Page 29 of Hiding in the Outfield

Concussions are the spawn of Satan.

To top it all off, I look like a family of bees decided to repeatedly prick their butts on my cheek. It started at my cheek, along with the near-black bruise. But gravity is a cold-hearted bitch, and the swelling has spread down to my jaw, along with the bruise. Oh, and the blood has also decided to make a little home for itself beneath my left eye. I don’t want to hear anyone complain about dark circles ever again. I have a fucking black crescent moon under my eye right now. No amount of concealer is covering this up.

“Hey, Frankie.”

I slowly turn toward East. Quick movements send the pressure into epic proportions. He’s standing in my doorway holding a black…thing.

I send him a small smile, but even with that, only half my face moves. I whine. I hate this. I fucking hate this.

He hurries to my side. “Do you need more acetaminophen? Do you want a painkiller?”

“No, no. I’m just being dramatic. You know me. I’ll save the painkillers for nighttime so I can sleep. I really don’t like them.”

“I got you something.” He lifts the black thing, which looks like a bunch of little squares connected together, and takes a seat on the edge of my bed. “It’s a super-cold ice pack. Each compartment freezes. Turn for me.”

I obediently shift my head so he can settle the ice pack next to me, then I carefully lean back into it.

A soft moan slips from me. “Oh, Dio mio.”

It’s bliss. It’s pure fucking bliss. It’s so cold it burns, and it’s amazing. That probably doesn’t sound nice, but now I can’t feel the constant throbbing jackhammer that has taken up residence in my face. This is the eighth wonder of the world.

Easton chuckles. “What do you want for lunch? Shane’s mom left some veggie soup. Want me to throw that in the blender for you?”

I pop open my good eye and glare at him. “No. But, yes, would you be a dear and do that for me?”

His smile turns sad. “I’m sorry, Frankie. I’m sure you’ll be back to chewing pretty soon. I could try boiling some really overcooked pasta and see how you do with it.”

I wrinkle my nose. Blech. “That’s called a sin. Al dente or nothing at all. It’s fine. I’ll take the veggie soup. I’m going to waste away to nothing. My hard-earned muscles,” I whine. “Gone. It’s a crime.”

“Maybe you’ll finally lose those extra five pounds you’ve been complaining about.”

I gasp. And instantly regret it. Ouch. I really need to tone down the theatrics while my face heals. “That was downright cruel, Easton.”

He grins that syrupy-sweet smile at me. “Hey, you’re the one who says it. I think you’re perfect the way you are.”

Ugh. “You make it hard to be grumpy with you.” Foolish, wonderful man.

“How are you doing?” He carefully adjusts my ice pack even though it’s fine the way it is. He’s like a little clucking mother hen. I have to say, it hasn’t been horrible—being tended to by all these sexy baseball players. Plus Maddox, because Maddox is fiiiine. Minus Paulie, because ew.

“I’m not hating all these sexy men at my beck and call.”

“I know it’s hard for you, but I want you to turn it off for a couple minutes.” He gently grabs my wrist and squeezes. “No jokes, no pretend dramatics. Do you want to talk? About what happened, about how you’re feeling? You haven’t said anything about that night.”

I glance away. I haven’t, even with Pao Pao’s constant interrogations. Paulie is livid. I was a little nervous for a bit that I was going to wake up to Devereux’s head on a spike. But fortunately, my brother remembered that violence is not the mark of a strong man. Devereux has been reported to the team and will hopefully be facing some consequences.

Paulie really wants me to press charges, but I don’t know…

People are always so quick to say, Sue them! Press Charges! Don’t let them get away with it!

Like it’s easy.

Like it doesn’t take time, money, and a fuck ton of emotional energy. Not to mention Jackson is closeted, with severe repercussions if that information came out. All that for something I might not even win. It’s not something Paulie understands. The system was built to benefit him. I get the wrong judge, and suddenly the facts and evidence don’t matter. And society wonders why people don’t report these things.

I wish it were different, but we live in a world of victim blaming. Where victims are villainized, and the real villains walk free.

“I’m not sure what there is to say, Easton. Devereux is an asshole. One of the many who walk this earth. And, yeah, I’m fucking pissed. But what good does that do? It doesn’t make the assholes disappear. I’m not going to change who I am, how I act. I refuse to make myself small to make them more comfortable.”

“You’re really brave, Frank,” Easton whispers.