LITMIR.BIZ

      Four

      Buck peered through the keyhole on the door and recognized Monk Frederick, then swore when he saw Steve Grissom standing beside him. Although he counted Monk as one of his best friends, he knew he didn’t come in friendship if he was with Grissom. Instead, he’d be wearing his Jacks management hat. Dropping his head with a tired groan, Buck debated whether or not to ignore them until they went away. But even if they left, they’d try again tomorrow and the day after that. Sooner or later, he’d have to let them in and hear them out.

      “Can I get y’all a beer?” he asked after ushering them into the den.

      “Nothing for me.” Grissom was known to be a teetotaler.

      “Same here, Buck,” Monk said with a nod at the crutches Buck was using. “Take a load off. You don’t need to be walking around on that knee.”

      “It’s okay.” But he shuffled over to a recliner and after placing his crutches where he could grab them in a hurry, he carefully sat down. “I take it this isn’t a social call,” he said.

      In Grissom’s line of work, crabby and ailing athletes were a given, so he spoke in a tone meant to soothe. “Just checking on how you’re doing, Buck. With a concussion, you can’t be too careful. In fact, after I look at that knee and have a chance to judge the extent of your injury, I’m thinking of recommending a trainer around the clock for you.” He hardly paused at Buck’s muffled oath. “That way, there would be less chance of you doing further damage if you should fall or…” he paused, cleared his throat, “I mean, with Anne having left, it’s risky to be alone with that kind of injury.”

      Buck shot Monk an accusing look. “How is it that folks know I’m alone?”

      Monk’s big shoulders rose in a shrug. “Not from me and not from Marcie, so be cool. You ought to know that you’re too big a celebrity to have any privacy, Buck. Anybody could have seen Anne at the airport—without you. Words gets around.”

      “Shit.” He turned his head and gazed out the window.

      “So—” Grissom was on his feet now. “You don’t object to me taking a look, do you?”

      As much as Buck longed to, refusing was not an option. He was an owned asset of the Jacks and Grissom was here to inspect their property, after which he would report back to Gus Schrader about whether or not a multimillion-dollar investment was going south. Buck did his best not to wince as Grissom poked and probed and prodded. Then, as he pressed a certain spot, Buck nearly came up out of the chair.

      “Holy shit, Steve!”

      “That’s where I’d inject steroid ordinarily,” Grissom muttered, unmoved by Buck’s agony. Frowning in thought, he rose and stood with his arms crossed. “Steroid would be only a short-term solution, of course, but in the long run…no, I don’t think so.”

      “Short term sounds good to me,” Buck said, shaken at the thought of an extended leave of absence. “I’ll worry about long-term stuff later.”

      Grissom gave a stiff smile. “Fortunately, Buck, that decision isn’t up to you.”

      Buck had been miserable before the two men showed up at his front door, but he was ten times worse after they were gone. He was shaken by Steve’s stubborn refusal to do a quick fix. In spite of everything Buck could think of to argue otherwise, he’d hung tough. Steve’s official report would land on Schrader’s desk within the hour. With the season starting soon, sitting out could mean the death of his career.

      He accepted that Jacks’ management worried over their investment and were concerned for his rehabilitation, but he discounted everything else they said now that he knew they were recommending an extended leave of absence to get him on his feet again. It sounded like a kiss-off. No doubt about it, unless he made a startling recovery, his career was in jeopardy.

      He reached for the handle on the side of the recliner and pulled up to a sitting position. Just that small movement triggered searing pain that went hot and deep. With his teeth set, he groped for his crutches and painfully managed to get on his feet. For a second, the room spun, reminding him that he’d also suffered a concussion.

      Propped on his crutches with his vision blurred and his knee throbbing, he made his way cautiously out of the den and across the vast foyer, splendid in Italian marble, heading for the kitchen. By the time he reached the butler’s pantry, he was sweating and feeling a little sick. He’d been injured many times, but mostly stayed away from painkillers. But this time, between the knee and the concussion, he’d been desperate for relief and it was telling on him now.

      At the pantry he stood thinking. He wasn’t washed up yet, by God. A few weeks favoring his knee and he’d pick up where he left off…provided they didn’t put him out to pasture as Steve Grissom might recommend and as the powers that be might sanction. Grissom was not known for his creativity as regards rehab, so any plan he devised would be traditional, slow to achieve results and in the end, possibly not particularly

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