Ignoring her seems like the best option for me right now. I have to focus on this half jog, half speed walk thing I’m doing and I’m trying not to move my arm so much. The last thing I want to do is tear a ligament, pull a muscle or damage the tissue. Let alone, move my arm in a direction that might cause my incision to open.
“When can I start throwing?”
“You have an x-ray in a couple of days, that’ll tell us how things are looking in your shoulder.” Emma decreases the speed slowly until it’s back at zero. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“I hate running.”
She laughs. “Follow me, Hawk. Let’s go work that arm.”
The sadist works my arm until it feels like jelly. It hangs limp at my side as I follow her back to her torture chamber. She has me lie back on the table and tells me to remove my shirt. I’m too tired to come back with some smart-ass comment and wish like hell that Travis Kidd were here to say something crass for me. I do as she says, lying back on the thin paper that covers the table.
Emma squirts a thick, clear substance up and down my arm and puts some into the palm of her hand. She starts massaging my fingers, gently pulling, twisting and rubbing the cream into them. The more she works up my arm, the warmer it becomes and the less pain I feel. The sensation feels so incredibly good, I find myself falling asleep.
“Why did you come to Montana for therapy?” she asks.
“I’m from Richfield. My parents own a cattle ranch there and my mom thought it would be best that I come home so she could keep her eye on me.”
Emma chuckles. “She sounds like my mom. I have to video chat with her every day, no matter what.”
“Most moms are like that.”
“How does your arm feel?”
I open my eyes and see a satisfied smile on her face. “It feels really good.” But something tells me she already knew this.
“I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, Hawk. Have a good day.”
Before I can ask her what she used, she’s out the door and greeting her next patient. I put my shirt on and slip my arm back into the sling. If anything, I’d like to get rid of this by the end of the week.
On the way back to Richfield, I stop for lunch, hitting McDonald’s. When I pull up to the drive thru window, the young clerk recognizes me right away.
“Dude, no freaking way.”
How does one answer a statement like that? What would be the appropriate thing to say? “Dude, yes way”?
I smile, nod and hand him my twenty.
“You’re Hawk Sinclair.”
Um . . . duh?
“Hey, man,” I say because what else can I say to something like that?
“You’re my favorite player ever. What are you doing in Montana?”
I do my best not to grimace. If I’m his favorite, surely, he knows what I’m doing here. “Just checking out the sights.”
“Right on. Mind if I get a selfie?”
Before I even agree, the kid is turning around in the window, has his thumb up and takes what must be the worst selfie ever because I’m barely in it. If I were truly his favorite, I’d consider getting out of the truck so we can take a proper photo.
He finally gives me my change and my food. I take my foot off the brake and speed off before he can say another thing. There’s a park not far down the road where I pull over to eat. I long for the days when I can multitask, wishing I could read what’s going on in the world of baseball. The BoRe reporter has been kind enough to keep me updated, as if I would miss a single thing about the Renegades.
With the last bite of my burger in my mouth, I put my truck into reverse and head toward Richfield. The less than half hour drive to town goes by rather quickly. I’m not exactly eager to go back to the ranch so I take another tour of Main Street, only to find it busier than I’ve seen in a long time and decide that since I’m back in town, I should probably check in with the director of the youth center. After I had the field built, I left it to the youth center to manage. It was easier that way since I spend all of baseball season in Boston — there was no way I could do both.
The parking lot is empty except for another truck. I pull up next to it, park and make my way to the front. The bell hanging from the door clanks back and forth against the glass, announcing my arrival.
“For Pete’s sake, we’re closed until three.” I chuckle at the old gruff sound of my former coach. I turn into the office and find him hunkered over a desk. On the wall are pictures of all the teams that play at the field and in the center is a large picture of me digging the first hole for the fields and another of me cutting the ribbon for the grand opening. The rest of the area is filing cabinets, house plants, and a watering station.