“Look, I don’t need—”
“I insist.” His fingers tighten around my bones to a point just short of pain.
“Let me go.” I snap a look from my elbow to his implacable expression. “Or I’ll scream for the cops.”
His fingers drop immediately, but his bulk still crowds me, and I clutch Sarai closer. What was supposed to be protection now feels like capture. He points toward the exit, to the private garage where my car is parked.
Without him asking, I let him take the wheel of the G-Class Mercedes SUV Caleb gave me, and I climb in the back, buckling Sarai into her car seat. I don’t say a word to Ramone, and he doesn’t say a word to me, but something has shifted, not just between Ramone and me, but between Caleb and me. That dirty play was an act of war, a shot he fired at August, but it struck me, too. It passed right through my heart, and I’m aching for all that August may have lost tonight.
I pull out my phone and Google him to check for an update on his injury. Nothing much more than I already know, except that they’ve taken him to the hospital for tests. There are only a few games left in his rookie season, and this has happened.
Because of me?
I choke on guilt, and the bright lights of the skyline blur through my tears while we travel the city’s streets. As soon as we pull into the garage, I unsnap Sarai and scoot to the door. Ramone is already there, holding it open for me. I don’t even look at him, but rush inside and up to the nursery, laying her down in her crib and making sure her monitor is on.
I turn on the huge television in our bedroom built into the wall over the fireplace. Avery Hughes, one of SportsCo’s most popular anchors, shares a split screen with a reporter in the field.
“What can you tell us, John?” Avery asks. “Any news on August West?”
“He’s inside.” John points a thumb over his shoulder to the hospital behind him. “All we’ve heard is that they’re doing tests to gauge the extent of the injury. It looked pretty bad, but we won’t know until the results are in.”
A small commotion off-camera distracts John for a second, and then he jerks his attention back to Avery.
“We may have something.” He gestures for the cameraman to follow him. “It’s MacKenzie Decker, San Diego Waves president of basketball operations.”
The reporters gathered at the hospital entrance slow Decker’s progress, clustering around him with boom mics and recorders and curiosity.
“What can you tell us, Deck?” one reporter yells. “Is August out for the rest of the season?”
“How bad is the injury?” another asks before he has time to answer.
“Is the leg broken?” The question is hurled at Decker, prompting a quick frown on the handsome face.
“I played basketball, not baseball, guys,” Deck says, stopping to answer their questions, a strained smile canting one side of his mouth. “You keep zinging these fast balls at me. Gimme a chance to answer one.”
A few of the reporters chuckle, but no one moves, waiting for answers to their questions.
“It’s too early to say how serious the injury is,” Deck continues, his eyes graver than the smile firmly planted on his face. “As a precaution, it’s safe to say August probably won’t return for the last few games of the season, which is tough. Everyone knows he’s a once-in-a-lifetime player. I have no doubt he’ll be just fine.” He glances past them to the hospital entrance. “Now I better get in there and check on our boy.” He waves, ignoring the follow-up questions, and makes his way inside.
When the camera cuts back to Avery, it catches her in an unguarded moment, and genuine concern shadows her pretty face. It’s been rumored for months that she and MacKenzie Decker are dating. I wonder if she knows August personally. Her expression definitely goes beyond the bounds of professionalism.
She looks into the camera, composing herself and slipping her reporter’s mask back on. “Keep us posted, John. Now, I think we have a comment from the other side of the court. Speculation around the league about a dirty play by Caleb Bradley started almost before West hit the floor. I think we have some sound on that from the Stingers’ locker room.”
Caleb’s face comes onscreen, his expression concerned and contrite as he stands by his locker, grabbing his leather jacket. His hair is still damp from the shower.
“I can’t say how sorry I am this happened.” He gulps as if it’s hard to swallow, his eyes blue, free and clear of malice. “August and I have been playing together since we were kids, and of course there’s a friendly rivalry between us. We bring out the best in each other on court. I respect his game, and he’s a great guy. I unequivocally deny that it was a dirty play. I would never do something like this, and I think my reputation speaks for itself.” He looks down at the floor, shaking his head and running a hand over the fair hair curling at his collar.
“He’s in my prayers, and I hope he’s gonna be okay.” He slides his jacket onto his powerful shoulders and looks solemnly at the reporters circling him. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get home to my fiancée and baby girl.”
Fiancée?
We’re not engaged, and he’s never said that publicly.
Yeah, something has definitely shifted. I sit on the edge of our bed and wait for him to come home so I can find out what it all means.
17
August
“You stupid motherfucker.”
Decker’s anger hurts almost as much as my leg. They gave me painkillers before we even left the arena, so the blinding pain has dulled to a persistent throb. I struggle to focus on Decker’s words as the drugs sap my lucidity.
“I told you, West,” Decker says, drawing a deep breath through flaring nostrils. “I warned you about this shit with Bradley.”
I don’t speak. I fucked up, and I have to take this.
“And when we had the game won and I advised you to sit out the last minute, you what?” Decker demands rhetorically. “Needed to piss a circle around Caleb to prove you got the bigger dick?”
My mom clears her throat from the corner.
Decker grimaces. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“No problem,” Mom says. “But maybe you can save the recriminations for when my son is not in unbearable pain and waiting for the surgeon to arrive.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Decker dips his head in deference to her. “You’re right. I’m just a little frustrated.”
“I understand. We all are, but August getting better is the priority, and the only thing I care about,” my mother says quietly. “Now, I’ll leave you two alone. My husband is on his way. I’ll go meet him.”
The door closes behind her, and Decker looks back to me.
“She’s right, and I’m sorry.” Disappointment and fury wrestle in the look he lays on me. “I feel bad for you, but I’m also so damn angry with you.”
“Not as angry as I am with myself.” I bang the bed with my fist, shaking my head at my own recklessness.
The door opens, and the orthopedic surgeon walks in, Dr. Clive.
“How you feeling, August?” he asks, glancing at the folder in his hands.
“High as a kite. They gave me some painkillers.” I release a heavy sigh and wince at the needles of pain in my leg. “But it still kinda hurts like hell.”
“What are we looking at, Doc?” Decker leans against the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets.
Dr. Clive’s brows lift over the silver rims of his glasses. If the bone jutting from my leg didn’t tell me this can’t be good, the twist of his lips and the reluctance in his eyes do.
“You’ve got a compound fracture, August.” He steps over to the wall, places a film on the mounted X-ray monitor, and points to the image. “You see the break here and here in the tibia and fibula? Good news is that the break is clear. No damage to the nerves, tendons, or ligaments.”
“Why do I feel like there’s bad news, too?” I need to pay attention, but between the drugs and the pain that persists despite them, it’s hard to focus.
“We need to start prepping for surgery right away,” Dr. Clive says. “The bone broke through the skin and has been exposed to air. There’s risk of infection. We need to do immediate intramedullary rodding of the tibia. We’ll place a titanium rod down the center of the tibia and then further stabilize it with small screws in between the rod and the bone above and below the fracture site.”
“A rod?” I tip my head back into the pillow. “Will I have that forever?”
“Yeah, afraid so.” The grim line of Dr. Clive’s mouth eases the smallest bit. “Think of it as another bone, but one that’ll never break.”
“What’s the recovery like on this, Doc?” Decker asks. His frown has grown heavier with every word Dr. Clive speaks.
"Being optimistic, it could take anywhere from six to twelve months to return to fully competitive basketball after something like this.” He pulls the images down and shoves them back in the file. “You’ll be in an Aircast for about two months, August. And, of course, aggressive rehab from there. Most athletes can return to pre-injury levels. It just takes a lot of time and hard work.”
“I’ll be ready for rehab, no matter what it takes,” I assure the doctor, but mostly Decker. I know he’s concerned for me, but basketball is a business, and I’m a commodity—one in which the team has invested a lot of money.
“Let’s get the surgery behind us, and then we can talk about rehab,” Dr. Clive says, walking to the door. “I’m going to prep. We’ll be back for you in twenty minutes or so.”
The prognosis is better than I thought it would be, but I still feel like an idiot. If I could take that last minute back, if I could reconsider rubbing the win in Caleb’s face, I would.
“Look, Deck, I’m sorry.” I force down my shame and regret. “I know it was stupid. I just . . .”