Friends with Benefits - Nicole Blanchard Page 0,43

needed two more outs. I could get through them, no problem.

It was when the final player came up to bat that I realized the pain in my shoulder wasn’t merely soreness from routine throwing. It had increased from a normal ache to a persistent burn. I was going to have to ice down for hours once the game was over.

The first fastball tore through my arm like a hot knife stabbing into my shoulder and ripping through my bicep and down to my wrist. I stumbled a little off the mound and had to breathe heavily in my mouth and through my nose to deal with the searing pain.

It wasn’t the first time I had had shoulder pain—it was common among most pitchers. The repetitive strain of throwing over and over again caused wear and tear in the muscles that attached the arm to the socket. I’d had my fair deal of sore muscles, but I’d never felt anything like this.

I gave a passing thought to signal Coach, but then I remembered my family in the stands, and the potential employers watching. Giving up now would mean losing so much. I could make it through the rest of the game and get it looked at after.

Alex signaled for another fastball, but I shook him off. I’d have to play it safe, but smart, for the rest of the game. The change-up that got the last player on base gave me a twinge that I ignored. Since I hadn’t struck him out, it brought another player to bat with one on first.

I threw a curveball, and the moment my arm reached the follow-through and released the ball, I knew I’d fucked up. White pain tore through me with violent intensity. I let out a hoarse cry, and then the pain reached a peak so intense that my arm went numb. Black flashed in front of my eyes, and white noise blotted out the screams and cheers from the crowd.

Once I could hear again, I heard Coach calling for a time out. I didn’t know who was on base or what happened to the ball after the batter had made connection. Sweat poured down my face, and my cheeks were twitching from the intensity of my grimace.

“Get Collins,” Coach shouted when he reached my side. I barely paid any attention as the backup pitcher took my place and Coach herded me back to the dugout. “Take him to the team doc and get him checked out.”

Someone guided me to the locker rooms where our field medic was waiting. “Can you lift your arm for me?” he asked. I couldn’t remember the dude’s name.

I did as he asked but could barely lift it over shoulder-height. He repeated the directions, asking me to turn my arm wrist-up and move my arm back and forth, but I couldn’t fully do as he asked. He palpated the shoulder, and I nearly punched him in his face.

Sometime later, one of the assistant coaches loaded me up in their sedan and took me to the hospital. I could barely pay any attention. It wasn’t so much the pain as the growing realization of what that one mistake could mean for my future.

I was numb through the initial assessment. They did an ultrasound and had me move my arm again as they looked at different ligaments and tendons. I knew it was for-real serious when they recommended me for an MRI. It couldn’t merely be a pulled muscle. My spirits sank. The expression on the assistant coach’s face—or rather the lack of one—told me all I needed to know.

A pounding came at the door.

“Open the door, Tripp. I know you’re in there.”

I glanced up from the movie playing on the TV and considered getting up to open the door. In the past week, I hadn’t moved from the couch other than to get more food from the kitchen or use the bathroom. There wasn’t much need to. I was on leave from school until after my surgery, and I didn’t have practice to go to anymore, so what was the point?

“You have three seconds!” came Ember’s voice through the door.

Frankly, I was surprised she hadn’t shown up sooner. She’d texted to check on me at least once a day, but I hadn’t known what to say to her, so I hadn’t answered.

The ice pack on my shoulder had turned to water, so I got up to refill it. Keeping my shoulder iced or under a heating pad were the