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"You probably don't even remember her name. Why don't you try finding a woman who's worth remembering?"

Another flash of blue eyes and long blonde hair, seeing her in the stands cheering him on at his high school baseball games, his jersey number painted on one dimpled cheek.

A feeling like a brick dropping in his stomach brought up the memory he most regretted- graduation night .

Quinn shook his head. "I don't do love."

Zoey gave him a challenging stare before sighing, resigning herself to continue her phone calls.

Staring at his phone, he thought about the fact that out of all the people who had called him that morning none had been his friends before his life changed, before all the glamor and the money, before being labeled a sports hero, a hard-hitting legend, or even earning the title "rookie of the year" six years ago.

Not a single family member had contacted him, not that he had expected them to.

He didn't really have much for family, and he had no idea if his mom even knew what he'd made of himself.

Honestly, if his family had contacted him he would assume it was just for money, so he couldn't say he was upset they hadn't been in touch. The best friendships of his life hadn’t been completely left behind, but he’d lost touch enough to feel guilty when he thought about them.

What would he give to hear from those friends again? To hear from her again?

Quinn sighed, looking out the tinted windows at the bright California sun.

He had given all of himself to earn this life, to build himself up from nothing.

He loved this life, really, he did. And even though he knew his injury was being blown into something bigger than what it really was, the idea of an injury having the potential to destroy his career made him sweaty and anxious.

He was not ready to put this life behind him.

Sometimes it just felt like something was missing.

He pulled on his mirrored aviators, leaned back in the seat, and closed his eyes.

Back in his living room later that night, Quinn broke out his new phone and began the process of transferring the important contacts into it so that he could let them know his new number.

They hadn't had time to do the transfer at the store, and he didn't really need his own phone when his publicist and agent were with him all day making phone calls and arrangements for him.

Mitch and Zoey were still with him, going over upcoming appearances, interviews, and doctor's appointments, and logging them into their schedules. Mitch came into the living room to debrief Quinn on whatever arrangements he had made.

"Good news," Mitch began. "We got your surgery scheduled- the morning after next! We got you put right at the top of Dr. Nichols's list and he will perform the surgery at 8:30 Sunday morning. The faster you get in, the faster you can recover and get back on the field."

Quinn's eyes widened. "That's great! So, I'll be able to play next season?"

Mitch grimaced. "Physical therapy is extensive for this procedure, but you will be able to get back out there," he added quickly, seeing Quinn's expression fall.

"How extensive? "

"Well, it goes in phases. The first phase is about six weeks, and then they say you can start strengthening and conditioning again," Mitch said. "Since you are at a professional level and will need to fully recondition after being out, the doc says you should expect to be out for at least a year."

"A whole year?" Quinn exclaimed, then let out a sigh. “Shit, so I won’t be playing again until the middle of next season." What the hell was he supposed to do with a whole year and a bum arm?

“That seems to be what they’re thinking,” Mitch nodded.

Quinn unconsciously rubbed up and down his bad arm, feeling that little twinge at his elbow. It didn’t feel that intense, but it had been made pretty clear how bad it could get if he kept playing without surgery. "Right, okay. So, you've got the details?"

Zoey pulled out her phone and leaned over to show Quinn all her notes she had taken regarding what to expect before and after surgery when a familiar ringtone went off from the phone next to Quinn on the couch. His old phone.

"You haven't switched them yet?" Mitch said, peering at the phone screen to see if a friend or foe was calling.

"The new phone wasn't charged yet," Quinn said, looking at the number. It was a 231 area code, but the rest of the number was unfamiliar. Quinn's brow furrowed, wondering who would be calling from his hometown, or at least close to it. "That's weird, it's from Northern Michigan."

"Family calling to check in?" Zoey suggested as Quinn swiped to answer. His team and the people in his life knew very little about his life in Michigan, just that he'd grown up just outside of Traverse City and had been fought over pretty aggressively by college recruiters.

"Hello?" Quinn was acutely aware of how uncertain his voice sounded.

"Hi, Mr. Casey, this is Sandra Burke, the home nurse you hired to look after your mother," the friendly voice came over the phone.

Quinn's mouth went dry, his voice catching in his throat, and he found himself unable to speak.

He had received email updates from Sandra on a monthly basis, just to know that his mother was still alive, but hadn't talked to her over the phone since he had hired her.

When Quinn failed to respond Sandra continued, "Of course I'm calling about your mother's health. I didn't think this was appropriate for an email. Her liver and kidneys are failing, Mr. Casey. I know we haven’t had the best communication, but your mother has progressed to stage five of chronic kidney disease. She has started her dialysis treatments, though it is unlikely that she would be considered for a transplant due to…” the woman hesitated, “the factors that led her to this stage.”

Heroin use. They won’t offer a kidney transplant to a patient who essentially chose to destroy her body. And why should they?

“I thought you should know in case you wanted to come see her...Even if it’s just to say your goodbyes."

Quinn closed his eyes, unsure of how to respond.

He knew this day would come eventually, and he never knew how he would feel to get the news.

He did not have a good relationship with his mother.

He really didn't have any kind of relationship with her.

She had spent his entire childhood and adolescence either passed out from drinking too much or in a dazed trance from heroin use.

Repressed images of needles littering the bathroom counter filled his mind, his mother sitting in her ratty green chair staring out the dirty front window, completely unresponsive for hours.

Quinn had spent his childhood taking care of her as best as he could, making sure she ate enough to stay alive and making sure the house stayed clean enough to ward off social services.

He had been silent for quite some time and became suddenly aware that both Mitch and Zoey were looking at him with deep looks of concern on their faces.

"Sorry," he breathed into the phone. His words came out slow and shaky, "Um, yeah, of course, thank you for, uh, letting me know.

I'll, uh, I'll let you know what my plan is.

I'm having surgery Sunday morning. Is it, uh, is Sunday too long to put it off? "

"No, Mr. Casey," Sandra's polite voice sounded reassuring, "The dialysis treatments should give her time, but the disease progressed quickly through stage four. Your mom’s condition is severe, but she’s willing to fight as long as she can.” She was silent for a few beats, “I know your relationship with her is... complicated , but she really would like to see you.”

Complicated. Yeah. That’s one way to put it.

Quinn chewed the inside of his cheek before nodding.

Upon realizing Sandra couldn't possibly register his nod on the other end of the phone he cleared his throat and spoke, "Thanks, Miss Burke, I'll be in touch.

" He hung up the phone and dropped it into his lap.

Falling back onto the couch, he pinched the bridge of his nose, then pressed his palms into his eyes, as if blinding himself would make this go away.

After a long pause, Zoey leaned forward, placing a gentle hand on Quinn's shoulder. "Is everything okay?" she asked.

He sighed and stared up at the vaulted ceiling above him. “What a fuckin’ day.” Quinn grabbed the plush accent pillow from behind his head and pulled it over his face, wishing he was alone so he could scream into it.