Out of Left Field Read Free Page B

embarrassing moment of his life had become every sportscaster’s wet dream. They played it, rewound it, slowed it down so they could play it again.
    He shook his head, filled the glass and downed every last drop again. He twisted the glass, watching the shades of red and gold play on the surface. Staring at the decorative gouges in the heavy crystal, he didn’t know why he kept the middleman.
    With a quick cock of his elbow, he sent the go-between on a one-way then pressed the bottle to his lips.
    Mixing alcohol with painkillers was a total dumbass move. He’d stood in front of the bottle of Jim Beam and decided dousing his pain with whiskey wasn’t worth waking up dead. Yeah, he’d told Frankie he wasn’t a dumbass. Go him!
    Turned out, dumbass needed to be added to his resume, anyway. His shoulder ached like a bitch, clear down to the bone. The ice packs chilled his body and he wondered if he’d ever be warm again.
    He’d experienced loss before. A lot. The concept wasn’t a new one, but this time it was different. Today he’d lost the one thing, the only thing, he’d had going for him. The only thing he cared about. His career was over.
    Sure, he’d go under the knife.
    But he saw the writing on the wall.
    He knew.
    He was done.
    He took another sip from the two-liter bottle of Coke, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His body became heavy, warm and he knew sleep lingered just around the corner. Sighing, he relented, praying this rollercoaster ride would be a nightmare he could wake up from.
     
     

3
     
    The worst part of surgery was waking up. Xavier felt like shit. Worse than that actually. What was worse than shit? His brain swam with the possibilities.
    Raw sewage?
    But wasn’t that just a lot of shit?
    Okay, so he felt like a giant steaming river of raw sewage. And his tongue was so dry, he was pretty sure he could strike a match with the tip.
    Was the room spinning? It had to be because he sure as hell wasn’t moving. He laid flat on his back in a sorry excuse for a bed, definitely … not moving. He hadn’t even opened his eyes and knew doing so now would only make him sick.
    His stomach heaved. So much for that plan. It looked like he was gonna be sick anyway. He gagged and swallowed, forcing the bile back down his throat. Ridiculous. Pathetically ridiculous. He felt like shit and now he was going to throw up.
    It was official. His life sucked.
    “ Xavier.” A soft hand touched his.
    No, now his life sucked.
    “ Doc.” He cleared his throat, only to croak her name again.
    Her fingers dug into the back of his head, sliding down his spine to help him sit up. He opened his eyes. The concern in her baby blues made the situation even worse. Using his left hand and arm, he tried to do the vertical thing all by himself, but the combination of drugged haze and no coordination had him falling against the bed. The stench of cleanliness made his stomach heave again.
    “ It’s okay, X. Let it out. You’ll feel better if you just let it out.” She started the whole assistance thing again. This time he let her.
    When he got upright, she held a pink puke pan under his chin while he gagged and retched. She stroked his head tenderly, like he was a child and she his mother.
    Oh, hell.
    Another round of dry heaves made sweat blossom on his forehead. With gentle dabs, she wiped above his eyebrows. He hated her right now. Like he’d never hated anyone in his life, he hated Frankie Holden.
    How dare she be tender with him? How dare she help him? How dare she … care!
    He sagged against the bed and she flashed him a victorious smile. Curses of all vulgar kinds marched through his thoughts. That they didn’t make it past his lips, he chalked up to his sandpaper tongue and cotton ball brain.
    She picked up a pink plastic pitcher and poured water into a matching sissy cup. As if the experience wasn’t enough of a ball basher, he had to drink out of a pansy ass pink cup. Out of a frickin’ straw!
    But