Triple Score. Regina Kyle

Sunday call, one they’d never missed in the ten years since Jace was drafted into the minors straight out of high school. 6:00 p.m. on the button unless Jace was on the field or in the air, and then he’d call as soon as the game was over or he touched down.

      “It’s nothing, really.”

      “C’mon, Dad. Whatever it is, it’s not nothing or you wouldn’t have called.” Jace sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “Are you hurt? Sick? Do you need me to come home?”

      “No, no and no,” his father insisted. “I told you, I don’t want you cutting your rehab short for me. I’m just a little low on cash is all.”

      Again? Jace wanted to scream. But this was his father, the man who’d made sure he was fed and clothed and got to school on time, who’d scrimped and saved so his son could attend baseball camp every summer. And Jace had more than enough disposable income. Who was he to deny his own flesh and blood?

      “How low?” he asked.

      “Well, the basement’s leaking and the refrigerator is on its last legs...”

      Already? He’d bought a practically brand-new house for his dad eight years ago when he was called up to the majors.

      “How low?” Jace repeated.

      There was a long pause before his father answered, and when he did his voice was barely a whisper. “Ten grand.”

      “For a leak and a fridge?” Jace spat out before he could stop himself.

      “The leak’s pretty bad. The whole basement’s underwater when it rains. They want to install a drainage system and a sump pump.”

      “They?”

      “The waterproofing company.”

      Jace sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “How soon do you need the cash?”

      “As soon as you can get it to me. The contractors want to start before the next big rain.”

      Jace glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 3:00 p.m. Still plenty of time to call the bank before it closed. “Okay. I’ll have the money transferred into your account this afternoon.”

      “Thanks, son. You’re a lifesaver.”

      “Love you, Dad. Talk to you Sunday.”

      Jace ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed next to him. He’d get to the bank in a few minutes.

      But first he was taking that damn shower.

      * * *

      NOELLE CRACKED THE door of the physical therapy room open and peeked inside.

      All clear. No Jace. It was crazy to hide from him like a scared rabbit. Her luck was bound to run out sooner or later. But she’d rather it be later. Much later.

      With a sigh of relief, she pushed the door open the rest of the way and limped inside.

      “Noelle.” Sara waved her over almost before she’d crossed the threshold. “Come meet our newest patient.”

      A boy who looked to be in his late teens sat on an exercise mat next to the kneeling Sara. One of his arms was missing below the elbow, the stump wrapped in a compression bandage.

      “This is Dylan,” Sara continued, sitting cross-legged in front of him and connecting a resistance band to a strap around his bicep. “We’re getting him ready for his prosthetic.”

      Dylan looked up at Noelle through long, sandy bangs. “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve only got one and it’s occupied at the moment.”

      “What have I told you about the amputee jokes?” Sara handed him the other end of the resistance band.

      “The more the merrier?” Dylan suggested with a sarcastic grin.

      “More like one is one too many,” Sara countered.

      Dylan rolled his eyes. “Hey, I might have lost my arm, but I haven’t lost my sense of humor.”

      “Good thing.” Noelle smiled in spite of herself. She liked this cocky kid. “You’re gonna need it in this place.”

      “Everyone’s a comedian.” Sara shook her head. “Dylan, this is Noelle. She’s an athlete, too.”

      “Oh, yeah?” He brushed his bangs out of his eyes to study her. “What’s your sport?”

      “Ballet.” She watched for some sign of disdain, but instead, he nodded and continued to stare at her, his expression serious. “What’s yours?”

      “Baseball.” His gaze shifted to his injured arm. “At least it was.”

      “Baseball?” Noelle caught Sara’s eye, at once acutely aware of who Dylan reminded her of. “Has he met...?”

      “Not yet,” Sara said, cutting her off with a warning glare. “But soon. I hope.”

      “Met who?” Dylan asked.

      “Never you mind. It’s a surprise for when you’re on your best behavior.” Sara stood and motioned for him to do the same. “Enough chit-chat. You’ve got your resistance bands, and you know how to use them. Get to work.”

      “Aye, aye, captain.” He marched off toward the far corner of the room, where the cable and pulley machines were located.

      “That’s what I like to hear.” Sara turned her attention to Noelle. “Let’s get you started on the stationary bike. Same speed as yesterday, but you can up the distance an extra half mile. Then we’ll do some range-of-motion exercises.”

      “Sure.” Noelle pressed her lips together, trying to hide her disappointment. She’d been on the damn bike for a week. She was hoping to graduate to something a little more challenging, like maybe the elliptical or even the treadmill. Oh, well. Like Little Orphan Annie said—or sang—there was always tomorrow.

      She started for the row of bikes but stopped when she saw a flash of silver under one of the benches. She bent and picked up a cell phone.

      “I think someone dropped this,” she said, holding it up.

      “Where did you find it?” Sara asked.

      “Under that bench,” Noelle answered, pointing.

      “Jace was there last. It must be his.” Sara looked around the busy room and frowned. “I hate to ask, but could you bring it to him?”

      Noelle flipped the phone over. Any hope she had that Sara was wrong was dashed by the sticker on the back of the case. Thor, complete with lightning bolt and baseball bat.

      The Storm logo.

      Of all the patients in this joint, why did it have to be his?

      “Now?” she asked.

      “If I know Jace, he’s already hunting for it. He said he had some calls to make.”

      Noelle swallowed hard, searching for an excuse—any excuse—to say no. She didn’t even care how ungracious she sounded. “What about my PT session?”

      Sara consulted a chart on the wall. “Come back in an hour. I’ll squeeze you in then.”

      “Isn’t there anyone else who can do it?” Christ, she sounded like a whiny five-year-old.

      Sara waved an arm, gesturing around the room. “Everyone else is otherwise occupied. Besides, you know where his room is.”

      “I...I do?” Noelle stammered. “I mean, I do, but how do you...?”

      “He told me you took my advice and apologized for listening in on us and thinking the worst.”

      “Oh.”

      “Yeah, oh.” Sara squinted at her. “You’re holding out on me.”

      “I