Thrown by a Curve by Jaci Burton
This book is dedicated to the amazing people at Summit Physical Therapy, especially Bret, my therapist, who worked so diligently on my shoulder for so many months so I could continue to do my job. I think you’re all miracle workers and I appreciate everything you do. And thanks for all the sometimes painful, but useful, hands-on learning.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my editor, Kate Seaver, and my agent, Kimberly Whalen, for their unwavering dedication to making a book rock hard. Y’all are my saviors. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Special Preview of One Sweet Ride
ONE
GARRETT SCOTT SAT IN THE ST. LOUIS RIVERS THERAPY room facing an entire team of sports medicine specialists, all wearing looks of doom on their faces.
From the team doctor to the therapists who’d been working on his shoulder for the past six months, their faces said it all—he wasn’t ready to pitch yet.
He was tired of it. Tired of being molded and manipulated and poked and prodded like some kind of experiment. His shoulder wasn’t getting any better, and he still couldn’t throw a pitch. He was done. His career was over, and no amount of fake hopeful expressions would make him believe any differently.
“Let’s go over to the pulleys,” Max said. “If we increase the weight . . .”
“No. It’s not going to help. I don’t have my full range of motion, and no pulleys, no weighted balls, no water therapy, and no amount of stretching is going to get it back.”
“You don’t know that, Garrett,” Max said. As head of the sports medicine team, when Max had a plan, everyone listened. “We haven’t finished your therapy, and the season hasn’t started yet. There’s plenty of time.”
Phil, the team doctor, nodded. “Max is right. You haven’t given it enough time.”
Garrett glared at them both. “I said no. This has been going nowhere, and we all know it.”
Everyone started talking at once, but it was all white noise to him. They were blowing smoke up his ass about how he was going to pitch come April.
He’d heard it before, all the pats on the back and the encouragement that didn’t mean anything if you couldn’t get a ball across the plate. They were just words. Empty promises.
The only one who didn’t say anything was the woman hovering in the background. Dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, she wore the same team-color polo shirt and khaki pants as the men, and held a digital notebook. And she was giving him a look. A pissed-off one.
“You haven’t said anything,” he said, focusing his gaze on her. “What do you think?”
She blinked and held her notebook close to her chest. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not in charge of your recovery. There are people here with much more experience than me.”
“You’ve watched my therapy, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then what do you think?”
They all turned to her, watching and waiting. She finally shrugged. “I think your team is right. You’ll pitch.”
She moved forward, and he got a good look at her. Despite the ugly uniforms they all wore, she was pretty, one of the two women on the sports therapy team. He’d thought them interchangeable and hadn’t paid much attention, because they were both brunettes, just blurs passing by while he was doing therapy with Max and some of the other senior members of the team. Now that she was closer, he really noticed this one. She had stunning blue eyes and a pretty mouth; he was definitely paying attention now that she’d spoken.
“My arm is stiff.”
“Because you’re babying it, because you won’t give it your all. Your therapists know what they’re doing, but you fight them.”
As soon as she said it, her eyes widened. Max crossed his arms, and Garrett could tell he was pissed.
Garrett wasn’t. His lips quirked. “Go on.”
“Look, I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“Yeah, you did. You’ve sat back quietly for all these months, and you obviously have something on your mind. Spill it.”
She looked up at Max, who shook his head.
“Don’t look at him,” Garrett said. “Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
She sat next to him on the bench and laid her notebook down, her gaze lifting to his.
“Fine. You’re argumentative, confrontational, and a general pain in the ass to deal with. Honestly, no one wants to work with you because you fight your recovery. Half of healing is mental, and your head is the biggest obstacle to getting you back on the mound.”
Huh. He glanced up at the others, who did their best to look away. “I see.”
But when he turned back to—he had no idea what her name was. “What’s your name?”
“Alicia.”
“Okay, Alicia. You think you can make me a pitcher again?”