“Murphy, none of this is your fault. Tony is a douchebag and better you found that out now. Your roommates are back-stabbing sluts who you shouldn’t be living with. You have a few choices here. You could go back to Iowa, which you already said isn’t an option. Or you can make the best of the situation. You need to find a job and maybe another place to live.”

“Nobody is going to hire me looking like this.” She points to her face as if to add emphasis.

“Maybe not today, but my brother-in-law, Kyle—he’s a doctor here in the hospital—he said that after surgery, your appearance will rapidly improve, but you’ll have some restrictions about lifting things and leaning over. That may mean being a waitress is off the table for a while, but maybe there is something else we can come up with.”

“We?” she asks, skeptically.

“This is my fault, Murph. If there is any way I can help you, you can bet I’m going to do it.”

She looks at me sideways.

“What?” I ask.

“You called me Murph,” she says.

“Is that bad?”

“It’s just, nobody calls me that anymore. Only my mom and some of my childhood friends.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

She smiles. “No, it’s okay. I kind of like it. It reminds me of some good times in my life.”

“Well then, Murph,” I say with a teasing smile. “Tell me all about your job qualifications and we’ll see if we can come up with a plan.”

Chapter Six

Murphy

There are some advantages to not having a phone. Such as not being able to call my douche of an ex and scream at him. And not being able to text Kirsten and tell her what a slut she is. And not stupidly calling my agent, begging for any scrap of a job they would throw my way, even after she told me not to call until I was completely healed. In all those cases, I’m sure I would have said things I would later regret.

I still can’t wrap my head around what has happened to my life in a matter of two days.

I still can’t believe in a few hours, I have to go home and face my roommates. Maybe even face him—the douchebag ex.

Dr. Benson said I’m free to go today. He wants to see me again on Thursday to see how much the swelling has gone down, then he’ll decide on when to do my surgery. So, I’m pretty much out of commission for the next two weeks. What little savings I have will be quickly eaten up.

I was sure to keep enough money on hand for a plane ticket back to Iowa if I ever needed it. It was a crutch. A safety net. And, ironically, if I ever needed a crutch, a safety net, or a plane ticket out of here, it would be right now.

But something Caden said last night reminded me of what Kelly used to say. He said most people would never have the courage to go after their dreams. Kelly was the one who was always encouraging me to move to New York. She told me to not wait, because you never know what might happen in life. And in some sick, twisted, prophetic way, she was proven right.

Maybe this is my test. The hurdle I have to overcome to get what I want out of life. Maybe I need to give up the crutch and commit myself one hundred percent to making it on my own in the city I’ve always dreamed of.

A phone rings, plucking me from my thoughts, and I turn towards the sound to see Caden standing in my doorway. He looks at his phone and says, “Your mom is calling.”

He hands me the phone and I look down at it to see my mother’s face on the screen. I look up at him, confused. “What?”

He nods to the phone. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“Uh, no,” I say, looking at him like he’s crazy. “And why is my mom calling your phone. And why do you have her listed as ‘Mom’?”

“She’s not calling my phone. She’s calling your phone.”

“My phone?” I look over to the corner of the room where I threw my phone last night and see that it’s missing. “I don’t understand.”

“I took your broken phone in and had it replaced. Luckily, they were able to transfer all your contacts and data.”

My jaw drops. “You got me a new phone?”

“It was the least I could do, Murph.”

I try not to smile at his use of my nickname. “But I can’t possibly pay you back right away. Those things are expensive.”

“It’s my treat, considering I’m the reason you broke it in the first place.”

I scold him with my stare. “Caden, I wish you’d quit saying that. It wasn’t your fault.”

He shrugs off my words. “I hope you don’t mind, I added a new contact.”

I look down and scroll through my short list of contacts to see one labeled ‘#8.’

“What’s number eight?” I ask.

He walks over to the pile of gifts he brought me on Friday and pulls out the jersey, turning it around. On the back, it has Caden’s last name and under it, the number 8.

“Oh,” I say, embarrassed that I didn’t even pay enough attention to realize that was his jersey, and number eight was his number.

He chuckles. “You really do hate baseball, don’t you?”

“I don’t hate it, I just don’t understand it. It’s like physics—another subject I don’t know anything about but also seems complicated and useless.”

“Are you calling baseball complicated and useless? I think Mickey Mantle and Jackie Robinson just rolled over in their graves.”

“Who are Mickey Mantle and Jackie Robinson?”

A rich, throaty laugh bellows out of him. “Oh, Lord. I guess I have a lot to teach you.” He walks over to put the jersey down and pick up the tickets. “And I’m going to start teaching you on the 29th. That’s when you’ll come to a game.”

He hands me the tickets and I look at them as if they will bite me. I vehemently shake my head back and forth until my face protests in angry pain.

He must see the horror in my expression. He puts a hand on my arm to calm me. “Don’t worry, Murph. These are VIP tickets. You’ll be in a suite. Behind glass walls.”

I breathe out an audible sigh. “Oh, okay.” I shrug. “I’ll have to see.”

“What’s there to see?” he asks. “There will be free food, free booze, and no possible chance of getting hit by my home run ball.”

My lips turn up into a small smile. “You sound pretty confident. Do you hit one every game?”

“Ha! I wish. Let’s see, we play about one hundred and sixty-two games a season. This season is almost over and I just hit my twenty-sixth home run. That’s far from hitting one every game. Even the best home-run hitters don’t usually hit more than forty to fifty a season.” He smiles proudly. “And there you go, your first baseball lesson.”

“Lesson?” I ask.

He nods. “I’ve made it my mission to make you a fan. And to do that, you need to learn the game.”

“Isn’t that what Google is for?” I ask.

He furrows his brows. “Learning baseball from the internet? No way, you have to do it in person.” He points to the tickets in my hand. “And you can start in three weeks.”

I study the tickets. The game will be a couple weeks after my surgery. Dr. Benson said my face will be much better by then. And I’ll probably need the free food considering I’ll be living on ramen noodles until I can find a job. But then I realize there are two tickets. I don’t have someone I can take with me. Not anymore. There is not a single person in New York City that I can call my friend.

I am so pathetic.

I hand the tickets back to him. “It would be too awkward. I don’t have anybody to bring with me.”

He gets out his phone and taps on the screen a few times. Then he pours me a cup of water. Then his phone vibrates and he reads his text and smiles.

“I have a sister, Lexi. She’s two years older than me and she loves baseball. She’ll go with you.”

“Your sister? What? No, I couldn’t possibly—”

He shoves his phone at me and makes me read the text. “It says right here she would love to. Trust me, you don’t want to disappoint my sister. She’s married to a doctor and has two little kids, so you can believe it when I tell you she needs a night out.”

“I … I guess. If you really think it wouldn’t be a bother.”

“There’s not a doubt in my mind. You’ll love her. Lexi is great.”

“Lexi is a beautiful name. How old is she?”

He gives me a cocky smile. “It’s short for Alexa. And is that your way of asking me how old I am, Murphy Brown?”

“Uh, no,” I say, sure a blush is creeping up my face.

Maybe.

Okay, yes.

But only because he’s the only MLB player I’ve ever met and I’m curious.

“And who’s Murphy Brown?”

“You don’t watch many reruns, do you?” He laughs. “Anyway, Lexi is twenty-seven and that makes me twenty-five. And now that you know my age, you have to tell me yours.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“Good to know,” he says. He points to my new phone. “I want you to text me and let me know when you get scheduled for surgery. I’m heading out of town this afternoon and won’t be back for almost a week.”

“You want me to text you?” I stare at him like he’s crazy. Even though I don’t like baseball, I understand that he must be somewhat of a celebrity. I mean, after he left the past few times, the nurses were going crazy over the fact that he was here. Why would he want me to text him? Doesn’t he get texts from hundreds of people every day?

“Yes. I do.” He taps his pocket where his phone resides. “If you don’t, I’ll just have to call you. Or get my brother-in-law to break the rules and look at your records for your home address.”

I blow out a sigh. “Fine. I’ll text you.”

He shakes his head in wonder.