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four

troy

This Isn’t How It Was Supposed to End

“A complete tear,” I repeat mechanically, like I’m listening to someone else’s diagnosis, not mine.

My team’s orthopedic specialist gives me a somber nod, pointing at the MRI results glowing on the screen in front of us. “See this dark spot here? That’s where the ligament has completely separated. Given the location and severity, we’ll need to schedule you for Tommy John surgery as soon as possible.”

The news hits me like a punch to the gut. My mind immediately races to Pearl and then to the season. It’s clear I won’t be able to play the rest of the season, but how will I communicate with my baby girl if one of my arms is immobile?

I drag my good hand over my face before making eye contact with my athletic trainer, Jake. He accompanied me here since they rushed me off the field to get an MRI.

“What does the timeline for this look like?” I ask the specialist, stalling in order to give my mind time to process.

I already know. Most pro baseball players, especially pitchers, are well-aware of this kind of injury taking them from the game for a decent amount of time—usually a year, minimum.

“Full recovery usually takes twelve to eighteen months.” He keeps his tone matter-of-fact. “Given your age, the severity of the tear, and the fact that you’re in great shape, it might be shorter. But I won’t sugar-coat this, Troy. You’re in for the long haul before you’re pitching again.”

I take a frustrated breath, my arm and shoulder throbbing inside my soft brace despite the painkillers they gave me. “How quickly can we schedule the surgery?”

“I can get you in as soon as three days. I just want the swelling to go down first.”

I nod. “Can I go home tonight?”

“Yes, but those painkillers will make you feel loopy, so you’ll need a ride?—”

“I’ll drive him home,” Jake offers, reaching out to take a stack of papers from the doctor—surgical consent, post-op recovery information, and who the hell knows what else.

The doctor is almost out the door when he turns around, giving me a sincere look. “I know you’re worried about your career; your arm is your livelihood. I want you to know we’re going to take good care of you.”

I swallow as his words sink like heavy stones inside my mind. This could change the trajectory of my career—in fact, it could end it completely.

I’m a thirty-one-year-old pitcher who’s had the sort of career most players only dream about—multiple All-Star appearances, four division titles with the Blazers, and an unforgettable World Series run two years ago, where we came within one game of taking it all. Baseball isn’t just a sport or a career for me; it’s the only thing I know how to do.

And now, with one pitch, everything seems to have changed.

My mind circles back to my little girl. A year of recovery means a year I get to spend being a dad to her almost full-time. A year that seems like a great silver lining. But it’s also a year of not being on the mound. A year wondering if I’ll ever throw another pitch in the Majors. If the fastballs I’m known for will ever feel the same in my palm again.

My throat tightens, picturing the uncertain road ahead of me. Some of my most vivid memories were made on the field. Being away from it for so long . . . well, it’s a pill that won’t go down easily.

I’m just about to leave the MRI center with Jake when I see familiar faces in the waiting area. Dev and the guys he brought to the clubhouse rise on their feet when they see me. I ask Jake to give me a few minutes before I walk over to them.

Dev lifts his hands in surrender. “In my defense, I tried to come here alone, but these assholes insisted on following me. Dean even threatened to post a video of me rapping at karaoke if I didn’t let him come.”

“Let’s be clear, that was a video of you attempting to rap,” Garrett adds solemnly. “It is possibly the worst rendition of ‘Ice Ice Baby’ the world will ever hear and needs to be preserved for historical purposes.”

“And as a bargaining chip.” Dean winks before turning to me. “How’s the million-dollar arm?” His eyes linger on my brace, his smirk trying to overshadow the evident concern in his eyes.

“Thirty million actually,” Hudson corrects. “I looked up his contract on my phone on our way here.”

“Goddamn, bro,” Dean quips. “Stalker much?”

Hudson slow-blinks at his friend. “This coming from the guy who almost cried after he shook Troy’s hand.”

Dean shrugs nonchalantly. “I’ll probably never wash it either.”

Garrett grimaces. “Fucking nasty, bro.”

“Says the guy who rubbed Tom Brady’s game towel all over himself,” Dean fires back.

“That was one time !” Garrett protests, his ears reddening. “How long are you going to hold that over me? I was drunk.”

“You were not drunk,” Darian interjects dryly. “You’d had one White Claw. That’s considered water in many states. And let me remind everyone, it’s still unclear if that towel you found was Brady’s. It was just lying there on the field.”

“It could have been something the assistant coach used to wipe the sweat off his balls,” Dean adds quickly. “You kept saying, ‘Guys, look! I’m sharing Brady’s DNA!’ It was not one of your finer moments, brother.”

Garrett squeezes his eyes shut, groaning at his brothers. “You guys are all assholes.” A wicked smile plays on his lips as he assesses Dean. “At least I don’t have a shrine to?—”

“Don’t you dare mention the shrine,” Dean interrupts quickly, jutting out his index finger at him in warning.

“Oh, we should definitely bring up the shrine,” Hudson says, the same evil smile forming across his face. “I think Troy should know what he’s dealing with here.”

“There is no shrine,” Dean protests, two spots of pink appearing on his cheeks. “Don’t believe any of their bullshit. It’s just a small shadow box display.”

He looks at me as if he’s trying to convince me while Dev and I try to hold back our laughs. Pretty sure laughing will jostle my shoulder and send throbbing pain down my arm again, but I won’t deny their presence has lifted my sour mood.

“It’s a full-on altar,” Darian drawls. “I can’t believe Mala even lets you keep that in your bedroom?—”

“Uh, it’s in your bedroom?” My brows rise in mock concern.

“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Garrett continues. “It’s not normal! He has your jersey, your baseball cards from over the years?—”

“Pretty sure he has a pair of your used underwear, too,” Hudson adds helpfully.

“We’ve all seen the shrine,” Garrett confirms, giving Dean a disgusted look. “And who the hell says ‘shadow box’? Tell me your balls are still attached, bro.”

“It’s a curated collection,” Dean says defensively. “And for your information, you uncultured heathen , shadow boxes are very in right now. Mala said I could have it since it went with the aesthetics of the room. Honestly, I can’t believe we shared a womb.”

“Are you hearing yourself right now? Aesthetics? ”

“Honestly, I can’t believe we share DNA,” Darian says, looking from Garrett to Dean.

Dev pinches the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, I can’t believe I didn’t let you assholes just leak my rap video. It would have been less torturous for all of us.” He turns to me, his expression sobering. “How bad is it, Troy?”

The shift in his tone makes everyone sober up, their smiles dropping when their eyes land on my arm. Funnily enough, I’d almost forgotten about it in the midst of the idiocracy with these guys. Almost.

I swallow hard. “Tommy John surgery. Doctor says at least twelve months, give or take, before I’m back to pitching again.”

A heavy silence falls over the group, snuffing out all signs of the previous laughter. Even Dean is quiet, which I’m guessing is rare.

Dev takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, man. We knew it was bad the second you threw that last pitch. The way everyone gasped . . . it was like the entire stadium felt your pain.”

“But, man,” Dean says gently, “you were on fucking fire through the game until then. Strike after strike.”

My chest tightens as the reality of it all hits me again. Twelve months, maybe longer or maybe . . . never. The fact that I may have pitched my last MLB game tonight, not even having known it, has bile working up my throat.

This isn’t how it was supposed to end.

Dev’s phone buzzes, jolting me out of my heavy thoughts. His brows fuse together as he reads the name on the screen. He flicks a glance my way before answering the call. “Sarina? What’s up?”

And just like that, my heart picks up its pace.

Dean turns from Dev to me, his brows touching his hairline. He’s grinning so widely, he looks borderline maniacal. He starts elbowing Garrett in the ribs while Hudson and Darian exchange a knowing look. Meanwhile, I pretend not to be interested in what Dev has to say.

“Yeah, we’re with him now,” Dev confirms, smirking at me. “Is Rome really worried?”

The mention of her son warms my chest. The kid was adorable, blurting out my stats to me yesterday when we met. And for someone who was just learning the sport, he seemed to know a lot already.

“No, tell him not to worry,” Dev continues, his eyes on me. “Troy is going to need surgery, and it might be a year or more before he can play again, but he’s going to be fine.” There is a pause while he listens, and I try my damndest not to lean in. “Yeah, I know you’re asking just for Rome’s sake.”

The guys all shift on their feet, exchanging amused looks as if they know something I don’t. Dean practically vibrates with barely contained laughter, the jackass.

“No worries. I’ll definitely keep you—I mean, Rome —updated.” Another pause where Dev runs a hand over his mouth, hiding his smile. “Right. You called because of Rome. Got it.”

I swear the guys in this room could fill in for The Real Housewives of New Jersey with the way they swarm me as soon as Dev hangs up the phone.

“So,” Garrett drags out the word. “Sarina, I mean, Rome seems really concerned about your arm.”

I roll my eyes in exasperation, though my pulse is racing the way a pimply teenage boy’s would if the popular girl he was crushing on finally deigned to acknowledge him.

“What’s interesting,” Hudson muses, his hands slipping into his pockets, “is that she called Dev to inquire about your injury.”

“She said she called Piper first,” Dev clarifies. “When Piper told her I might know more since I was at the game, she called me.”

Hudson shrugs. “Regardless, it’s clear she was watching the game.”

I tilt my head, giving him a bored look. “No, her son was. Either way, what is it you’re all trying to imply?”

“That you both have definitely played hide-and-seek with the zucchini.” Dean grins. “You know, baked the biscuit. Explored her love jungle.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Darian mumbles, shaking his head in dismay. “Someone make him stop.”

“I’ll volunteer,” Dev quips. “I think it’s time Troy heads home. If his painkillers aren’t going to knock him out, I’m pretty sure you idiots will with your stupidity.”

I give him a grateful nod, noticing how the edges of my vision get blurry. As I head back over to meet Jake, the guys say something about a group chat they’ll be adding me to—something to do with hens and schlongs. The hell? The doctor did mention I’d be loopy, so it’s entirely possible I hallucinated that.

And as I lay my head against the headrest of Jake’s car, a restless sleep taking over, my last thought is, She called to check on me.

For Rome’s sake, of course.