Spring Training Read Free Page B

off by my name. They usually call me Hank.” He met her eyes as they widened.
    Teri straightened abruptly. Of course! Now everything snapped into place. ‘Hank’ Aaron Reynolds. Huge story after the live broadcast of his season—and possibly career—ending crash into the boards. Her eyes went straight to his right arm, knowing the reason he was on the Disabled List was the need for a long rehab of the shoulder of his throwing arm. The beautiful, ornate tattoo of a Celtic cross should have been a dead giveaway, except—her gaze shot in disbelief up to his spiky blond hair—he had cut his trademark shoulder-length hair. No wonder I didn’t know him. It was—had been—his most recognizable feature.
    And what was he even doing here? Teri battled to keep her pity and confusion from showing on her face. Playing in the minors? A member of last year’s All-Star team?
    Catching herself kneading his muscular forearm, she snatched her hand away and took several steps back—running into her son, who smelled of soap and shampoo, a vast improvement, and whom she hadn’t even heard enter the room.
    “You’re Hank Reynolds?” Em had evidently drawn the same conclusions as she had about his new roommate. True to form, he then blurted out the biggest of the string of questions burning in her own mind, going on in a disbelieving tone, “Why’re you going by Aaron? And what the fuck are you doing in the minors?”

Chapter Two
     
     
     
    Aaron grimaced at the identical expressions of awe and shock from the matching amber eyes of mother and son.
    You knew this was going to happen when you took this gig. It’ll be a hundred times worse when the press finds out you’re here.
    He ran his hand over his hair in what was becoming a habitual manner, still unused to the short, close cut after over a decade of shoulder-length or longer. It had been an impulsive, symbolic gesture at the time of his surgery, to rid himself of the trademark hair while unable to play ball. But Aaron hadn’t realized at the time just how anonymous it would make him. He’d gone from unable to leave his house without being recognized, to having fellow players and big fans have no idea who he was. While he didn’t regret cutting it off exactly, he wondered if he’d ever regain his identity. And whether it even mattered to anyone besides himself.
    Teri recovered first of the three of them. “Well, it’s wonderful to meet you…Aaron.” There was a very slight inflection trailing at the end, as if she was questioning the right name to use.
    “Yeah. It’s pretty much just the media and other ballplayers that call me Hank. And I’m not playing. I’m just here helping out Coach McCauley while I rehab.” He shrugged, wincing as the automatic gesture pulled at his slow-healing surgical wound. “Better than just sitting around. And we’re not sure how long this will take. It was a complicated injury.”
    That was an understatement. A chronic rotator cuff problem had plagued him since high school, when he’d been a pitcher, but he’d been able to put off surgery and nurse it along. Then a bad crash into the left field wall during the playoffs last fall had dislocated his shoulder and torn up some tendons to boot. All on his throwing side. And a left-fielder needed to be one-hundred percent with his gun.
    The media hadn’t yet got wind of the prevailing opinion among his rehab team that he might not get enough range of motion back to be able to play at his former level, if at all. So while he was officially still on his team’s sixty-day-plus disabled list, he was fighting a losing battle coming into the start of the season, not yet ready to resume his position, but definitely not ready to give up on the only thing he’d ever wanted to do with his life—play ball.
    Aaron clenched his jaw as he led the Sanduskys into the living room. He was only twenty-eight, damn it. He should’ve had another decade. And he would .
    Mind firmly made up on that