Game Changer, page 23
Yet all I can do is give her a sad smile before her phone starts to ring. She whips it out in annoyance, not wanting to be disturbed when she doesn’t recognize the number. She’s about to reject the call when she rolls her eyes and swipes her thumb across the screen.
"Hello?" she asks, holding a finger to her ear in order to hear. "Oh my God, yes. How are you?"
Everyone at the table falls silent as she speaks.
"Yes, of course. I understand."
The hand she’s using to hold the phone starts to shake as her eyes flit from one face to another.
"Thank you. Goodnight to you, too." She hangs up, looking dazed.
"Is it Kyle?" her mom chokes out, clutching her throat.
Sasha just nods, lowering her head.
Her father asks the question his wife could not. "Did he…?"
Sasha shakes her head vigorously, dabbing at the tears that are spilling down her cheeks.
"What is it?" I question, giving voice to what everyone is thinking, my hand finding her knee under the table.
"That was Heimlich’s personal care aide." She pauses, taking a deep breath. "She said he found Kyle a heart. It’s in transport as we speak. The hospital is already prepping him for surgery."
As if on cue, Sasha’s mom’s phone starts to buzz. "It’s Casey!" she cries, holding it up, seeming to confirm her daughter’s unexpected announcement.
We all listen in as she takes the call.
"Casey, do you have some good news for us? Hold on. I’m going to put you on speaker."
Nate and Matt shake the table as they lean in together to hear.
"It’s finally happening! A heart is en route as we speak. I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but someone has to be watching over us. I didn’t want to tell you until tomorrow, but the doctors weren’t giving Kyle more than seventy-two hours to live. If this heart didn’t come when it did, I don’t think he would’ve still been here when you guys got back from St. Louis."
Sasha and I exchange a frightened look. She leans in to me with a sob, my arms going around her, holding her close.
We’re going to have to get on a plane in the morning while her brother undergoes the most serious operation of his life. I know we both wish we didn’t have to leave, but it’s in the hands of fate now. We won’t get to see him again before the surgery. We won’t get a chance to say goodbye. This is it.
I kiss the top of Sasha’s head, closing my eyes as I rest my forehead against her soft hair. I breathe her in, feeling how alive she is against my body. She might be the last living piece of Kyle that I have left, and I’ll do whatever it takes to cherish her and keep her safe because I can’t lose her too. I just can’t.
She’s a part of my life now. She broke through the barriers I had keeping her at bay, forcing me to let her in. I was scared to love her, but not anymore. No matter what happens, there’s no going back, only forward.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sasha
Kyle made it through the transplant procedure, but the doctors remain skeptical about whether or not his body is accepting the new heart.
We took three from St. Louis in their home ballpark, silencing our critics, but we’re flying back to New York with heavy spirits. The atmosphere on the plane is subdued, sober.
I think everyone was ecstatic when they found out about Kyle’s operation. Every guy on the roster wanted to play his absolute best in support of what he was going through. There was no way this team was going to let this series slip through its fingers. It’s ours to win. We just have to want it badly enough.
Our pitchers did a phenomenal job shutting down St. Louis’s offense, but none more so than Jilly. If we end up winning this thing, he’s a lock to be named World Series MVP—he’s been that good. He hasn’t given up a hit, never mind a run. In fact, the radar gun clocked some of his pitches at one hundred miles per hour. No one was able to touch him. It’s like he ratcheted up his arm to a whole other level, one that nobody even knew he had, much less his flabbergasted manager.
In game three, Colton made a heck of a catch, securing our one-to-nothing lead. He’s been playing with a strained muscle in his leg, but somehow he managed to grind it out and find the speed to propel himself into the right center-field gap just before the wall. He stretched out his arm, full extension, snagging the ball in the web of his glove while Andy yelled on TV the words I love to hear, "Ball game over! Kings win! The Kiiiiiiings win!"
Pedro hit a much-needed game-tying homer in game five, and Scott had four doubles in three games, driving in most of our RBIs so far. It’s been a true team effort, everyone contributing and doing their part. We might only have one big-name superstar in Drake, but our regular position players have done so much more than he has. Big surprise. He always chokes when it comes to the playoffs. He manages to post his numbers during the season, but once October rolls around, it’s like he checks out.
But no one is thinking about Drake as the landing gear touches down on the tarmac. There’s only one New York King in our thoughts—the one who can’t be with us, the one who’s still fighting for his life, even with a new heart in his body.
I seriously believed that I’d be able to stop worrying once the transplant was over. I never in my wildest dreams imagined that his already weakened body would reject the thing it needed the most. It doesn’t seem fair somehow.
I let Brooks take over as he links his arm through mine, guiding me where I need to go. I should’ve slept on the plane, but I was too wound up. Now I’m like a walking zombie as I stagger beside him, feeling that lightheadedness that always sets in whenever I’m sleep deprived.
I sink into the cushy confines of a waiting Lexus that’s been brought out onto the runway. I don’t even recognize it as Brooks’s until he gets in the driver’s seat and pulls away. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, letting his fingers linger on my face until I smile against his touch.
In no time at all, we’re at the hospital and Brooks is tossing the keys to someone who pulled up behind him. I don’t have a chance to see who it is as he wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him and shielding me from any gaping onlookers as we enter the hospital.
Somehow he knows exactly where to go as soon as we get off the elevator. We’re in some kind of observation room, and there’s Kyle post-surgery behind a thick pane of glass. I gasp when I get my first glimpse of him. His color isn’t good, and he’s lost even more weight. I feel my knees start to give way and I sink against Brooks, his strong arm around my waist the only thing holding me up.
I hear heavy footsteps marching in behind us as I try to get my bearings, not wanting to fall to pieces in front of the team of doctors who worked on my brother. But it’s not a team of doctors—it’s my team. Jilly and Scott. Pedro and Landry. Tony and Chase—all forty guys from the playoff roster. They followed us here, dead tired in the midst of one of the biggest series of their lives. Yet they came. They came to see Kyle.
I sniffle, my eyes tearing up for what feels like the millionth time this week. But they are happy tears, tears of gratitude and love.
"Thank you," I whisper loud enough for them to hear me as they cram into the tiny room.
"Anything for K-Rob," Jilly answers for all of them, nodding his head solemnly in my direction.
"Hear, hear," Scott replies, raising his fist in the air.
No one mentions how bad he looks. No one lies and says that he looks good either, and I’m grateful for that. Everyone just stares in at him like it might be the last time they ever see him again. A respectful hush falls over the room.
Brooks breaks the silence, pressing his hand against the glass. "To K-Rob."
"To K-Rob," Chase says, following suit.
"To K-Rob," the other guys say one by one as they step up to the glass and palm-to-palm salute their fallen brother.
For a moment, it makes me feel better just to know how much he’s loved. I only hope Kyle can feel it too.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sasha
Lenore, my hair-and-makeup guru-turned-confidante, is putting the finishing touches on my pre-game face, something she recently started doing once we hit the playoffs and the nationally broadcast television schedule. Terry wants me always looking my best, even when I’m at my absolute worst. My eyes are puffy from crying all night, but Lenore’s a pro, making it appear like I had eight full hours of beauty rest.
"There." Lenore stands back to examine her work. "Perfect if I do say so myself."
I lean closer to the lighted mirror Terry had installed and just stare at my reflection.
"What? You don’t like it?" Lenore asks, getting flustered, her Long Island accent coming out extra strong, and she starts fluffing the ponytail sticking out of my cap.
"Sometimes I can’t believe that person in the glass is really me, you know?" I lift my eyes to hers, hoping she’ll understand.
"You’re an icon, toots." She places her hands on my shoulders, giving me a smile. "I’ve done magazine shoots, newscasters, Broadway, you name it, but I’ve never come across that little special something you possess. You’re either born with it or you’re not."
"Yeah. I always thought my chipmunk cheeks were genetic," I tease, puffing them out even more.
"Will you stop?" She playfully slaps my arm. "I’m talking about star quality. Terry Bloom’s no dummy. He felt it the moment you walked through his door. He knew what you were capable of."
"Too bad star quality isn’t enough to win a World Series," I mumble, lowering my gaze.
"So you lost last night? Big deal. Put it behind you and move on. It’s anyone’s game now." Lenore scrutinizes me some more, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind my ear.
"Ain’t that the truth. Game sevens are do or die." I bat away her hand, sick of her fussing all over me.
She appraises me with a shrug. "Which means you gotta win."
"He’s not good, Lenore." I feel the tears starting, but I furiously blink them back, determined not to ruin her hard work.
"I know, sweetie," she says, bending down to give me a squeeze. "I don’t know how you’re coping with all of this. I really don’t."
"I’m kind of afraid that it’s all going to be over after tonight because I don’t know what I’m going to focus on after this." I bite my lip, careful not to smudge my carefully applied lip color.
"That tall drink of water from Oklahoma isn’t enough for you?" She jibes me. "I’ll be more than happy to take him off your hands, free of charge."
I giggle, knowing how much she adores Brooks. "He’s been my rock through all of this. You know that." I swivel around in my chair to face her. "But if we lose Kyle…" I take a shuddering breath and close my eyes, willing myself to say what I fear the most. "It’s not going to be the same between us, Lenore. Every time he looks at me, he’s going to be reminded of him. It’s going to get to the point where it’ll become too painful for him to be around me."
"Is that what you think?" She tips up my chin, her eyes brimming with kindness. "Honey, that boy loves you—really and truly loves you. Do you think he’ll be able to survive losing you too?"
I shake my head, knowing she’s right.
"He’s not going anywhere," Lenore proclaims, dabbing an errant tear away before it rolls through my mascara-coated lashes. "Brooks is—"
"Brooks is what?"
"Speak of the devil!" Lenore whirls around, shaking her finger at Brooks, who is standing in the doorway. "You shouldn’t be in here trespassing. These are Miss Sasha’s private quarters—no boys allowed."
"I think I’m an exception to the rule, wouldn’t you say?" He pats Lenore on the back while looking down at me, concern etched across his handsome face. "At least, just this once."
"Hmmm. I guess since it’s your last game and all, with the entire season on the line, I suppose I can give you two a minute." She rolls her eyes at him.
"No pressure or anything," he retorts.
She takes the opportunity to swat his butt as she walks by, making him jump. "You could bounce a quarter off that ass. My Lord, I think I’m having a hot flash." She starts to fan herself before closing the door behind her, giving us some privacy.
"She’s full of sass that one." Brooks smiles down at me, hoping to draw me out of my funk.
"Yeah, she’s one of a kind," I respond robotically, my mind miles away.
"You’re wearing your grandma’s pink Kings cap." He gently touches the brim.
"Yeah. She couldn’t make it now that she’s in a wheelchair, but I thought we could use all the luck we could get." Deep down, I’m scared that not having her in the stands means that we’re doomed. She’s always been there for all of our big games, and now she couldn’t even get out here to see Kyle. "Believe it or not, I ran it by Terry and he said that I could wear it as my own personal salute to Kyle." I can’t let Brooks see how upset I am, so I just keep blabbering on until he stops me.
"So are you ready for this or what?" He eyes me skeptically. "You don’t look like an athlete who’s about to lay it all on the line."
"I’m just tired I guess." As if on cue, I start to yawn.
"That doesn’t sound like the Sasha Roberts I know." He stands back, crossing his arms in front of his chest, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his uniform.
He looks so good in his pinstripes and navy cap, the very essence of what a ballplayer is supposed to be. Tall. Good-looking. Clean-cut. He’s the complete package, the quintessential all-American guy.
"Maybe the Sasha Roberts you know doesn’t exist anymore," I whisper quietly.
"Oh, I think she does." He kneels before me, drawing my hands into his. "She’s just had a lot to contend with. That’s all."
"I’m sorry for making this even harder on you than it has to be." I lower my head, tightening my grip on his hands. "I know that we couldn’t help falling in love and that things between us were set in motion a long time ago. But I know how much Kyle means to you, and I don’t want to be a constant reminder of how much you stand to lose by having me be a part of your life."
"Sasha," he says softly, drawing out my name in that sweet drawl of his. "You’ve always known me as your brother’s friend. That’s how we were introduced, so don’t you think that I feel exactly the same way? That you might not be able to be around me should something happen to Kyle?"
"Don’t be ridiculous," I protest, meeting his troubled gaze. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."
"Same here." He raises one of my hands in his, resting it atop his heart. "He’d want us to go on and be happy. You know deep down that’s the honest-to-God truth."
I nod silently, unable to deny it.
"Just know that, whatever happens, I’m here for you." His voice deepens with emotion as he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it.
"Sandy, I don’t know if I can go out there and do this. Everyone’s expecting so much out of me. I don’t want to let anybody down, but I feel like I’m running on empty, like I hit the wall." I sink down farther in the chair, finally feeling comfortable enough to tell him what’s bothering me.
"You just do what you can—nuthin’ more, nuthin’ less," he advises, quieting the fears that are growing inside me.
"And if Tony asks me to hit a home run?" I peer into his eyes, pleading with him for an honest answer.
"Then you rely on your training and allow your reflexes and the muscle memory you’ve developed to take it from there." His words are solid. They’re what I need to hear.
"Aren’t you nervous?" I question him, wondering how he can remain so collected in the face of so much stress. "This is your chance to finally earn that ring that’s alluded you and achieve what you’ve always wanted."
"If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather put a ring on your finger." He slides his thumb over the fourth finger on my left hand.
I don’t press him because I don’t want to break the spell he’s put me under. He could mean that he wants to win a World Series ring for me more than for himself, or he could be talking about another kind of ring entirely. If he is, I can’t fathom it in my current state of mind. As much as I want that, it’s too much to hope for right now.
"I’d like that." I watch his eyes light up, and I feel that flutter in the pit of my stomach.
"Then are you ready?" He gets to his feet, ready to pull me up with him.
"As long as we don’t have to play by that creepy arch anymore," I moan, causing him to chuckle.
"Don’t you like the Gateway to the West? It’s one of our most cherished national monuments." He laughs when I vehemently shake my head. "I guess it does sort of look like an alien spacecraft, especially at night when it’s not lit up and it’s just hovering out there. I have to admit it kind of freaked me out a little."
"See? I knew I wasn’t the only one." I lean in toward him, savoring the crisp, clean scent of his freshly laundered uniform, sure to be smeared with infield dirt and grass stains before the night is over.
But that’s just how Brooks is. He works hard, and he plays hard, no in-betweens. That’s why he’s the man for me. He gives it his all, from his work ethic on the field to his relationship with me off of it. When it comes to Brooks Davison, second best is never enough.
That’s why I have to fire myself up and do everything I can to win this for him. He’s already a champion, but it’s about time the world recognized him as one too.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Brooks
I’m having the game of my career. I can only hope it’ll be enough.
The lead has been seesawing back and forth all night. We move ahead; then they do. It’s a tug-of-war, grudge-match, winner-takes-all, no-holds-barred slugfest. We’re approaching double digits in run totals and hits. The fans are loving the barrage of homers flying out of the park, but the offensive onslaught is making me anxious because it can go either way. It’s all going to come down to that one clutch hit.
