Memory foam. That’s the first thing that pops into my head when I blink away the sleep that has crusted up in the corners of my eyes. Freaking memory foam that cradles my aching body, plummeting me into the deepest sleep I’ve had in years.
Fucking Anniston and her ridiculous self-help ideas.Try these kale smoothies, I hear they are wonderful for the immune system.That may be true, but without sugar and a whole bunch of other ingredients mixed in, they taste like puke. Really. But memory foam? That is the shit right there. Who would have thought that a piece of packing material would have me in dreamland for eight solid hours?
Like a turtle that has toppled over, I roll ungracefully to the edge of the bed and push myself into a seated position. I learned pretty quick that my ab muscles do not appreciate being utilized this soon after surgery. Stabbing sensations of pain won’t hesitate to chop into my right side if I do as much as a sit-up. Yeah, I tried. I know. That mistake nearly had me breaking down and begging Ans for a pain pill last night.
However, there was no need when she slid under the covers next to me, her warm breath blanketing my face as she kissed the aches away. I don’t think she has ever nursed me like she did last night. Something’s changed, and don’t think I won’t exploit the hell out of the situation and use it to my advantage.
The stitches pull and tug against the fresh scar, the pain localized now from radiating over my entire stomach to this new raw, angry mark. I don’t think I have ever felt pain like that before.
At first, I thought it was the Thai food Brody and I had for lunch but when the pain started to seize my breath, I knew something was really wrong. I tried to work through the pain, something you’re taught in college ball. If you want to make it in the pro-business then you play through pain. Being on the disabled list gets you a one-way ticket to the minors, something I don’t want to do again. Don’t get me wrong, I would love a career change but not at the expense of a demotion. If I’m going to leave the MLB, it’s going to be on my terms.
So, as the searing pain radiated up my right side all I could think as I stood on the mound was: three strikes. I needed three strikes to get to the dugout and some Pepto.
Those three strikes never left my hand. The wild pitch, which still has me pissed off, was my last coherent moment until they pumped IV pain meds into me. Then, I remember feeling scared.
I never go to the doctor without Ans. She is always my “bad cop” when they want me to try a new med instead of giving an injury time to heal on its own. Ans is more of a conservative doctor. She will try meds, but usually she will try holistic medicine before pumping me full of chemicals. So, when my stretcher was being maneuvered through the operating room without her, I freaked. Full-out freak mode. It was not pretty and if we are being honest here, slightly embarrassing now that I think about it.
I was pushed down, my hands restrained as a nurse tried to soothe me into relaxing. I fought and pleaded for them to wait for her but the words “emergent” were on everyone’s lips as a doctor pushed something into my IV, rendering me unconscious.
I had only been conscious for a little while before my girl barreled through the door with Cade’s ugly mug hot on her heels. Relief just didn’t cover the feeling. Even with my brother and parents huddled around me, I still needed her. And by the look on her face as she took in my disheveled state, she needed me, too.
The pain doesn’t feel too bad as I try rolling my shoulders, stretching the neglected muscles there. When shooting pain remains dormant, I continue to stretch, pleased with my recovery. The doc said I should be up and around in a couple days. I’m an overachiever so I’m guessing about one will do the trick.
Ans’ side of the bed is made up, having left earlier this morning. She’s usually an early bird, getting up with the guys at five a.m., killing them slowly through horrific training regimes.
I take in her room, neat and tidy, just like her. Her shoes aren’t strewn across the floor like mine are at the penthouse. Her clean clothes are hung, unlike mine that stay folded in the chair until I wear them again. The sheets on her bed smell like fabric softener, not sweat and deodorant like mine do.
Ans has tried for years to convince me to hire a housekeeper but I couldn’t. Truth is, if I let it go long enough, it will drive her mad and she’ll come clean it while I’m away at games.
Nothing feels better when coming back to a cold, empty apartment than lying on sheets that smell like her. Or finding my clothes that have been washed, ironed, and hung neatly in my closet with a note on the door that says,You’re welcome, pig.
Yeah, I’ll pass on the housekeeper. It may seem shitty of me but the desperation for having this girl in my life is real. I never stay there much anyway. I would much rather be here, junking up her room.
Like a new fawn, I force my way to the bathroom with only a few stumbles. I’m rather relieved Ans isn’t here to see this show of weakness. She’d be all over it.
After handling my morning business, I slowly ease down the stairs to the kitchen where I hope a hot little blonde has left me some feel-better pancakes with a side of bacon.
“What are you doing up? Commander left orders for you to rest.” Like there’s a bad taste in my mouth, I scrunch my lips at Cade, who stands with his hip against the counter, staring at me over the rim of his coffee cup like he owns the place.
Careful not to stumble in his presence, I grab my own cup.
“You see, Cade, the difference between you and me is that I don’t take orders from,” I make air quotes with my fingers, “Commander.” I grin, rather pleased with my dig at Cade.
He shrugs and concentrates on taking a slow sip of his coffee. “Hayes caught sight of Lou last night, in front of the house.”
I whip my gaze to him, in shock that he is just now disclosing this piece of information.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” I move closer to him before I realize what I’m doing and take a healthy step back at his daring expression.
He cuts me an annoyed look like I should be ashamed for asking such a stupid question. Right. I was out of it with the surgery and all.
Still.
Not wanting to fight with him, I pull open the fridge, scouring the inside for my homemade buttermilk pancakes. With my head still in the fridge, I continue with my debriefing. “Are you sure it was Lou? It could have been paparazzi or something.”
It’s not like a celebrity, aka moi is here rehabbing from a brush with death. Okay, maybe not a brush with death but a serious injury that required surgery and my own personal physician to rehab me.
It’s not out of the question that paparazzi could be lurking in the bushes, waiting to snap a picture of my pretty face. Just because it hasn’t happened here doesn’t mean it can’t. Let’s not narrow our scope.
