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“Come on, Mohan. What’s it gonna take to get you on the team?”
It is not the first time Parker has asked the question. Could be the last, though, depending on Samira’s answer, but they both know what she’s going to say.
Sure enough: “I’ve never played before,” Samira reminds her.
Parker is decidedly unfazed. “Not what I asked. You’ve got great hand-eye coordination — no point in denying it, I’ve seen you place an ET tube — and that’s basically the whole thing. Look,” she sighs, “I’ll level with you. The Night Crawlers could really use the boost on Saturday now that Al-Hashimi’s joined The Daze. I was hoping she might just be a benchwarmer, but that Lulu isn’t just for show. She can run. And her arms . . .”
She cuts her yearning short at Samira’s raised eyebrow.
“You know what, fine.” Parker’s gaze travels to a spot over Samira’s shoulder, and her expression goes from pursed to something wilier. “I’ll just get Abbot on it then,” she says, far more knowingly than Samira would like, then stalks off to check on her patient in South 15.
“Get Abbot on what?”
Samira turns to find Jack leaning against the nurses’ station, studying her closely. She makes a face. “Ah – I believe she means recruiting.”
There’s a beat, then he puts the dots together. “Softball not your thing?”
She shrugs. “Yes and no? I mean, I understand it. Anthropologically. Theoretically.” It hadn’t been uncommon for appa to have a Yankees game on — not out of any particular fondness for baseball, but because he believed familiarity with the ‘great American pastime’ was a necessary part of assimilation. And there had been an advanced math field trip to a minor league game in middle school. But aside from that, and aside from the cousin whose backyard tee set she only rarely got to touch, courtesy of amma’s fear that she’d hurt herself, her practical experience was nought. “I’ve just never actually swung a bat or hit a ball, so I’d almost certainly be the opposite of the ‘boost’ you guys are looking for.”
Jack nods, considering. Eventually he chimes back in with, “Any interest in learning more-than-theoretically?”
She huffs out a laugh. “What, you gonna teach me?” she jokes, indulging him. There’s a non-zero chance he’s just teasing; that’s the rapport they have now, much to her delight. Still, this is precious free time they’re talking about, and off of hospital grounds to boot. That was markedly different from coffees and niche articles left for the other at shift change, or even lingering on park benches after everyone else had left, all done within the bounds of the Pitt.
But Jack just grins.
“This is a teaching hospital, is it not?”
- Jack
- You've got 72 off soon, right?
- Samira
- yes! thursday through saturday
- Jack
-
Turbo Training Facility・5300 Perry Hwy Rear, Pittsburgh, PA 15229app.goo.gl
- Your education is extremely important to me, Mohan. Meet you here Thursday at 8 pm?
- Samira
- it's a date 🫡 🥎
Samira Mohan is a normal, well-adjusted person, which means that she does her normal, well-adjusted due diligence and Googles a few things before Thursday evening: namely, “main differences between baseball and softball,” “softball positions explained,” and, most importantly, “what to wear to batting cage.”
(It wasn’t often these days that she tried something new; trying something new meant the risk of failure, or of making a fool out of herself, and she merely wanted as many predictable variables as she could get.
If there was one person she felt safe being that particular brand of vulnerable around, though, it was Jack Abbot.)
The cobalt blue matching set she normally saves for yoga must be the right choice if the way Jack looks at her now is any indication. His gaze never strays as he pushes off the wall and greets her with a one-armed hug. “You know, for a moment there, I wasn’t sure you were gonna show.”
“Please.” She bumps his shoulder with hers. “I wouldn’t stand you up, Abbot, no matter how nervous I am.”
He chuckles. “Good to know,” he says, honey-smooth. “There’s no need for nerves, though, promise. You’re such a fast learner, but there’s no benchmark you need to meet. Tonight’s just about giving you some tips and tricks so you don’t go in blind.”
“To be clear, I haven’t said I’m going in anywhere,” she chirps.
“Right, of course.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Purely hypothetical.”
They start off with catching. Easy enough once she gets used to the proportions of the glove, and if trying and failing to ignore the bulge of Jack’s biceps in a shirt she’s certain is at least one size too small can be considered easy. She throws a couple passes, too, even though Parker is the Crawlers’ designated pitcher, just to get a hang of the weight of the ball.
Finally, after a break to procure beers from concessions in an attempt to fend off the dense humidity, they move to a cage to practice hitting. She’s done crics and clamshell thoracotomies, has treated a brain bleed with an EZ-IO, has even removed air from a heart with a 5 French pigtail catheter — yet her nervous system can’t tell the difference between literal matters of life and death and being handed a wooden bat.
“You don’t want to grip it too hard,” Jack says, eying her knuckles. “You just want to shake hands with it.” She loosens her hold accordingly. “Good. Now, if you retain just one thing about hitting, it’s that we want to go hips before hands.”
Samira feels more than sees him step in close; it may be hot out, but the heat from his body is unmistakable. Her pulse hummingbirds loudly in her ears at the proximity. Are they broadcasting her heartbeat over the PA? It certainly seems so, especially when he asks, voice low,
“Can I touch you?”
“Yes.”
The single word reply is breathier than she intends. This close, there’s no hiding his ensuing sharp inhale.
Slowly, gently, his hands come to rest on her hips. He clears his throat. “What I mean by that is that when you swing, you’re gonna want to step forward just enough to transfer your weight from your back foot to your front, then rotate your body, then bring your hands around. Hips before hands: that’s all we’re thinking,” he says — like speaking it might make it real when instead, their thoughts are everywhere else as he closes the miniscule distance that remains between them and fits his hips to hers. “Hips . . .” and he turns them together, “before hands. Got it?”
Samira hums her understanding, not trusting her voice any more than that.
“One more time.” Jack guides her hips more confidently now. Clinically, even; or it would be, if not for the subtle but unmistakable shape pressing against her sacrum, and – was that –
“What is it?” he prompts.
She swallows. “Hips before hands.”
“Good. You’re going to want to look at your hands on the bat, but I want you to try to keep your eye on the ball instead, okay? Like riding a bike - you want to look at the road in front of you, not at your feet on the pedals. You can trust that they’re there. You can trust your body.”
There’s a sheen of sweat collecting on her chest, but Samira shivers, proof contradictory: her body was traitorous in what it did, what it wanted.
“Then we’re just going to make contact. We’re not going to think; we’re just going to let it fly. You ready, Mohan?” He stacks his hands above and below hers on the handle of the bat. “Here we go.”
There’s a whir right before the pitching machine releases a ball. They swing together —
— and watch as it goes foul.
“Not bad, rookie,” he says into her ear. “You made contact, that’s good. Let’s go again, but this time, spread your legs a little more. You want them shoulder-width apart.” He nudges at her feet with his own to adjust her stance, nodding when she rocks back and forth a little, testing her bearing. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Another whir, another ball. Sure enough, her swing, their swing, feels more stable and translates to a connection that sends the ball forward into the netting with a satisfying crack.
“There she is. Solid work,” Jack rumbles.
“Now, what you may find as you concentrate on hitting the ball is that the rest of the world, all your everyday concerns, just fade away.
“Your mother and her boyfriend.”
Crack.
“Manuscript submissions.”
Crack.
“Fellowship deadlines.”
A pause, and then: “How to tell your colleague you have feelings for her but don’t want to jeopardize the relationship you currently have by admitting it.”
Samira misses the next ball entirely.
“Well,” Jack adds demurely, “I suppose that last one is mine, not yours.”
She whips off her helmet and turns to face him then, her eyes as bright as the stars studding the sky overhead.
“Dr. Abbot?” she breathes.
“Really think you can call me Jack,” he says softly, his own helmet in hand.
“Jack,” she whispers, right before pressing her lips to his.
He’s right, she confirms.
The rest of the world does, in fact, fade away.
“Holy shit, you actually came!” Samira looks up in time to see Parker bounding over to her from the bleachers, waving an extra jersey. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
The Saturday morning sun beams down on them as Samira takes the article of clothing from her and slips it on over her head.
“What can I say?”
In her mind’s eye: a flash of capable hands, thick forearms caging her in. There’s a pleasant ache in her thighs that she’ll be running off around the bases if she’s lucky.
“Dr. Abbot is very convincing.”