Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
“Wow. Okay. Well, congratulations, first of all,” I say, figuring that’s a safe reply.
Fish laughs. “Thank you. I was a little spun out about it at first because it was obviously not what I was expecting. But I’m kind of excited about it.”
A smile splits my cheeks, and a surge of happiness floods me. “I think it’s great.”
“I’m gonna be a dad, dude. Isn’t that wild?”
“Wild as hell.” I chuckle. “So, what’s this mean for you?”
“You mean with me and Nicole? I asked her to marry me.”
I walk to the sink and stare out the window into the backyard.
Although Fish getting married and having a baby wasn’t something that I would’ve bet on happening in the near future, I wouldn’t have put money down on me wanting to settle down with a single mother in Ohio either. But both things make sense in the most organic way.
“I better get an invitation,” I say, grinning. “Even if you pull a stunt and elope—I better fucking be there.”
“You know it. Now, what about you? You coming home or what?”
I turn away from the window and walk to the table. Glancing down at my to-do list, I exhale.
“Actually, I think I’m going to relocate,” I say carefully.
“To Ohio?”
“Yeah.”
I bite my lip and wait for Fish’s response. Aside from my parents, he knows me better than anyone. If this idea is asinine, he’ll tell me.
“That’s fucking awesome,” he says, catching me off guard. “Are you hitting it off with . . .”
“Palmer.”
“Yeah, Palmer.”
“You could say that.” I laugh. “We’re having a conversation tonight to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Dude, you’ve been on the same page since the day at the restaurant.”
“I have a few things to get together before I fully commit . . .” My phone chirps, and I pull it away just long enough to see an incoming call. “Hey, Fish? I need to take this call. Can I call you back?”
“Of course. Talk to you later.”
I click over to the incoming line. “Hello?”
A voice clears on the other end. “Is this Cole Beck?”
“It is.”
“Hi, Cole. This is Dr. Miigi. You are a hard man to get a hold of.”
Sweat dots my forehead despite the cold chill racing down my spine. I move the phone from my right hand to my left.
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m sorry about that. I, uh . . .” Didn’t want to deal with this. “Headed back east to see my parents for a while.”
“Well, now that I have you on the phone, let’s have a chat.”
Fuck.
My stomach twists into a knot. I pace back and forth across the kitchen as the anticipation of the conversation gets the best of me.
I’ve intentionally put this off for much longer than is acceptable or responsible. It’s the first thing in my life that I haven’t necessarily met head-on, and that’s because I don’t know how to do that.
I don’t want to do that.
I want to pretend like it’s not a thing.
I grip the back of a kitchen chair. “All right. Let’s chat.”
“I’m sorry we’re not meeting face-to-face for this confirmation, but I’ve had your test results sent to our partners in Scottsdale.”
My chest burns as I try to drag in enough oxygen to keep me awake and alive. Whatever he says next—the diagnosis I’ve been avoiding—is going to change my life forever. My world will be separated into two parts: pre–this conversation and post–this conversation.
My fingers itch to end the call and never go forward, as if not hearing the words from Dr. Miigi will somehow make the facts he needs to deliver to me not relevant. Or real.
Yet they are real.
But for the first time since I started struggling to see a curveball and had unexplained muscle spasms that massage and sports therapy didn’t cure, I have a plan. I have hope for a life that isn’t centered around baseball.
I want to be with Palmer.
And if that’s going to happen, I have to address this. I have to hear what he has to say and then move on—hopefully with her and Ethan.
Maybe it isn’t as bad as I think. There’s always hope . . .
I cling to that thought. “What did they say?”
I close my eyes. It’s as though I’m in a movie scene where everything blurs around the main character, and the only thing that he can do is spin in a circle.
I’m spinning fast and wild, and the only thing keeping me centered is the kitchen chair.
“I’m very sorry to tell you, Cole. But your MRI, blood work, and the spinal tap you had a few months ago all point to multiple sclerosis,” he says.
His words are careful and calculated, if not a little cold.
“But I feel fine. Aside from the vision issue that started all of this and some pain here and there, which could totally be from baseball,” I say, trying to make a case for Dr. Miigi to be wrong, “I feel fine. I could still play. You know that. Maybe the results are wrong.”