“It’s a good thing to be,” he slurs. “You won’t end up all alone like me.”
Oh my. Anesthesia is its own kind of truth serum, and he’s still under the influence. “How’s your pain?”
“Fine. I’m a tough old stone, Heidi. Probably out for the season, though.”
“What? That’s terrible!”
He doesn’t answer. He just pats me clumsily on the head.
While he dozes, I pull out my laptop and get to work trying to figure out how to solve Jason’s Western Union problem. I have his credit card in my pocket, as well as an email and the scribbled destination, torn from the magazine. I can do the whole transaction online, although it doesn’t work the way he thought. There’s nowhere to input the pickup location.
“Bayer?” I ask.
“Hmmm?”
“Do you know how Western Union works?”
“Is that a hockey team?”
I’m taking that as a no. So I do some more research and figure it out myself. Then I email Jason.
To: Jason Castro
From: Heidi Jo Pepper
Sir—Western Union doesn’t work exactly the way that you implied. You don’t need to give them a pickup destination. Instead, you need to tell Mrs. Jolene Skinner to bring her ID to any Western Union location and give them tracking number KP7742-11.
Paying with a credit card cost you $26. Sorry. They asked me if I wanted to charge the recipient for the fee and I said no. I figure I’ll just spend $26 less on your grocery list. Those blueberry waffles you asked for have too much sugar anyway.
Beat Denver.
Your humble servant, HJP
The nurses come back to Bayer’s bedside and lift the bed to a sitting position. He gives me a wobbly grin and a thumbs-up.
“Once you’re taking liquids, and you’re able to urinate, we can send you home,” the head nurse says.
“Roger that.” His eyelids drift closed.
I get an email from Jason not five minutes later.
From: Jason Castro
To: Heidi Jo Pepper
Thank you so much for handling the wire transfer! I really appreciate it—and it’s fine that I paid the $26. I felt like a dick for forgetting to handle it myself. But I got really distracted Saturday night. It’s basically your fault, now that I think about it.
That’s a joke, okay? And it had better be a joke that you’re saving money on waffles. What is the point of shopping for me if you’re leaving out my favorite things?
—JC
From: Heidi Jo Pepper
To: Jason Castro
I’m great! I’m super busy getting everything the players asked for, and looking at apartments in Queens and the Bronx.
The waffles will appear and so will your dry cleaning. They couldn’t get the pizza stain out of your red tie, but honestly the world is better off without that old thing. You’re replacing it with something nicer from Barneys.
You also need some new shirts. Just saying. The blue striped one is particularly ragged. What’s your shirt budget, is $2000 too much?
—H
From: Jason Castro
To: Heidi Jo Pepper
$2000? You can’t be serious. And don’t toss the striped shirt! We beat Dallas twice when I was wearing that. Seriously, don’t toss it. Don’t toss anything. I don’t know which tie you mean because they all have pizza stains. The one with kittens on it is lucky against Tampa.
Leave the clothes alone, okay?
—J
I let out a cackle.
“What’s so funny?” Bayer asks in a perkier voice.
“Jason Castro is the most gullible man in sports. It’s a miracle his opponents don’t deke him on every single play.”
Bayer tips his head to the side and studies me. “I think he’s a cynical kid. Reminds me of myself. Except where you’re concerned, maybe.”
I squint at him. “I don’t know what you mean.” Those meds are still impairing his brain. And now my phone is ringing, and I have to dive into my bag to shut it up before the nurses eject me. And it’s him!
“Hello?” I whisper into the receiver. “Jason?”
“Heidi? Why are you whispering?”
Oh my. A now familiar tingle rolls over me as Jason’s deep voice reaches me from afar. “I’m in a very posh store,” I whisper. “On Fifth Avenue. Did you know there were silk ties with actual gold threads in them? They’re beautiful. I think you should buy one. Five grand isn’t too much, right?”
“For a tie?” There’s horror in his voice. “My clothes are fine, Heidi. I just need the dry cleaning. Don’t throw anything away. I know some of my things are looking worn, but you won’t know which ones are lucky.”
“You, sir,” I whisper, “are hilarious. And it’s a little too much fun to tease you. I’m not going to throw away a single thing. I was kidding about that.”
He exhales into the phone. “Okay, thank you. And also thanks for taking care of that other thing even though I gave you shitty instructions.”
“It’s my pleasure, Jason Castro.” And, whoops! That comes out sounding flirty and dangerous. I need to dial it down.
He lets out a sound that might be a groan. “I better go. You take care of yourself.”
“Oh, I will. Are you sure you don’t want a purple silk tie with little golden stripes…”
“No,” he says briskly. “O’Doul is waving me down.”
“Bye, killer.”
“Bye, Hot Pepper.”
Bayer is grinning at me and sipping water through a straw. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“What’s the deal with you and Castro?” Bayer asks immediately.
“Nothing.” My voice cracks on the word, because I’m a terrible liar. “Why?”
He rolls his eyes, and I’m pleased to see a little color returning to his face. “He can never stop staring at you, for starters. And why did he sound like a stammering teenager on the phone just now?”
I give him a stern look. “Don’t eavesdrop on my calls, or I won’t spring you from this hospital.”
He laughs again.
Pro athletes are not to be underestimated. Who else can be charming and infuriating ten minutes post-op?
After another hour, Bayer passes all the nurses’ tests, including a very slow trip to the men’s room on crutches. “Don’t watch me walk away,” he says as they ease him off the bed.
“Why not…oh.” I get a glimpse of his bare ass through the open halves of the hospital gown.
“Your girlfriend can wait outside now,” the nurse says. “You’ll be out of here in thirty minutes tops.”
Bayer cackles as he shuffles towards the john. “Be honest. Do you think she’s too young for me?” He gives me a wink over his shoulder.
“No comment,” the nurse says.
Eventually, we’re set free. I get a taxi for Bayer, his new crutches, his pain medication, and ten pages of instructions. Bayer grits his teeth every time the car goes over a little bump in the asphalt. But he looks a lot happier as we ride the elevator inside the Million Dollar Dorm.
Luckily, Bayer lives on the third floor—the same one as Jason and Silas. That’ll make it easy for me to keep an eye on him tonight. But when we walk into his apartment, I see that it’s configured completely differently. Bayer has a duplex—there’s a set of spiral stairs up to his loft bedroom.
“Wow, this is super cool,” I gush, turning around in the open space. “But you can’t climb those stairs tonight.” And tomorrow doesn’t look good, either.
He crutches into the center of the living area. “I have the sofa.”
“Does it fold out?”
“Sure does.”
Still. My own knee throbs in sympathy at the idea of six-three Bayer on a sofa bed. “Tonight I’ll help you set it up. But first let’s find you some lunch. Could you eat?”
“Always,” he says.
I get him situated in a chair with a footstool propping up his knee. Then I order lunch from the ramen place near the waterfront.
We eat noodles together in companionable silence. “You don’t have to babysit me, kid,” he says as he takes a sip of the ice water I brought him. “This isn’t my first knee surgery.”
“I know that. And I promise you I’m leaving for a few hours to do some work for my boys. But I’m right down the hall. I’ll be over later to change the bandages.”