That left Toby at loose ends. With nothing else to fill his time, he dove into cleaning his own place, pulling out bottles of chemicals and the box of worn-out towels from under the kitchen sink. He scrubbed and wiped until his arms ached, his bathroom and kitchen shone, and his eyes and sinuses burned. After tossing the last bottle and rag into the kitchen sink, he collapsed onto the sofa and closed his eyes.
From somewhere nearby, his phone rang.
Groaning, Toby opened his eyes and looked around, spying the phone lying on the coffee table, just beyond arm’s reach. Levering himself up, he stretched for it, not bothering to check the display before he answered.
Mistake. His “yeah?” was answered with a simple “Toby” in Caleb’s raspy, sexy voice, and every nerve in Toby’s unprepared body shot to high alert. He’d completely forgotten they’d exchanged numbers at dinner the night before.
“Hey.” It was all his brain could come up with.
“I heard everything you said this morning,” Caleb said. “And I get it. I really do. I just wanted to say, for the record, that I disagree, and I hope you’ll change your mind. Because I like you a lot, and the sex was hot as hell, and I would really, really like to do it all again. Soon, and as often as possible.”
Toby’s mind had checked out entirely right about the point where Caleb mentioned the hot-as-hell sex, and there was absolutely nothing he could say to counter any of that.
“So that’s why I called, and I don’t expect you to answer, but I do want you to think about it. Think about me. And when you’re ready, call me. I’ll be waiting.”
There was a click, and Toby was left with nothing but dead air.
And a hard cock.
Shit.
THE next three days at work passed in a blur. Toby did his job and helped get everything restocked and shined up and the clubhouse in tip-top shape for the second half of the season. But every time the door opened, Toby tensed, even though he knew there was no way Caleb would come down there. In spite of Caleb’s little speech on the phone Monday afternoon, both of them knew exactly what it would mean if their tryst became public knowledge. Yes, the atmosphere surrounding sports had gotten much more open-minded in the past few years, but there still were no openly out active major league ballplayers. A career minor-league catcher who hadn’t even played a game in the big leagues yet was not in any position to try to cross that line.
And Toby? He could survive coming out. He planned to, someday. But knowing his grandfather’s conservative nature, and considering his precarious position, without even an official piece of the team until his twenty-first birthday in another couple of weeks, Toby wasn’t ready to take that kind of risk.
By the time players started to filter into the clubhouse late Thursday afternoon, Toby was strung so tight he thought he’d snap right in two waiting for Caleb to arrive. When the man finally walked in, though, he was talking and laughing with one of the utility infielders. He never even looked Toby’s way, and Toby was left simultaneously relieved and disappointed.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it, though. With the team back in the house for the first time in four days, Toby and the rest of the crew were kept running. Guys were taking turns in the whirlpool and on the training tables, or stretching on the floor in front of their lockers, and Toby fetched ice packs, heating pads, towels, and drinks while the players worked.
For the first time in the nearly six years that he’d worked in the clubhouse, he resented it all. These guys made millions, were waited on hand and foot, and for what? Hit ball, throw ball, catch ball. Not exactly rocket science, and certainly not anything like saving lives or changing the world.
But then Toby thought of the faces of the kids who would run out on the field before each Sunday home game, picked to stand next to their favorite players while the national anthem was sung. The players would bend to talk to the little boys and girls, and the smiles they’d exchange might not end world hunger or anything lofty like that, but it made the kids happy. Baseball made people happy, and wasn’t that just as important as anything else?
Okay, yeah, Toby admitted to himself as he dropped off a stack of fresh towels next to the shower. Probably not a half-million-dollar minimum worth of happy, but careers were short, and players gave back, so it probably came out even in the end, in some convoluted karmic-restitution formula.
The players filtered out of the clubhouse one or two at a time, headed for the dugout, the field, or the bullpen, ready to get things going again. The trainers were the last ones out, leaving Toby and a couple of teenagers behind to straighten up the remnants, as usual.
A whisper in the back of Toby’s mind wished Caleb would come back, take advantage of the relative quiet to confront Toby in person, maybe even try to kiss him into compliance. Toby didn’t know how he’d react, but he did know how stupid the idea was. Caleb liked him, sure. They’d had great (fucking awesome) sex, sure. But Caleb would not take a risk like that at his first game in the big leagues. Hell, even if Toby had been female, he wouldn’t. And either way, Toby wouldn’t let him do it.
Forcing himself to not think about Caleb anymore, dammit, Toby gathered the last towels and pushed the cart over to the door for the laundry staff to pick up. He walked back through the room, watching the part-timers finish picking up the trash as he went, and retrieved the vacuum cleaner from the storage closet at one end of the room. Normally, he’d leave that until after the game, or let the custodial staff handle it, but he was perfectly willing to admit—to himself, at least—that he was avoiding heading up to the dugout. He usually spent part of each game watching from the entrance to the ramp that led back toward the clubhouse, occasionally running sweaty towels back or bringing up extra ice packs. And he’d get back to that. He would.
He’d have to face down Caleb at least once first, though.
The game dragged on forever. Toby watched some on the clubhouse monitors, but he spent most of his time wandering the room, looking for things to do. He refolded a stack of towels that was less than perfectly symmetrical, checked the ice machine to make sure it was full, made sure the toilet paper in the stalls was stocked.
He was being stupid and he knew it, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.
By the time the Braves won and the players poured back into the clubhouse, bringing with them the jokes and teasing that always followed a victory, Toby was about ready to jump out of his skin. He realized he’d been so focused on finding excuses to avoid the game that he didn’t even know if Caleb had played. A sudden need to find out gripped him, and he almost went looking for Caleb among the crowds to ask. But then the usual postgame madness kicked in, and he was kept busy running for ice and towels, picking up discarded uniform parts to send to the laundry, and then cleaning up the mess the players always left behind.
He never even saw Caleb, much less had a chance to talk to him. Not that he would have known what to say.
ON FRIDAY, fortified by another day of distance, Toby headed to the ballpark determined to talk to Caleb, even if only to say hello. He’d checked the box score and found Caleb hadn’t played Thursday night, and Toby had vowed to pay closer attention tonight. He didn’t want to miss Caleb’s first major league at bat out of a fit of pique.
He kept an eye out as he worked, and when Caleb arrived, gave him time to get to his locker before heading that way.
“Hey, Tobes,” Marty called. “Can you help me out here?”
Toby sighed and changed direction. Work first; then he’d corner Caleb for a chat.
After helping Marty with a recalcitrant ice pack, Toby went looking for Caleb again. He picked up towels and trash as he went, but after a complete circuit of the clubhouse, Caleb was nowhere to be found. The showers were empty, and Toby wasn’t going to turn stalkery enough to check the toilet stalls, but he couldn’t find Caleb—
“Toby.”
Toby spun on his heel at the rough, familiar voice, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Caleb. I was just—�
��
Caleb gave a crooked smile. “Looking for me, maybe?”
Toby hesitated long enough that he saw the shift in Caleb’s eyes as he realized it. “Yes!” Toby forced out. “I just….” He cleared his throat and stood straighter. “I wanted to check on you. I mean, be sure you were settling in okay and all that.”
The half smile fell away. “Yeah. Fine. Thanks.”
Caleb stepped back, but before he could leave, Toby reached out to grab his arm. “Caleb,” he said, keeping his voice low. He could hear the pleading note in his voice. “I’m sorry. I am. I’d like to be friends, at least.”
Caleb looked at him, looked down at his hand, and then moved away, leaving Toby’s hand hanging in midair. “I don’t know if I can do that.” He gave Toby one long, heated stare, making it very clear what he wanted to do, and then he was gone, leaving Toby alone with his insecurities.
Toby closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. Well, he thought, that went well.
“Trouble in paradise, Macmillan?”
And that’s just the capper to this week, Toby thought.
Grimacing, he opened his eyes and turned his head to meet the gaze of one Barry Knight, the new intern backing up the Braves’ regular beat reporter. Matt Sussman had been covering the team for well over a decade and was well liked by everyone, but as Toby knew from experience, Barry Knight wasn’t half the man Matt was.
“What do you want, Barry?” Toby didn’t even try to make it sound friendly. He wasn’t anything officially but a clubhouse peon, and if Barry tried to make it sound like Toby was speaking for the team, he’d get laughed out of the newsroom. Toby and Barry had gone to high school together and had been friends for about five minutes, five years ago, when Toby’d been a starry-eyed sophomore harboring a secret crush on the senior Big Man On Campus Barry had tried to be. Toby had been crushed when he’d figured out Barry’s only interest had been in Toby’s family connections, not Toby himself.
Barry snorted. “Just cleaning up after the losers,” he snarked. “I was gonna talk to the new guy, see if there’s some dirt to dig there, but looks like you beat me to that.”
Toby rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t know a good story if it bit you on the ass.” It was true, too; Barry had ego and ambition to spare, but not half the talent or drive he needed to make it as a big-league reporter. Toby shoved off the wall before Barry could wind up for a retort. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, some of us around here have actual work to do.”
Spinning on his heel, he headed off to do it.
WITH the Los Angeles Dodgers in town and the game picked up for television, the Braves had been moved to an unusual 4:20 p.m. game start time on Saturday. Toby hated that crap. Games should be at seven thirty, except Sunday afternoons and occasionally a “businessfans’ special” during the week. He knew purists would scoff at him; baseball was made to be played in the sun. But it wasn’t baseball tradition that drove him. He just wanted things to be consistent.
Totally off his game, so to speak, Toby got to the clubhouse fifteen minutes later than usual, though still a good five minutes before he actually needed to be there. A handful of players were already in the clubhouse, but Toby would bet one or two would arrive late because they’d forgotten about the time change.
Toby dove into his usual pregame routine, pausing a few times to exchange pleasantries with players—in the form of insults and teasing, as in most locker rooms. He thought about that while he was tossing some trash away and realized that, over the six years he’d been working here, the flavor of the clubhouse talk had shifted. Sex was less of a focus in general, and in particular, comments about players’ sexuality had become much more rare. The team had done an anti-bullying video during Spring Training for the It Gets Better project, so maybe that had contributed.
But things had been changing long before that. The world was changing. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal if the players knew he was gay. Or even for Caleb. Players had come out after retirement in several of the big professional sports, and now there was Jason Collins in the NBA. Gay players were no longer big news in other sports. Maybe Major League Baseball was ready for its gay members, on and off the field, to stand up and be counted.
Toby just didn’t know if he was ready to become number one on that list.
Toby heard the door clink open and looked in that direction automatically. He frowned at the sinking sensation in his stomach when he saw it was just the pitching coach, Carl Zambronsky, but then a hand caught the door before it shut completely, and Toby’s heart lifted when he saw it was Caleb.
And then his heart dropped right back down when Caleb’s gaze skimmed over Toby as if he wasn’t even there.
Toby sank back against the wall as Caleb moved toward the locker he’d been assigned. Well, that was apparently that. Caleb didn’t want to be friends, and Toby couldn’t be more. So they’d be nothing at all.
Resigned, Toby pushed away from the wall again and got back to work.
THE atmosphere in the clubhouse after the loss was completely different from the previous two nights. Sure, it was just a game, but these were people who lived and breathed baseball. A dark cloud hung over the clubhouse. Players sat slumped in front of their lockers in the quiet or plodded silently to the showers. The manager stood in the corner by the door talking to the press, taking the loss on his shoulders to keep that weight off his players.
On his usual task of gathering up used towels and bits of tape that seemed to land everywhere except the trash cans, Toby jumped when he turned and Caleb was standing right behind him. “Um…. Hi.” Articulate, Toby thought, but it was all he could get out.
“Hi. Um…. Can we talk?” Caleb looked uncomfortable, eyes darting around as if they were being watched, which might well be the case, for all Toby knew. But if they were going to be in the same place at the same time for a while, as it seemed they would be, then they should probably figure out how not to be this completely uncomfortable around each other.
“Yeah.” Toby nodded. “Probably should. When we’re done here?”
Caleb bit his lip, and all Toby could think was how that felt when he’d been the one doing the biting. “Meet you outside?”
Taking in a shaky breath, Toby nodded again, and Caleb wandered away. He looked a little lost, and Toby couldn’t blame him. Caleb had gotten his first big-league hit tonight, but he wasn’t able to celebrate the way he wanted because the team had lost.
Maybe Toby could help. He could buy Caleb a drink, or a more appropriate cup of coffee. A combination peace offering and reward for his milestone.
By the time the clubhouse had emptied out and Toby finished up with the never-ending dirty towels, he’d settled into the idea of being friends with Caleb. Sure, he was still going to be attracted to the man, but he’d had plenty of friends he found attractive, even a couple he’d messed around with. He could do the same this time.
Toby pushed the cart full of towels toward the door, where Caleb sat waiting for him. Toby smiled. “All done,” he said, bringing the cart to a stop. “Let me grab my keys and stuff, and we can head out.”
Caleb didn’t say anything as they walked to the staff lot. Toby’s grandfather had been at the game this time, so Toby had parked in his usual place, which was farther away, of course. The night air was steamy, thick with humidity from the day’s heat, and by the time they got to his car, a light sheen of sweat covered Toby’s skin.
“Hop in and I’ll get the AC going.” He popped the locks and slid into the driver’s seat as Caleb did the same on the other side, and within a few moments, the car’s engine hummed to life and cool air began pouring from the vents.
“I swear, July in Georgia is why air-conditioning was invented.” Toby threw a grin in Caleb’s direction, but Caleb simply stared straight ahead, brow creased as if deep in thought. Toby cleared his throat and tried again. “Any place in particular you’d like to talk?”
Caleb lifted one shoulder. “Whatever. In
the car is fine.” He turned his head, and Toby almost recoiled at his furious expression. “You fucking used me,” Caleb spat out. “You got your rocks off and ran for the hills because you were too spineless to be honest.”
Toby opened his mouth, but Caleb cut him off before he could even try to respond. “I get what it means to be gay and have to hide it. God knows I’ve gotten to be an expert at it. But hiding it and running from it are two different things.” Caleb paused and blew out a breath. “Shit. I told myself I wasn’t going to attack you over this. Because I do get it. But dammit, Toby, I’m not a sex toy. I’m a person. And I deserve to be treated like one.”
Toby’s face flushed and his stomach turned over. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know it’s not enough to apologize, but you’re right. I treated you like crap, and I’m sorry.” He slumped against the seat. “I’ve known I was gay since I was fifteen. Hell, I started fooling around with one of my classmates before that. But I’ve lived and breathed this game since I can remember, and after my parents died…. I have to have baseball. I can’t live without it.”
Caleb reached out, and Toby let him cover his hand where it lay on his thigh. “I get that. My parents know about me, but they’ve never been happy about it. I’m probably lucky they haven’t cut me off. They’re pretty conservative.”
Toby’s laugh was hollow. “My grandfather is about as conservative as it gets. And he owns 60 percent of the team. I mean, my father left his share in trust, and I’ll inherit that when I turn twenty-one, but that’s only 30 percent. Ray has twice that. He could cut me off so easily.”
Caleb squeezed his hand. “I won’t blow smoke and tell you he wouldn’t do that. But with your parents gone, maybe he’d at least think twice.”
Playing Ball Page 10
