stretched across the front: Bayfront Stadium. Home of the Blue Wahoos. How many times had Tyler parked in this spot and walked through the player entrance of that building? Each time he had told himself the same thing: This was a chapter in his story, a steppingstone to the Big Show. Better than Dayton but still not where he expected to be six years after the draft.
His shoulder felt like flames were coming from it. Tyler gripped his right elbow and wondered if doctors ever did shoulder surgeries out of the goodness of their heart. He pulled his keys from his pocket and clicked open the door of his Dodge Charger. The car still turned heads, the wheels still among the nicest on the road.
Lot of good that did him now.
Tyler slid behind the wheel carefully, but even still he bumped his right elbow and cried out, “I can’t do this!” He froze in place, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for the white-hot pain to let up. Even a little. How was he supposed to drive without his right arm? Slowly he sank back against the leather seat and pulled his phone from his pocket. Hecalled up Safari and searched Cost of Shoulder Surgery . Several figures appeared in the results. The average seemed to be around twelve thousand dollars.
The amount he made a year with the Blue Wahoos.
He stared at the steering wheel. Okay, Tyler, you can do this. You can drive to the store and get your pills. Come on.
All his life he had driven with his right hand. Now he felt awkward if not unsafe as he made his way to the drugstore. He paid $39.71 for the prescription of Oxycodone. In a hurry, he struggled back to his car, found another water bottle, and downed two pills. There. He couldn’t drive once the meds took effect, but he needed them now. In a careful move, he shut his car door and rested against the vehicle. He closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sun. How fast would the medication help? Work fast . . . please work. His entire body trembled from the battering effect of his shattered shoulder.
A few minutes passed and he opened his eyes. He couldn’t stay here. People walking by were starting to give him strange looks. He directed his attention to the back of the store. Boxes. That’s what he needed. Clutching his right elbow to his body, Tyler lumbered toward the Dumpster, grabbed half a dozen empty boxes, and managed to get them into his trunk. He had no idea what tomorrow held, but he knew he had to figure out his living situation fast. Before he ran out of money.
Back at home, he shoved the pain pills in his pocket and carried the boxes up to his room. Tyler’s landlady was a woman in her fifties. She and her husband lived on the main level of the small two-story 1970s house. Tyler had the upstairs.The ceilings weren’t high and both walls slanted in along the roofline. Tyler was six feet, two inches tall, so as long as he stayed in the middle of the room he had plenty of clearance. His window faced due south, toward the ocean, with a view of trees and blue sky.
The room had been home since Tyler moved to Pensacola.
He found Mrs. Cook in the front room reading. She looked up when he walked in. “Tyler, you look better than you did yesterday.” She stood and moved a stack of magazines off the sofa so Tyler could sit down. “I read in the paper about your shoulder. I’m sorry.”
Again he thought about praying. He needed a miracle. If You’re there, God, I could use a little help. He steadied himself, aware of the pain pills in his left pocket as he sat down. “The Blue Wahoos . . . they cut me.” Tyler looked at her, hoping for kindness. “I don’t have insurance.” A sad laugh came from somewhere inside his heart. “I need surgery, so yeah. Not sure what I’m going to do.”
Mrs. Cook let that set in for a long moment. She lowered her brow, concerned. “That’s terrible.”
“I’ll figure it out.” He hated this, hated feeling like a victim. “Anyway, I need to talk to you about the
His shoulder felt like flames were coming from it. Tyler gripped his right elbow and wondered if doctors ever did shoulder surgeries out of the goodness of their heart. He pulled his keys from his pocket and clicked open the door of his Dodge Charger. The car still turned heads, the wheels still among the nicest on the road.
Lot of good that did him now.
Tyler slid behind the wheel carefully, but even still he bumped his right elbow and cried out, “I can’t do this!” He froze in place, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for the white-hot pain to let up. Even a little. How was he supposed to drive without his right arm? Slowly he sank back against the leather seat and pulled his phone from his pocket. Hecalled up Safari and searched Cost of Shoulder Surgery . Several figures appeared in the results. The average seemed to be around twelve thousand dollars.
The amount he made a year with the Blue Wahoos.
He stared at the steering wheel. Okay, Tyler, you can do this. You can drive to the store and get your pills. Come on.
All his life he had driven with his right hand. Now he felt awkward if not unsafe as he made his way to the drugstore. He paid $39.71 for the prescription of Oxycodone. In a hurry, he struggled back to his car, found another water bottle, and downed two pills. There. He couldn’t drive once the meds took effect, but he needed them now. In a careful move, he shut his car door and rested against the vehicle. He closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sun. How fast would the medication help? Work fast . . . please work. His entire body trembled from the battering effect of his shattered shoulder.
A few minutes passed and he opened his eyes. He couldn’t stay here. People walking by were starting to give him strange looks. He directed his attention to the back of the store. Boxes. That’s what he needed. Clutching his right elbow to his body, Tyler lumbered toward the Dumpster, grabbed half a dozen empty boxes, and managed to get them into his trunk. He had no idea what tomorrow held, but he knew he had to figure out his living situation fast. Before he ran out of money.
Back at home, he shoved the pain pills in his pocket and carried the boxes up to his room. Tyler’s landlady was a woman in her fifties. She and her husband lived on the main level of the small two-story 1970s house. Tyler had the upstairs.The ceilings weren’t high and both walls slanted in along the roofline. Tyler was six feet, two inches tall, so as long as he stayed in the middle of the room he had plenty of clearance. His window faced due south, toward the ocean, with a view of trees and blue sky.
The room had been home since Tyler moved to Pensacola.
He found Mrs. Cook in the front room reading. She looked up when he walked in. “Tyler, you look better than you did yesterday.” She stood and moved a stack of magazines off the sofa so Tyler could sit down. “I read in the paper about your shoulder. I’m sorry.”
Again he thought about praying. He needed a miracle. If You’re there, God, I could use a little help. He steadied himself, aware of the pain pills in his left pocket as he sat down. “The Blue Wahoos . . . they cut me.” Tyler looked at her, hoping for kindness. “I don’t have insurance.” A sad laugh came from somewhere inside his heart. “I need surgery, so yeah. Not sure what I’m going to do.”
Mrs. Cook let that set in for a long moment. She lowered her brow, concerned. “That’s terrible.”
“I’ll figure it out.” He hated this, hated feeling like a victim. “Anyway, I need to talk to you about the
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