I tell her what happened at the game.
“It’s spring training. It’s one game,” she says, reassuring me.
“No. My game the other day was terrible. The one before wasn’t great.” My stomach twists with nerves. “Can you please try to get some info on where I stand? My role with the team?”
“You know they’re not likely to tell me who’s going to be their starting catcher. Do I think it’s going to be you? Yes. Do all signs point to it being you? Yes. But teams make their own decisions.”
“Can you try?” I ask, wracked with desperation. “Make some calls? Don’t you have sources or something?”
She takes a beat. “I’ll make some calls. I’ll see what people are saying. I’m heading to Arizona, anyway, for some meetings. But I can’t promise I’ll have any information.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
When I return to the hotel, the game is over. I run into Sullivan and he motions for me to come to his room.
I bet he wants to dish on his date last night. I know I need to be a better friend, so I should listen.
Inside his room I sit on the edge of the couch. “What’s up, man? Did you have a good night with that research scientist?”
“I did, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” He parks himself in the desk chair, pulling it closer to me.
I sit up straight. “This sounds serious.”
“I want to ask you something because we’re friends, and I know you. And this might be awkward. I know you and Declan went to the game together, and I could be wrong, but . . .” Inside my head, the sirens wail like when the hero in the thriller breaches security in the government building, and all the guards come charging after him. Sullivan goes on in the same even tone. “But if he’s the reason you’re not playing well the last couple games, I just want you to know I’m here to talk to you about anything.”
A secret agent would escape by any means, avoid the guards by rappelling down a telephone wire with his own belt.
I heave a sigh, shoot him a sharp look, and twist my gut with my own lie. “Are you really going there, man? Assuming something’s happening between the two of us?”
Everything is happening. Everything is ending.
He raises his hands in surrender. “No. Just seems like there’s a connection between the two of you, that’s all. I’m not telling you what to do or not to do.” He holds my gaze, nothing but support in his eyes. “I’m telling you that I’m your friend, no matter what.”
Half of me appreciates the sentiment.
The other half says I need to man the hell up and fix this mess I’m making. “Thanks. But I’ve got this. I would never get involved with a teammate. I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t think so, but I had to put it out there,” he says, and my feet touch ground, a secret agent escaping by the hair of my neck. Now, all I have to do is walk away. “I want you to be catching for me for a long time. And I know relationship stuff can mess you up. Hell, any relationship your rookie year can be difficult. That’s why my date was only a date. I’m avoiding entanglements like the plague, and you should too.”
He believes me.
I pulled off a clean getaway.
Reaching across the table, I knock fists with him in agreement. This is no ruse—I am determined to follow his advice. Declan’s advice too.
Avoid relationships.
Avoid love.
“I promise, bro. I am not getting involved with a soul,” I say, renewing my vow.
But after I leave, Declan texts me that he has good news and he can’t wait to tell me.
And I can’t wait to hear what it is.
I need some good news.
Need it badly.
34
Declan
A few hours earlier
* * *
After the morning scrimmage, I steal away for thirty minutes to grab an iced tea at Dr. Insomnia’s, a coffee shop around the corner from the complex. Fitz meets me there—he has another game tonight, and he’s coming to mine this afternoon.
He grabs a protein pack with a hard-boiled egg, some carrots, and nuts, waggling it my way. “Want one?”
I shake my head. “I’m all good. I had a big breakfast.”
“And I’m going to have a big lunch. I like to eat.”
I laugh. “No shit. Me too.”
“And I like to eat often. And at your game too. Speaking of, I haven’t been to a baseball game since you lost in the first round of playoffs.”
I stare sharply at him. “Thanks for the reminder, asshole.”
He pays for his food, then smacks my shoulder. “I’m psyched to come today. Glad I could fit it in before I have to get out of town.”
I take the iced tea and we walk out of the shop, heading back toward the complex. “Same here. I vastly prefer friends at games over . . .”
Him.
My father.
“Over . . .?” Fitz prompts.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Dad stuff?” he asks, straightforward as he’s ever been. He knows the basics, but that’s all.
My shoulders tighten into thousands of knots. “He texted me this morning about the picture of me and Grant at your game last night,” I say, gritting my teeth when I’m done.
Fitz whistles. “Jesus. What did he say?”
I adopt an older man’s voice. “‘Is that guy your type? He seems cute. You look good together.’” I cringe. “I’m guessing he knows Grant is gay, but what’s up with the awkward ‘Are you dating, son?’ convo? We’re not buds who talk about that.”
“The picture isn’t even date-ish,” Fitz says with a what gives tone.
“Exactly. The fan is in between us,” I say, taking a drink of my tea as we walk. “But you know how it goes. People see him and me together, and they make assumptions.”
He nods sagely. “I hear ya. Do you think they’ve been making assumptions about you guys all along?”
“I’m sure if people saw us together”—I point to Fitz then me—“they’d make assumptions too.”
Fitz gives me an appraising once-over, humming. “You’re not my type.”
I flip him the bird. “You’re not my type.”
When we reach the park, my father’s name flashes across the screen of my phone, and my stomach corkscrews. I wish I could learn to avoid his calls.
But I don’t know how. Avoiding his calls only makes me feel worse. Makes me worry that I’ll miss something vital. That I’ll be blindsided. That he’ll show up someplace unannounced.
I hate surprises. I hate them so damn much. But I can’t have the specter of my father hanging over me during the game, not knowing if he might be asking for money, asking for help, asking to talk.
Nothing is worse than not knowing.
“I better deal with this.”
Fitz waves and ambles down toward the park as I hang back, pacing the parking lot as I call my dad back. “What’s going on, Dad?”
“Just wanted to know—if I come to a game, can I meet your boyfriend?”
I pull a face. Is he for real? “No. Because he’s not.”
“Are you sure? Seemed like it,” he says in an easygoing tone, like this is a normal question when it’s not at all.
I breathe heavily through my nostrils, like a dragon. “Shockingly, I’m not involved with every gay guy in sports.”
“Of course, I know that,” he says with a buddy-buddy laugh. Right. Like we’re a couple of pals. “But you two just look like you’re together.”
The sun blazes overhead, pelting me with its unforgiving rays. I grab my shades from the neck of my shirt and shove them on as if they can shield me. “It’s not like I’ve gone on a date with every single queer guy in the game. It’s not like we have Zoom meetings every Thursday. That’s not how it works.”
“Fine, fine. I hear ya. I’m just trying to do a better job at being . . . a dad.”
My chest tightens and caves in. It expands and it fa
lls at the same time. “Thanks,” I bite out, since it’s easier than continuing this conversation.
“And I’m happy for you that you’re living your best life.”
A storm brews inside me, picking up speed and strength. “Now? Are we doing this now?”
“Are you still upset about what I said when you came out? I don’t want you to be upset.”
Gale-force winds swirl, ripping past me.
I try to breathe. Just breathe. I turn to the sky. Searching for a bird. A sparrow, a falcon, a woodpecker. Anything. I’ll take anything. Any form of escape.
I breathe out hard as metal. “No.”
“Then why can’t I meet him?”
I grit my teeth and explode. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Sheesh. I just thought so. He’s cute, okay? You can’t blame me for thinking he’s cute for you.”
I shift gears. “What’s going on, Dad?”
He sighs heavily. “Things have just been kind of rough around here. Kara isn’t happy with me.”
It’s coming, I can feel it. The ask. The favor.
“Did she kick you out, Dad?”
“Eh, women. Am I right? Wait. Nope. That was not cool of me to say.” He clears his throat. “I’ll find another place. Honestly, it’s not a big deal. I’m working some angles. Listen, I’m sorry I called and laid this all on you,” he says, then shifts to contrition mode. “This was total bullshit of me. I’m trying not to do it. I told the guys at the meeting that I would do a better job. I wouldn’t lay this at your feet.”
With the word meeting, I let go of a smidge of tension. All I ever wanted was for him to recover. “I’m glad you’re going to meetings.”
“In fact, I’ve got to get to one soon. And honestly, I was just calling to make amends. There’s a lot of shit I want to make amends for, son. And I want to make amends for how I handled it when you came out.”
Now? He wants to do it motherfucking now?
“Dad, I think that’s great, but I just can’t do it this second. I have a game soon. Can we talk about it another time?”
“Yes, of course. You go knock in some homers,” he says, sounding as awkwardly uncomfortable as a duck wearing a three-piece suit.
I turn off my phone, breathe fumes of fire, then march into the complex. In the locker room I stuff the device into my locker, avoiding Grant, avoiding everyone, needing to get into the zone.
I put on my uniform, head out to the field, and stretch as I recite The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
And would it have been worth it after all.
I look at Grant once.
And I know the answer.
I know the answer because it hurts so much to see him struggle in the game.
But I have to put my blinders on. I know how to wear them. I know how to use them. My blinders are my special skill. Better than hitting a fastball over the fences. Stronger than fielding a hot rocket up the center of the diamond.
With my tunnel vision, I have an excellent game, clobbering in a two-run homer.
When the game ends with a win, the guys clap me on the back. After I take a shower and get dressed, I grab my phone and turn it back on. There’s a text from my father.
* * *
Dad: I watched your game online. Tell your boyfriend his weight is too far back on his knees. I doubt he’s even aware of it, but he needs to shift his weight a millimeter forward and he’ll be golden.
* * *
I leave in a trail of fire, walking through the complex staring daggers at my phone. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”
I am not passing that on to Grant. I’m not giving hitting tips to Grant from my father.
Even though it skewers my heart that my guy didn’t play well two games in a row. I flash back to Kyle, my rookie year. To how that relationship messed me up. To how close I came to being sent down.
Love is dangerous. So dangerous.
So are fastballs.
When I reach the corridor, my phone rings.
It’s my agent. I answer right away. “What’s up, Vaughn?”
“Dude, are you sitting down?”
I duck into an empty weight room, sink onto a bench.
Vaughn talks quickly. But precisely. “You’ve heard of this team called the New York Comets?”
“No, I was too busy to watch the World Series last year,” I play dumb and Vaughn laughs.
“If you’d had your eyes on the prize, you’d have seen they were lacking a slugger.” He pauses, takes a breath. “And have you heard of something called fuck-off money?”
I crack up. “Who hasn’t?”
“The Comets just traded for you, and they threw in some fuck-off money too.”
I blink. My body hums, alive with possibility. A strange, wild sensation rushes through my body.
Surprise.
But for the first time in my life, I don’t hate the unknown.
I think . . . I like it.
“The New York Comets just traded for me?” I make sure I’m hearing him right. That I’m not imagining my wishes coming true.
“They did. And they want you in their next spring training game in Florida tomorrow. They’re going for another World Series run, and they’re shoring up on players. They think you’re the missing piece.”
Tingles race down my spine.
The missing piece.
I’ve had a good run in San Francisco over four years. A great run. But this is . . . next level.
This is the most storied franchise of all time, with more World Series crowns than any other team by a mile.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, a million thoughts tearing through my head. I’ve always known this could happen. Trades are de rigueur in baseball. Especially at my level. With four years’ service, I don’t have a no-trade clause.
For a fraction of a second, a dark fear wedges under my skin. “Is San Francisco trying to get rid of me?”
Vaughn scoffs. “Dude. Nooooo. Don’t think that. Not for a second. New York came calling and San Francisco would be stupid not to trade you with what New York offered. Cougars need pitchers, and New York has them. New York is ten-feet deep in firepower on the mound thanks to its farm system—but they desperately need an anchor for the lineup. They’re picking up your contract extension, and wait till you hear the amount they’re offering.”
He dives into specifics about the extension and the dollars, and I swear my jaw comes unhinged. I’m already making good money—Vaughn scored me a hell of a deal in arbitration. But the money New York is dangling is insane.
Plus, it’s New York.
It has one fantastic priceless feature that San Francisco doesn’t: It’s far, far away from my father.
Then again, it’s not as if I have a choice—I’ve been traded. All I have to do is pack my bags. “So, when am I leaving?”
“You can either take the red-eye tonight, or you can get on a flight at six a.m. tomorrow morning.”
Grant. One more night with Grant.
My answer is instant. “Put me on the six a.m. flight.”
We talk about details for a few more minutes. My uniform will be waiting in my locker, the guys usually stay in rental homes, designated hitter, Brady, has an extra room, and will be happy to put me up for the final week.
When the call ends, I just sit there, alone in the weight room, absolutely floored. I stare at the mirror, processing the fact that I’ve been traded away. I’m no longer on the same team as the man I’m falling in love with.
And that is the best damn part of this news.
It’s so fucking good I want to kiss the sky.
I open my texts and send him a message, then count the seconds.
C’mon. Write back.
Like he can read my mind, he replies in just ten Mississippis.
I tell him to wait in his room and I go straight there, not giving a flying fuck if I run into anyone on the way.
But I don’t see a soul, and that’s fine too.
Grant opens th
e door, and once it falls closed behind us, I park my hands on his shoulders, look into his eyes, and smile like crazy. “Guess who’s not your teammate anymore?”
35
Declan
Here’s the thing about getting traded.
Your bros want to send you off in style.
You can’t really say sorry, I need to go hole up in a hotel room and spend the night with the hot-as-sin catcher.
So, I can’t say no to this last night with the guys. I still don’t want them to know what we’ve been up to. Protecting Grant doesn’t end when I get to the other side of the country and put on the other team’s uniform.
Our spring fling is our secret, and always will be.
When Crosby and Chance hustle me to the Cactus Club, I go along with it. Grant and I have a plan, after all.
We shoot pool, toast with iced tea for me, Diet Coke for him, and beer for some of the others.
“Man, I cannot wait to pitch against you when we go to New York,” Chance says as he leans against the pool table. “I am going to strike you out so damn hard, and I’m going to love every second of it.” He hisses like he’s on the mound—because I’m sure this dude does hiss on the mound.
“We’re going to demolish you,” Crosby says, then swings his gaze to Chance. “But no sliders, K? Don’t forget that hanging slider this guy hit against the Aces. That grand slam was insane.”
I laugh privately. If they only knew the truth about that hanging slider. “Guess word got out around the league,” I say, keeping my response light. I don’t mind at all that I’m the Loch Ness Monster with sliders. No one’s seen me hit one well, but my reputation for going long with them precedes me.
“Guess I know what pitch not to call when Declan is at the plate,” Grant drawls as he sets down his Diet Coke, then lifts his cue and takes aim at the red-striped ball on the table.
After Grant misses and loses the game, he makes a show of checking out his phone, arching a brow, then licking his lips. “I’m outta here, guys,” he says.
“You gotta go so early? It’s only nine,” Crosby says.
Scoring With Him Page 24
