Out of His League. Cathryn Parry

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      “I have to go!”

      Elizabeth watched, gaping, as her sister hurried away down the corridor.

      “What time will you pick him up?” she called after her, but Ashley just waved her hand and disappeared around the corner.

      Now what?

      Elizabeth racked the logical side of her brain. Actually, her entire brain was logical. She dealt in facts, not “what if” flights of fancy.

      Fact one: Brandon needed to be escorted to his appointment. Thank goodness for the aides in the child care department. Of course she would normally accompany Brandon herself, but a patient receiving scheduled wrist surgery needed her care as his anesthesiologist.

      She quickly dropped off Brandon’s insurance cards at the Emergency Hospital Day Care, and then rushed back to her post.

      On the way, she passed the post-op room where Jon Farell would be recovering.

      She wanted to slow. She wanted to stop in and see how he was doing. Catch a glimpse of those ice-blue eyes.

      He might be lucid by now, and she had embarrassed herself enough already. Nearly losing her reserve and showing tears in front of a patient—it was so uncalled-for, so unlike her normal personality that the entire event had been...ludicrous.

      She was Dr. Elizabeth LaValley, and she did not drop her veil of privacy for anybody.

      Not even for men with understanding eyes and pheromones that smelled like heaven to her.

      * * *

      IN JON’S DREAM, he was sitting in a room, brightly lit by white light, on one side of a conference table. On the other side was a kindly, older man who looked familiar but who Jon couldn’t recall ever meeting. Max, his agent, was there, too, but he wasn’t speaking, he was just listening.

      Jon seemed to be having an earnest conversation; he was telling the man what he was doing in baseball. He was trying to explain why it was imperative that he be allowed to continue.

      “I’m not ready to stop,” Jon told the man. “I still have so much to do.”

      He said a lot more to the man, too, but as soon as Jon spoke the words, he seemed to forget what he’d just said. He was trying to concentrate, but it wasn’t possible.

      “I understand you,” the man said, something Jon clearly remembered. “It’s time to get serious.”

      Yes! Jon understood exactly what he meant. He’d been coasting for too long. If he worked harder, he would be allowed to continue playing pro ball. He would not have to stop this life that he loved so much.

      It’s time to get serious.

      The thought filled him with hope. Even Max seemed to agree.

      When Jon woke, his heart was pounding, the dream fresh on his mind. He knew exactly where he was. Inside a brightly lit recovery room. He felt groggy, his throat sore, his nonpitching hand numb. He looked down and saw it was bound in a thick bandage.

      He tried to sit up, but nausea swept over him. He put his head back down. All of a sudden, he heard a child’s voice whisper next to him, “You’re Jon Farell!”

      The nurse hustled over and bundled the child off.

      Jon turned his head right, then left. “Where’s Lizzy?” he asked thickly.

      “Lizzy? Is she the woman in the waiting area who keeps asking about you?” the nurse asked. “I told her that as soon as you eat some crackers and drink some ginger ale, we can call the doctor and get his okay to sign you out.”

      “No. I want Lizzy. My...other doctor.”

      “Dr. LaValley? She’s presently administering to a patient in surgery.”

      “I need to see her. Elizabeth...LaValley,” he enunciated as best he could, but his words were slurring.

      “That’s my aunt!” a voice piped up. It was the kid. The boy who’d recognized Jon.

      “Brandon,” the nurse said to the boy, “you know you’re supposed to be in the day care center.” She picked up her telephone and made a call.

      “Leave him,” Jon muttered weakly. He still felt so...sluggish yet full of purpose. He supposed dreams did that to people.

      No, not a dream, a vision. And it was so clear. He had to get out of here. Had to get started.

      The kid trotted over to his gurney. Jon blinked at him. Whatever medication they’d pumped him full of, he would be shaky for a while. He squinted, concentrating as hard as he could.

      The kid was about eight, Jon estimated, with sandy hair and those sneakers kids wore that lit up when they walked. He shrugged out of his backpack and grabbed for a pen.

      “Can I get your autograph?” the kid asked. He was missing one of his front eyeteeth.

      Or maybe Jon was hallucinating. “How do you know who I am?”

      “Everybody knows Jon Farell. You have twelve wins, eleven losses, a four-point-one-five season ERA, and one hundred forty-two strikeouts.”

      Huh. Jon didn’t even know all that. He usually ignored his stats.

      Those numbers weren’t great, though. He should be doing better. If he were honest with himself, he’d slacked off this summer. The playoffs had seemed a certainty, so maybe the team had socialized and hung out partying together more than they should have.

      He had a vague feeling that had been part of his dream. He wasn’t sure, but he thought they had touched on the topic....

      He struggled to sit up.

      “Hurry!” the kid whispered. “The nurse is coming back.”

      “Maybe you should get your aunt,” Jon said.

      “She’s in surgery.” The kid looked at him earnestly. “She’s a famous doctor.”

      “When I see her again,” Jon slurred. “I’ll give her an autograph for you to take home.”

      “You should drive to her house and give it to her there. I’m eating dinner at her house tonight. I’ll tell her you’re coming to see me.” The kid turned around so his back was to Jon. Dangling from the boy’s backpack was a cardboard address label, freshly filled out in blue ink. “That’s where she lives.”

      With Jon’s good hand—his pitching hand, which, thank God, felt fine—he drew the label closer, just out of curiosity. Dr. LaValley’s address was in Medford. Huh. That’s where he’d grown up. The vision meant something, but he’d known that before he even saw where Lizzy lived.

      He squinted at her street address. He was vaguely certain it was near the school he’d attended as a kid, but Jon’s GPS would know for sure. He dropped back on the bed.

      “Brandon! Leave the patients alone!”

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