t want it to get hit.”

Deacon pushed his glasses up on his forehead and rubbed his eyes. He readjusted his glasses. “Oh. That’s good then.” He patted Wes’s arm. “A dog ran into the road. That’s good.”

Why the hell was Deacon patting him?

“No, it’s not—” His mind finally cleared enough for him to realize what was wrong with his brother. “Why are you here, D.?”

“You got hit by a truck.”

“You think I walked in front of it on purpose.”

Deacon’s denial came a second too late. “No. But Victor did say you were upset....”

Wes groaned and not from pain this time. If he could have moved his right arm without passing out, he’d have punched his brother.

“Upset, yes. They’re trading me to Serbia. Fabi is furious. I don’t want to move again.” Deacon was watching him closely. “I wouldn’t kill myself over basketball. Come on.”

At that moment Wes realized his brother had been worried precisely because Deacon could imagine killing himself over basketball. It was a fundamental difference between them.

Deacon had put every single one of his dreams into his basketball career and when it was cut short by an injury, he’d been lost.

That was when he turned his attention to nurturing Wes’s talent for the game. With his brother’s support, Wes got to a great college, played on a powerhouse team and, when the NBA passed him over, found this spot on the Madrid team. He’d expected to keep playing ball for at least a few more years, but... The memory of the accident washed back over him and he felt sick to his stomach. The truck hadn’t caught him head-on, thank God, but that sound when he hit the ground... He suspected he’d be hearing it in nightmares for the rest of his life.

“How long have I been out?”

“Three days,” Deacon said.

“You talked to the doctors?”

Wes gave his brother credit for holding eye contact when he nodded.

He’d never had the passion for the game that Deacon did, but he’d loved playing. Loved being a player, out on the court with the crowd around him. He felt alive when he was the focus of that attention in a way he’d rarely been able to duplicate off the court.

He hadn’t wanted to move to Serbia and certainly hadn’t thrown himself in front of a truck in despair, but that didn’t mean he was ready for the news he was sure was coming next.

Deacon took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes again. “Your shoulder’s done. It was touch-and-go the first time. That doctor from the team, Peter? He said you pulled off a miracle after the surgery, working it back into shape. You’ll be able to use it. But you’re not going to get back to the team.”

Wes let his eyes shut again. You’re not going to get back to the team.

So that was it.

Not going to get back...

He should be wrecked. Run down by a beer truck trying to save a dog, and now unemployed. From living the dream—playing professional basketball, traveling with the team all over Europe, dating gorgeous women—to the end of his career at the age of twenty-eight. For the past twenty years, either he or Deacon had been playing at the top levels of the game. End of an era. The Fallon era.

“You okay?” Wes asked his brother.

“Shouldn’t that be my line?”

“Seriously, Deacon.”

“Seriously, Wes. You’re lying in a hospital bed, your career is over and, judging by the fact that this—”

Deacon pointed out an enormous bunch of pink tulips “—is from the truck driver who hit you, while this—” he pointed to a tiny cactus in a black, plastic pot “—is from Fabi, I’m going out on a limb to guess you no longer have a girlfriend.” Deacon held up his hand. “Not that I’m bummed about that because Fabi is a...well, you know.”

Wes did know. Fabi was living proof you can’t judge a book by its cover. She was gorgeous. Long legs, toned muscles, perfect skin, fantastic smile. Underneath the surface was a sketchy moral code and an endless appetite for Wes’s money.

He’d loved her brains, though, and her wicked sense of humor. But he hadn’t been surprised or heartbroken when she threatened to dump him if he got traded. He’d been more bothered when he realized he wasn’t going to fight for the relationship. What had he been doing with her if he wasn’t willing to fight for her? The not-so-subtle subtext of the cactus seemed to indicate that being hit by a truck was right up there with being traded to Serbia as a deal breaker.

This breakup fell squarely in the category of not missing things you never really had in the first place.

He wasn’t worried about losing Fabi, but Deacon was another question. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t trying to get Deacon’s attention or make him happy. Their mom died when Wes was two. He and Deacon had been split up in foster care until he turned eight and Deacon, a full ten years older, got drafted into the NBA and immediately applied for custody of him. After the guardianship ended when he turned eighteen, Deacon had stayed fully involved in his life.