A/N: Wow, I can't believe I made it to 987 reviews! Not in my wildest dreams did I ever think that many kind people would leave me words of encouragement. Thank you! I'm pretty sure I'll break 1000 after this chapter. I predict that quite a few of you may have some things to get of your chest…

Thanks again to my pre-reader, Cejsmom.

Chapter 16

True to my word, on Tuesday, I contacted Dr. Ateara, the Chief of Staff for Texas Orthopedic Hospital. His secretary, Claire, seemed excited to hear from me and urged me to schedule a time for my interview right away.

"Dr. Swan, we've been really hoping to hear from you. You come highly recommended," she told me flatteringly. I figured she was referring to Jacob, and I felt a surge of fondness for my old friend.

"Well, I've been working with a client receiving his therapy at Whitlock and Associates, and I'm very impressed with your facility," I told her honestly. She let out a slightly unprofessional sound that bordered on a squeal.

"So, we'll see you next Wednesday evening around 5 pm," she confirmed. I assured her, that I looked forward to it.

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Carlisle's ill temper continued into the week. On Friday, he went out of his way to remind me that he and Siobahn were flying to New Orleans that night for the weekend. That's when I realized he was annoyed with me over the Esme Platt situation and trying to make a point. He succeeded but not the way he intended.

I happened to know that Carlisle hated New Orleans and crowds in general. Siobahn knew it too, but she was constantly forcing Carlisle to do things her way. The circumstances were never reversed. A colleague had given him box tickets to the opera last season, and he had been so excited to go, but Siobahn had refused. Rosalie and I had ended up in the seats instead.

The thought of stuffy, timid Carlisle on Bourbon Street, wincing every time someone bumped into him and carefully stepping over rancid puddles, made me more determined than ever not to end up like him. My life needed a major makeover, and I would start by seeking closure with Edward. I hoped by the end of our therapy sessions we could actually discuss what happened all those years ago.

The weekend was consumed by my faculty call at Ben Taub on Saturday. We were busy overnight, actually going to the OR twice. The senior resident did a superb job on an infected knee joint wash out, but I had to take over and do most of the open tibia fracture repair. I was concerned that he was a little behind for this time of year. I made a mental note to mention it to the Residency Director.

I didn't get home until Sunday afternoon, and it was a struggle to stay awake until my regular bedtime. But I wanted to be fresh on Monday for my time in the OR and especially for my trip to Minute Maid Park. I texted Edward to make sure we were still on before I went to bed. It was a thrill to scroll through my contacts to his recently added name and actually send something to him. To be honest, I had scrolled through a number of times earlier in the week just to admire it there. Edward replied almost instantly.

"Just text me when you're ready," the message said. I stared at it for a while and considered sending something back, but I forced myself to go to bed instead. The sooner I was asleep, the sooner the next day would come.

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Carlisle seemed tired and distracted in the OR on Monday morning, no doubt from his weekend of forced debauchery. I pondered how he would look on a Monday morning after a weekend of doubles tennis at the Club with the Platt family. Tan and relaxed, I decided, and I felt sorry for him.

I benefitted from his sad state by being allowed to do the majority of all the cases. Since I was well prepared, I performed well, and he granted me a small smile when we were done. I knew we needed to discuss the tension between us, and I probably owed him an apology, but I was too anxious about seeing Edward again and vowed that I would do it the next day.

I was excited to spend time with Edward, but also a little nervous about being seen getting into his car. But, we weren't socializing, I reminded myself. This was strictly professional, and any VIP might offer up something like this tour as a thank you. While I knew that was all true, I also knew my feelings for him were not professional. But I would keep that to myself like I always did.

After Carlisle and I left the PACU for the final time, I returned quickly to the fellows' office and pulled out my phone. I had already decided to leave on my scrubs for the session and tour. That way security would have no doubt that I was a medical professional. I took a deep breath and texted Edward.

"Finished in the OR. Ready whenever is convenient," I wrote. He replied right away.

"On my way. Employee entrance to McNair," his message read. I was confused at first until I remembered that he had been ushered out that way after his initial visit at the Baylor clinic. I knew he said it would take him twenty minutes to get there, but I went to stand by the door immediately anyway.

Eighteen minutes later, a sleek, silver Corvette was smoothly pulling up in front of the door. I swallowed wrong and started to cough, when I saw it but pulled myself together as quickly as I could. I pushed the door open and jogged towards the idling car. I was surprised that Edward didn't stop and get out to open my door, but then I reminded myself that this was not a date but a business deal. He had no obligation towards the gallantness that I remembered.

I pulled the door open and slid onto the grey leather passenger seat and closed it behind me. A little bit breathless from my hurried movements, I turned toward him. He was wearing darkly tinted Under Armour sunglasses and smiled at me enigmatically before peeling away from the curb.

"Thanks for picking me up," I told him as he sped onto Cambridge before turning onto Holcomb and quickly onto Alameda. He relaxed after the last turn and chose the center lane. We began the drive downtown; I knew this street would turn into Crawford, which bordered the ballpark. He turned his attention away from the road and onto me.

"I should thank you," he disagreed with a lopsided grin, then changed the subject. "How was your morning in the operating room?" he asked with interest. I felt a rush of happiness that he still seemed to know how to speak to me about my work. Then, I felt regret considering how hard I worked to try and keep him from that ability. He must have seen my emotions run the gamut on my face because he immediately backpedaled.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to pry," he apologized and looked away form me. The grin was gone, and I wanted it back.

"No, it was fine. I'm sorry, I was just thinking about something else. You can pry," I insisted idiotically. I was rewarded with another sideways glance and half smile.

"I can pry?" he asked with mischief, and I giggled in response. Somehow, Edward had always brought out the giggler in me. He went on. "It's just hard to imagine you actually doing the surgeries yourself when I can remember you bragging about putting in two stitches," he added. I stiffened, surprised again that he was referencing the past so easily. But, he was probably trying to move on, too. Which explained his uneasiness and the comments from last week.

"Yeah, well, it's hard to imagine you as an All-Star and a Cy Young finalist, but that happened," I bantered. He chuckled.

"You're right. I guess there's a lot we don't know about each other these days." His words were casual, but they left me breathless. What did he mean by that?

We arrived at the ballpark then, and Edward whipped his fancy car onto Texas and back onto Hamilton in a flash. If he kept driving that way, he'd end up with ticket, no doubt. Maybe the Atlanta cops had been more lax. Edward pulled into a lot designated as the Diamond Lot but continued forward toward the looming stadium structure.

We reached a guard shack that watched over a small fenced in lot that bordered a restricted access area of the outside wall of the stadium. An enormous Asian man who could have doubled as a sumo wrestler sat inside the small structure. He smiled when he saw Edward.

"Mr. Masen, it's good to see you with a pretty lady," he greeted with wide smile. Edward grunted uncomfortably.

"Toshiro, this is my orthopedic surgeon," he gently rebuked the giant. "I'm going to give her a tour today," he explained. Toshiro was unconvinced.

"Whatever you say, Mr. Masen," he leaned into the open window to peer at me. "Doctor, you are a pretty lady," he repeated. I smiled and nodded at him, blushing with the compliment. He seemed satisfied and motioned for us to go on. The security arm lifted, and Edward drove on through.

It was obviously an employee lot. I figured the players probably shared with the executives. Edward drove forward and pulled into a spot in the front row, putting the car in park. He smiled at me briefly, and we turned away from each other to climb out of the car. He stood uncertainly by the hood, and I came around the back of the car to meet him. I noticed that the words "E. Masen" were painted on the back of the spot.

"Wow, you really have made it," I quipped as I joined him. "You've got your own spot in the front row at Minute Maid Park." He rolled his eyes, but I could see the tiny bit of pride there at my teasing.

"Every player has his own spot," he deflected. I continued to smile widely because I couldn't help myself. He gestured for me to precede him to a grey metal door in the brick outer wall of the stadium. He pulled out an electronic card and pulled it through the reader next to the door. It clicked, and he pulled it open, motioning for me to go ahead of him. We entered a concrete tunnel that gently sloped down in the low light.

"Well…I thought we could deal with business before pleasure," Edward ventured. He sounded nervous. I knew he meant that the therapy session would be the "business" and the tour would be the "pleasure," but his use of that word caused me to shiver. I had not forgotten how he could deliver on that promise. I didn't answer quickly enough, so he hurriedly went on. I hoped his mind hadn't gone where mine had.

"We can go ahead and take a look around the Clubhouse before we start on the session, since we'll be down there already, but I thought we could take our time looking around the park and the field afterward." He sounded hopeful, like he wanted me to enjoy myself, and it made my heart clench.

"Of course, you're the boss," I replied, and I heard his quick intake of breath. It confused me when he muttered under his breath before acknowledging me again.

"Great. Then, follow me, Bella," he instructed, and we continued down the concrete ramp. It didn't take us long to come to a flat area with elevator doors.

"That's the elevator to the executive levels," Edward explained. "The fourth and fifth floors of the Union Station structure house all those guys."

"Okay," I told him, but I wanted to keep him talking since he was walking a little too far ahead of me for my liking. "I've heard of some medical meetings being held in the Union Station building. Aren't there some conference rooms or something?" I asked. He paused and looked back at me, seeming pleased with my interest.

"Yes, some of the downtown businesses or other groups can rent those out. The rooms have lots of glass and a nice view of the skyline," he told me. Finally, the tunnel ended, and Edward swiped us into another room. This one was wide open with comfortable looking couches, chairs, and several flat screen TVs on the walls. I looked around curiously.

"This is the media room," Edward explained. I raised my eyebrows in question, so he smiled and went into more detail. "It's kind of a waiting area for the Clubhouse. Mainly, this is where the reporters will wait after a game. Or anyone else, for that matter, that needs to see a player before he's done in the locker room." I examined the room closely; it was very nice and comfortable.

"C'mon," Edward motioned for me to follow him through the next doorway. "The locker room and training rooms are through here." I followed him down a short hallway that opened into another open space. The floor was orange tile, and the walls were covered with photographs of famous former Astros. I paused in front of Jeff Bagwell's portrait.

I grinned at Edward and placed my right index and middle fingers to my lips, then placed them against the image of Jeff's lips. He had been watching me with his hands in his shorts pockets. He doubled over and let out a belly laugh when he saw what I'd done. I moved on to Lance Berkman's portrait and stretched out my hand again, but Edward had somehow sidled closer to me. He grabbed my wrist before I could reach out. My skin prickled and stung where his touched me. We both lurched back and stared at each other.

"Bella, let me show you the locker room before we head into the Training Room," he requested, but his voice sounded hoarse and tight. I wasn't sure what was happening. We went left down the short hallway, and Edward opened a door into a typical locker room, but much nicer than you could ever imagine.

The carpet, although orange, was heavy and plush, and my feet in my Easy Spirit slip-ons sank into it. The walls were painted navy blue and lined with wooden lockers and an orange padded bench that ran the length of the room. I followed Edward further in until he paused in front of a locker. I examined it closely and realized that a metal plate identified it as belonging to "E. Masen."

I turned my face to Edward, and his was serious. I happened to know how much this meant to him, and I swallowed a lump in my throat. He pulled out a key and unlocked it, swinging the door wide. Inside hung a pristine, white Astros uniform. The jersey was hung in such a way that we had a full view of its back. The large number "47" was in the middle, just below the name "Masen." I reached out to gently finger the fabric and turned incredulously toward Edward. He was smiling shyly at me, ducking his head slightly.

"Wow, Edward, this is amazing," I told him. He shook his head self-deprecatingly.

"No, not really. I mean, I've only worn it for pictures, so that's why it's so clean and new looking. And who knows if I'll ever wear it for real…" he trailed off, and I saw his nervousness about the injury once again. I didn't think; I just reached for him.

"Hey, we'll get you better. Don't worry," I told him as I touched his cheek and ran my fingers down the curve of his jaw. I froze when I realized what I'd done. Our eyes locked, and he raised his hand to grasp my fingers, pulling them away from his face. Then, he took a step back. I took a step back too, mired in humiliation, but he continued to study me with an inscrutable expression.

"We better get to work," he finally said and walked ahead of me out of the room. I guessed I wasn't going to get a tour of the showers. He led me back into the main hallway, and we went in the opposite direction of the locker room. Edward opened another door and motioned me inside. It was decorated similarly to the locker room but with orange tile and navy blue walls.

Edward had not been exaggerating when he said that the Training Room at the ballpark was state of the art. Whitlock and Associates was a boutique practice, appealing to an upscale crowd, and, as such, was appropriately outfitted. But, it didn't hold a candle to these facilities. The equipment was all brand-new, unscuffed, and came in every shape and size available. Against the far wall was a glass-fronted refrigerator full of Minute Maid products.

But the room was deserted, not another soul in sight. I'm sure it was bustling during the season, but with everyone in Florida for spring training, we had the place to ourselves. It was silent as we both stood there surveying the space. The only sound was the buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights. I whistled.

"I think you were being modest when you said the facilities were 'just as good' as Whitlock and Associates," I chided. He let out a small laugh, and I welcomed the sound, hoping we could continue the afternoon without awkwardness. I motioned toward one of the training tables covered with orange leather padding.

"It'll do," Edward joked to my relief. "Do you want something to drink?" he asked when he saw me eyeing the fridge. I shook my head, no, so he retrieved a tension band and sat down on the table, and we dove into the routine. We worked in relative silence, only commenting on the exercises now and then. I could already see that he was getting stronger and more flexible, his range of motion less painful.

"Well, that's it," I said when he was done, wondering what would happen next. Edward hopped off the table and gave me a boyish grin. It was so much like the one I remembered that it caused my heart to lurch. I was forced to take an extra deep breath.

"I'll show you the rest of the stadium now," he enthused. "The Clubhouse has got to be kind of boring for you." I shook my head.

"No, not many people get to come down here," I argued. "It's an honor." He dismissed that with a shake of his head and motioned for me to follow him. We went back to the little hallway with the portraits, and he gestured towards a metal door painted navy blue.

"That's the door to the tunnel. It leads to the dug out. I want to take you on the field last, though. Come on, we'll go up the elevator," he told me. We made our way back down the concrete hallway to the elevator we'd seen before. We got in, and he pressed the button for the first floor. I already knew that the second and third floors were the conference rooms, and the fourth and fifth were the executive floors. I made a mental note to ask about the sixth floor; I could see the button on the panel.

We got out on the first floor when the doors opened into a nondescript lobby space. Edward quickly led me through a door, and we came out in the main lobby of the Union Station building. It was a renovated reinterpretation of the original train station built in 1910 when railroads had been Houston's main industry. The space was large and soaring and had that Golden Age feel.

The box office was off to one side, and there were a few people milling around. Edward pulled his cap down tight over his eyes, and his hair fanned out over his ears. I reminded me of the night I met him and his slightly too long hair.

"So, this is the Union Station building," he told me unnecessarily, but I nodded enthusiastically. He motioned for me to follow him again, and we passed onto the main concourse after he used a set of keys to open one of the metal gates next to the turnstiles. I understood his need for haste because our actions had caught the attention of a few of the box office customers, and they were looking curiously our way.

It was typical of a baseball stadium with shuttered concessions on one side, and a vantage of the field on the other. I drifted to the edge of the concourse and looked down over the expanse of empty green, plastic seats to the field.

"Wow, it's pretty crazy to see real grass in the Astros Stadium," I remarked. I felt Edward come up behind me, and he was standing very close. I longed to lean back into him, but I remained upright.

"It's Platinum TE Papsalum turf," he told me, and I could feel his breath tickle my neck. "It's genetically engineered, which is why it's so green," he told me. I turned slowly so as not to startle him, and I noticed he took a small step back as I did so. He laughed at my expression.

"I have no idea what that means," I said honestly. He reached down for my hand and tugged on my fingers. The maneuver seemed unconscious, so I let him do it. Our skin zinged again as we touched, but this time he didn't move away.

"Come on, you'll get a better look from the Center Field Deck," he insisted, and I followed, my fingers still grasped in his palm. "It was cutting edge when it was installed a few years ago. Minute Maid was the first park to use it." I was hyperaware of my hand in his as I followed him around the concourse toward center field. He seemed not to notice. The gesture was classic Edward, open and honest, and it made me wonder if the guy I'd known was still in there somewhere.

He was right; the view from the Center Field Deck was great. I looked over the entire field, including Tal's Hill in far center field with its treacherous flag pole, the pitcher's mound, home plate, into the dugouts, and up at the media and high roller boxes. I was charmed by the model train, which ran along the west side of the stadium. I'd seen it on TV, of course, but it was more striking in person. I wished I could see it in motion.

Edward pointed out the vintage gas pump that logged all the Astros' home runs which was on the deck near where we stood. Unfortunately, while I'd been looking around, he had dropped my hand. I looked up into his face, and he was beaming back at me. He pointed his index finger toward the sky.

"Look up," he told me, and I turned my face into the warm sun. The retractable roof was open, and I had a spectacular view of the skyline from where I stood. It was a strange sight, after all my experiences in the Astrodome.

"The part of the roof over the outfield is glass, so that you can still see the skyline even when it's closed," he told me. I had known that from seeing it on TV, but I nodded excitedly anyway.

"What do you think?" he asked me.

"It's great, Edward. I'm so glad you've achieved your dreams," I told him and had to swallow hard to clear the lump in my throat. A cloud passed over his face.

"Not quite yet," he told me with a small frown, but his face cleared almost immediately. "Do you want to go down on the field?" I nodded enthusiastically again. Edward led me through the upper level of the concourse and used his key card to gain access to the Club Level lounge. From there, we found ourselves back at that main elevator. We headed back down to the Clubhouse level.

"What's on the sixth floor?" I asked to break the silence. Edward seemed a little moodier than before, and I was aching to regain our previous rapport.

"Oh, it's a really nice deck with crazy views of the city," he told me. "You can rent it out for parties." Then, the doors opened, and we were back in the tunnel. I followed him again into the Clubhouse space, and we went through the door into the dugout. I glanced around briefly. It was pretty much as expected; a long padded bench, open to the field. I held my breath as Edward gestured for me to climb the stairs onto the grass.

I stood on the edge and gazed over the field. It looked larger somehow from this vantage. Edward had followed me up the steps and grabbed my hand again. He tugged for me to follow him, his boyish enthusiasm back.

"Come on, you can see much better from out here," he insisted. I allowed myself to be towed along, once again enjoying the physical contact. I could see right away that he was headed for the pitcher's mound with its red dirt and crisp white paint starkly contrasting the green grass surrounding it. We reached it and stood on top of it. Edward faced home plate with his arms crossed over his chest. I tilted my head back and gazed at the clear blue, Texas sky. I thought about my dad and how excited he'd be that I was standing there.

"I haven't pitched from this spot," Edward's words broke into my musings. "That's my dream. So, I'm not quite there yet," he said solemnly. I brought my gaze down, and he turned slightly until we were looking at each other. "What about you, Bella? Have you achieved your dreams?" His eyes were intense as he asked the million-dollar question.

"I don't know," I finally managed to stutter. His return into my life had me questioning my definition of happy ever after, but I didn't know how to put that into words. Our eyes were locked, and the air between us grew tense. I couldn't look away, and I saw Edward lean towards me, then take a step closer. We were only inches apart. I thought about what I wanted and decided to be brave for once. I took another step toward him until all that was left was for one of us to turn our heads, and our lips would meet. I was holding my breath, but I could tell that Edward's breaths were coming too fast. He lifted his left hand to touch my cheek.

"Bella," he whispered. I couldn't tell if it was a question or a prayer, but it seemed to rouse him from his stupor, because he sighed and stepped back and away from me. He walked to the edge of the mound and turned his back toward me. He pulled the cap off his head with one hand and ran the other through his hair. I heard him curse softly before he turned back to me.

I was embarrassed, but I found some inner strength and stayed where I was. I hadn't imagined that moment, and my pulse was racing. His eyes met mine with apology.

"I'm sorry," he said with a pleading gaze. "I just can't…" he trailed off, and he shook his head with frustration. I held up a hand and interrupted, taking him out of his misery.

"I understand," I told him. We just looked at each other. "I should go," I finally said but I made no move to leave. I vowed at that moment that I would never walk away from him again. He nodded slowly and started toward the dugout but turned almost immediately to make sure I was following him. I trailed behind, but he slowed his steps until we were walking together. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"What's happening here, Bella?" he asked with a sigh.

"I don't know," I admitted, "but I think we need to have a long talk." He whistled out a long breath.

"You're right, but I can't do it now. I need some time to wrap my head around this. There are a lot of things I need to say to you," he told me.

"Of course, so do I," I agreed. We walked in silence through the dugout and out the tunnel to the parking lot. We both remained quiet on the short drive back to my apartment complex. My mind was racing, but my main emotion was elation. I was giddy with hope. I wanted to shout and pump my fists, but I figured Edward would find that strange.

I fished the gate clicker out of my purse when we pulled up to the Greenbriar. The gate swung open, and Edward drove to my corner of the complex without comment, like he'd done so many times before. He pulled into a spot and cut the engine. I was surprised and wondered if he was planning on coming inside. He turned to face me.

"I don't think it's a good idea for us to work out at the park again. We should meet at Whitlock next week," he told me seriously. I tried not to wince at his words, but I could see the wisdom there. I could never go back to that place again without thinking about our almost kiss. I nodded seriously, and he got out of the car, coming around to open my door before I realized what was happening.

I climbed out of the car and stood awkwardly in front of him. He leaned in and kissed my forehead and was back around the front of the car before I could react. I stood there dumbly while he got into the car and rolled down the passenger side window.

"Have a good night, Bella," he called. Then, his engine growled to life, and he backed out and drove away. I don't know how long I stood there before I recovered the ability to walk inside.

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Well, then. I'll wait to hear from you…

EG