Love Is Proud

by JMS Books Authors

  Thank God he responded immediately, pressing into my body as he fisted the hem of my jacket. My head swam with the realization that I was finally kissing the man I loved—and he was kissing me back! Give him a chance, Steve had said, but he’d only been half-correct. I needed to give myself a chance, too. I’d spent years selling myself short when it came to Andreas, like he’d obviously done to himself.

  Time for us to learn how to appreciate the value we could bring to a potential us.

  I broke it off sooner than I wanted, though I didn’t push Andreas away. “Would you like to go back inside to eat?” I asked. “We’re about ten years overdue for our first date.”

  “On one condition,” he replied, though he slipped his hand into mine like it was the only place it belonged.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m short a plus one to a certain wedding in a few days.”

  “What a coincidence.” I smiled down at him and squeezed his hand. “So am I.”

  * * * *

  ABOUT VIVIEN DEAN

  A firm believer that love doesn’t care about gender, four-time EPIC eBook Award winner Vivien Dean has been writing since 2006 in a wide variety of genres. She currently resides in California’s Bay Area with her British husband and two teenagers. For more information, visit viviendean.com.

  Tough Out by Keelan Ellis

  What was I thinking? That seems to be the question of the hour. Also of the day, and the entire past week. That’s what my mother wanted to know. My agent also asked me that, as did the manager of the Triple-A team I’ve been playing for this season, and my ex-boyfriend, who’s still stuck catching in Double-A and is starting to think it’s never going to happen for him. Actually, Edgar’s exact words were, “Are you a fucking idiot?” Harsh, but I understand where he’s coming from. It’s what I’ve been asking myself all week. Anyway, I get it. They care about me—or at least, in the case of my agent, my success—and figure I should have left it to someone else to stick his neck out. The way I see it, I didn’t have much of a choice.

  * * * *

  I was up in the rotation on Sunday, which meant I woke up at the asscrack of dawn and couldn’t fall back to sleep. I laid there, staring into the darkness of the room, listening to Trey snore. I thought about how maybe if we were together a few more years, his snoring might be an irritant, but so far I found it soothing. I have no idea how much time passed, but eventually I became aware of a pressing need to take a piss. I attempted to take care of this as quietly as possible, but when I slid back into bed, Trey rolled over and hugged my waist from behind.

  “Can’t sleep, huh?”

  “Not really. Sorry for waking you up.”

  He started kissing my neck and the tops of my shoulders. “You didn’t just wake me,” he said. “You woke The Beast.”

  “You’re a huge dork, you know that?” I laughed at him, but that didn’t stop the effect he was having on me.

  “Mmmhmm,” he mumbled. His lips were against the thin skin of my throat, and the vibrations seemed to travel all the way down my core.

  “Hey, we need to take it easy. I’m pitching today.”

  “I know, I know,” he murmured. “Shut your face, now. Relax.”

  I closed my eyes, and for the first time since I’d woken up at some ungodly hour of the morning, my brain stopped running in its usual manic circles. Aside from when I was actually on the mound, that rarely happened. All I could think about was his hand on my cock and the way he was rutting up against me from behind. His teeth dug lightly into the skin of my shoulder, and I felt the warm wetness of his mouth as it pressed against the knob of bone at the top of my spine. His tongue swirled around it, and I don’t know if that’s some secret erogenous zone that I never heard of before or what, but it was like flipping a switch for me.

  “Fuck, Trey,” I said, the words rushing out on a panted breath.

  He suddenly knelt up and pushed me onto my back, looking down at me. “You’re so pretty when you come. Let me see you do it. Come for me.” He began stroking me again. He wasn’t touching himself, but from the looks of it, he was almost there, too. I pulled him down to me, kissed him, and let myself go. He smiled against my lips as I came into his hand, and then he flopped onto his back. I watched him touch himself for a minute or so, his ab muscles contracting as he got closer and closer. I always loved looking at him, since even before we got together, although I was always careful not to stare. Physically, he’s almost my opposite. He’s tall and muscular, in contrast to my average height and slight build. His head is shaved, while my hair is shaggy, and always a little too long. He’s dark and I’m pale, except when I forget to bring a hat and turn bright pink. He’s beautiful, and I’m…just me. Sometimes I can’t believe I have him in my life or in my bed. Have you heard the phrase punching above your weight class? That’s me and Trey, both literally and figuratively. Or it was, anyway. I’m not exactly sure what’s happening with us now, but I’ll get to that.

  I pushed his hand out of the way and slid my lips over him. He groaned and gripped my hair, which he always claimed to love, and tried to discourage me from getting cut. He was huffing out words under his breath that I mostly couldn’t decipher, but I heard him say baby, baby, just before he shot down my throat. I rolled to the side and laced my fingers through his.

  “Think you can go back to sleep for a while?” he asked.

  “No way. I’m starving. Let’s go out to breakfast.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said. “Nobody’s going to wonder why the third baseman and number one pitcher are at a restaurant together at seven in the morning?”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like we’re playing for the Yankees. This is the minors. No one knows who we are. Me and Edgar used to go out all the time back in Jacksonville. It wasn’t an issue.”

  “That was Double-A. And nobody’s ever going to know who Eddie Ruiz is. Striker Casey and Trey Richardson? That’s a different story, and you know it. Someone’s going to notice.”

  “No one notices me,” I said.

  “I did.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Besides, think for a minute about what we look like together. White ass redneck like you, all wiry and shit with your almost-a-mullet, sitting across from a big black dude like me, chatting over eggs? You telling me you wouldn’t take note?”

  “Hell yeah, I would. I’d put it right in my spank bank.”

  He grinned at me and I swear I felt a little bit faint. I was really hungry, though, so that might have contributed. “I’ll go get bagels,” he said. “Maybe try to sleep until I get back.”

  I got in the shower instead, and stayed in a long time. I can’t say it bothered me a whole lot that Trey was more paranoid than I was about getting outed. I didn’t want that either, at least not right then. I always figured one day I’d want to come out, but I didn’t have a timeline for it. If I washed out of baseball, no one would give a shit. My family and my friends from home knew. And Edgar, of course. If coming out publicly weren’t an issue, then I was basically already out. That’s the way I chose to look at it, anyway. Or if I made it to the majors, and had some success, then maybe I’d be able to come out in a big way. That could really help people on their way up. Or I could always do it after I retired, which did seem a bit chickenshit when I thought about it. Anyway, me and him were on the same page about it, more or less, except he wasn’t out to anyone. Except me, of course.

  I was just pulling on some sweatpants and a T-shirt when I heard Trey come back in. I walked out to the kitchen and saw him toss a paper bag on the counter before sinking onto a kitchen chair. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, and he didn’t speak, but just held his phone out to me. I’d never seen him look like that before, and I had a sudden, intense fear that I was about to see pictures of us fucking on the homepage of some disgusting gossip site. If only.

  I took the phone warily and looked at the link he had open. It was an article about a mass shooting, and at first I didn’t understand what
had affected him so strongly. This is America. People are always shooting up some place or another. Then I saw it. Forty-nine people gunned down in a gay club in Orlando. When I saw the name of the club, I almost threw up.

  “Oh my God. I’ve been there. Me and Edgar drove to Disneyworld one time during the off season, and that night we went to Pulse.”

  Trey frowned, like he was having a hard time comprehending what I was saying. “Shit,” he ground out. “I’m sorry, babe. You okay?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. I felt stunned, and all of my words were coming out slower than normal. “It was a fun club, and we both danced with a ton of hot guys, and everyone was just really nice to us.” It had been a great memory, one of my favorites of my time with Edgar, but just then I would have given anything not to be able to picture the inside of that place.

  “You need to give him a call, it’s okay.”

  I walked over to where he was sitting and put my arms around his shoulders. He leaned his head into my chest and we stayed like that until my phone started playing “La Di Da Di,” which Edgar spent a lot of time trying to convince me is the greatest rap song of all time. I answered and talked to him for twenty minutes or so. We reminisced about that night and we both cried a little. Trey made coffee and brought my bagel over to the sofa for me. He’s a great guy, by the way. Maybe when I tell you what happened later that day, it’ll make it seem like he’s a dick or whatever, but believe me. He’s got a lot to recommend him.

  * * * *

  After I got off the phone, it occurred to me I still had to pitch that afternoon. It felt like everything should shut down after something like that, but of course it doesn’t. Trey went back to his place to get ready, and I got to the park early, so I had a lot of time to think about things before I had to pitch. The more I thought about it, the more my feelings shifted from sad and hopeless to pissed off. No one has the right to make a person feel afraid. No one should have to feel that way. I didn’t think I should have to feel that way anymore, either.

  I can’t explain it, but somehow I was in the zone on the mound that day. In the first three innings, I struck out the side. I cruised after that, getting soft grounders, short fly balls, and five more Ks. I was working on a shutout, and it wasn’t until the top of the ninth when I finally got into trouble. I’d loaded up the bases with only one out, and now I couldn’t find the plate. I won’t blame that shit on being distracted, because sometimes it just happens. You pitch a great game and then you run out of steam.

  “You about done, Casey?”

  “No sir,” I said, even though I thought I might well have been. “I’d like to finish this one out.”

  “You don’t take care of this one, you’re out of here. Got it?”

  “Yes ,sir. I’ll get him.”

  “Do not shake me off, Casey,” the catcher added. “You throw what I tell you to throw.”

  I nodded and he jogged back to his spot behind the plate. He called a high and inside. Strike one. Then he called it again. Strike two. Strike three was a slider in the dirt, and the batter swung at it like a golf ball.

  The next batter, high and inside again, only this time the guy hit it hard down the left field line. It was only just foul. I wouldn’t try that one again. I threw the slider and he fouled it off sharply. After that, I threw a rainbow curve that hung up just a fraction of a second too long, and the batter got a piece of it. From the second it left his bat, I was sure it was gone. I turned to watch it go, the center fielder sprinting back and jumping high enough for his glove to clear the wall, and somehow the ball landed right in it.

  I got mobbed by my teammates coming off the field. Any other day, I would have been busting with adrenaline, shouting and talking shit like everyone else. I had pitched a great game, and it felt like I had my whole future laid out in front of me, but I couldn’t feel anything except dread. My vision of the foreseeable future was full of lies and evasions, of hiding who I am and who I love, and living in constant fear of exposure. I sat down on a bench and pulled my shoes off.

  “Casey, what the fuck, dude? Your dog die or something?”

  I looked up to find Nicky Eck, the frat boy first baseman, standing in front of me. I shook my head and said, “You know, man, I’m kind of fucked up over that big shooting last night in Orlando.”

  “Oh. Well, yeah. That is pretty messed up, huh? I heard it was a terrorist thing.”

  “Yeah, who knows. Seems more like it was some fucked up guy who hates gay people.”

  Eck sat down next to me on the bench. He glanced over, hesitated, and then said, “Personally, I don’t know what’s to hate. All the gay guys I know are kind of awesome. My parents’ just got their condo redecorated, and a gay guy finally got my mom to get rid of all of her seashell decorations. I was trying to do that for years—so tacky, right? And like, my girlfriend’s BFF is gay, and he’s way nicer to me than any of her girlfriends, plus he told me a good place to get my hair cut. Oh, and the guy who cuts my hair, too.”

  “It is a pretty good haircut,” I said. “But they’re not all hairdressers and interior decorators, you know.”

  “I get it, dude.” He nudged me with his elbow. “You want to say something? I got your back. It’s cool, you can do it.”

  I nodded, but I was breathing pretty hard. “Fucking scared,” I said.

  “No doubt.”

  I stood up and said, “Hey,” in a much quieter voice than I’d intended. I tried again, and this time I managed to get the attention of most of the guys. I did my best not to look at Trey, but I did catch a glimpse as I was scanning the room. He was glaring at me, but I could see there was real fear behind the anger. I looked away. “Hey, I just wanted to tell you guys something. I wish I didn’t have to make a big dramatic thing out of it, because it’s not like that for me. It’s just a…normal thing about me, that’s part of my life and stuff, but I guess it still has to be like this, for now, so that’s the way it is…” I was totally babbling and all the guys were exchanging uncomfortable looks. “I’m really sick of being afraid. I’ve been on athletic fields and in locker rooms my whole life, and you’d think I’d feel safe by now but I don’t. I never have, because I was always scared someone would find out my secret and I’d get my ass kicked or people would never speak to me again, or both. And then I started being afraid that it would keep teams from wanting to sign me, or that my agent wouldn’t want to represent me, or whatever other thing I could think of that seemed really important to me before and made me think I had more to lose than anyone else. But unfortunately I was just reminded that no one has more to lose than their own life, and if that doesn’t keep people from being honest about who they are, nothing should.”

  Andre Mason, the left fielder, shouted from the back of the room, “The suspense is killing us!”

  There was utter silence for about half a second, and then the room burst into laughter. Pedro Feliz, the center fielder who caught the ball that should have been a goner, walked past me in his tighty whiteys. “Don’t let me catch you staring at my sweet Dominican ass when I’m running after your fly balls, amigo.” He smacked himself on the buttcheek and cracked up at his own joke as he walked away. A couple of the guys came up and clapped me awkwardly on the arm. One of them even told me, “Congratulations,” which made me think maybe he had a gay sibling or something. There were a few who didn’t come near me, or look at me, but they were outnumbered and silent. Unfortunately, one of those was Trey. He was the first one to leave the locker room, without saying a word to anyone.

  Eck must have seen me staring after Trey, because he said, “He’ll come around, man. He’s probably just butthurt because you guys are friends and you didn’t tell him first. Give him a minute.”

  “Yeah. Right, that’s probably it. Thanks, Eck. You really helped me out in there.”

  “Anytime, dude. You can always repay me with playoff tickets when you get to the show.”

  * * * *

  I figured I’d shower at home that da
y, so I left not too long after Trey. I needed to see him, to explain why I had done what I did. I just needed to see him, period, to touch him and make sure we were okay.

  I called his phone as soon as I was in my car, but it went to voicemail. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a heads up first. I literally decided to do it, like, two seconds before I did it. I really need to see you. Please call me.”

  I went home, showered and opened a beer, but still no call back from Trey. I tried his phone again and got voicemail again. I waited an hour, had a couple more beers, and tried again. I knew the best thing was to give him space, but I was feeling desperate. I called my mom to tell her what I’d done, and like I said, she wanted to know what I was thinking. I told her what I told the guys in the locker room—I was done with feeling afraid, done with keeping secrets. My conversation with Edgar began in much the same way, but by the end of the call, he had decided he was going to come out to his teammates, too.

  I tried Trey one more time, and still no answer, but I got a text a minute later.

  Stop calling me. Don’t come over. Leave me alone.

  So, I didn’t.

  * * * *

  It’s been nearly a week since I came out. My agent decided to get out in front of things, so he issued a statement to the media. I’m a hot prospect, so there was some buzz in the sports press, and I did a couple phone interviews, but ultimately it’s been a small deal. Everything about this has been positive, except what’s going on with Trey. He won’t even tell me why he’s so angry. Then yesterday, he requested two days off because apparently his mother was in the hospital. I wanted to be there for him. We were supposed to be a couple, but he wouldn’t even let me speak to him.

  I called him, even though I’d decided I was going to let him be. Maybe in his eyes we were over, but as far as I was concerned he was still my boyfriend. I got his voicemail, of course, and I said, “I know you said to stop calling, and I promise I won’t do it again. I just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you. I hope your mom is okay. Whatever this is—whatever is so upsetting to you about me coming out—I just want to talk to you about it. I know I’ve never said this before, but I love you, Trey. I miss you so much. It’s killing me not knowing what’s going on with you. I’m not asking you to come out. I’ll wait for you as long as you want. This was for me. Something I needed to do. Anyway. I won’t call again.” My throat contracted and I lost my voice for a second. I swallowed hard and sniffed back tears. “I won’t call again,” I repeated, more firmly now. “But please get in touch. This feels so bad. Please.” I hung up before I could chicken out and erase the message.