Complete Game: The League, Book 1

by Declan Rhodes

  Table of Contents

  Prologue - Blake

  Epilogue - Ian

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Ian

  Blake

  Share Your Thoughts

  Also by Declan Rhodes

  Catching the Pitch

  The Imperfect Game

  The Last Out

  About the Author

  Complete Game

  The League, Book 1

  Declan Rhodes

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue - Blake

  1. Ian

  2. Ian

  3. Blake

  4. Ian

  5. Blake

  6. Ian

  7. Blake

  8. Ian

  9. Blake

  10. Ian

  11. Blake

  12. Ian

  13. Blake

  14. Ian

  15. Blake

  16. Ian

  17. Blake

  18. Ian

  19. Blake

  20. Ian

  21. Blake

  22. Ian

  23. Blake

  24. Ian

  25. Blake

  26. Ian

  27. Blake

  28. Ian

  29. Blake

  30. Ian

  Epilogue - Ian

  Share Your Thoughts

  Also by Declan Rhodes

  Catching the Pitch

  The Imperfect Game

  The Last Out

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Declan Rhodes.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  In appreciation of the North American Gay Amateur Athletic Alliance and the dream that someday sexual orientation will be irrelevant in sports.

  Prologue - Blake

  It was late, after 2 a.m. My roommate, Andy Fitzgerald, pitched the first complete game of his minor league career earlier in the evening, and we were ambling back to our room after celebrating a little too hard with our teammates. The drinks were stiff and we had a few too many. I was still doling out the compliments. “You fucking nailed it, Andy! AAA by the end of the season and the majors for sure next year!”

  He was always kind of quiet and unassuming, but he stuck close by my side. I was always the first guy asked a question, whether it was about the best cheap restaurant splurge in town or how to deal with the anxiety we all faced, or whether our baseball careers would end right here in the minors.

  I pushed open the door to our room and charged inside. I was looking forward to a quick, hot shower before bed and then power sleeping until the alarm rang at seven. As the door swung shut, Andy grabbed my shoulder before I could make it to the bathroom.

  I turned to face him, and he earnestly said, “A complete game, Blake. I really did it.” In that instant, with the huge smile that spread across his face, Andy looked like a little boy excited by his first victory in a little league game. There was sweetness and innocence flooding his face for a moment. Then the goofy smile softened into a grin that brought back the adult Andy. He was my best friend at a time in my life that I really didn’t pay much attention to friends. I was too focused on baseball to develop deep relationships.

  I said, “It’s damn impressive. My only worry is that I’ll lose my roomie when you get kicked up the ladder.”

  “Maybe you’ll come, too,” said Andy. Then he opened his arms wide for a hug. Andy was the hugging type. I figured he grew up with parents that were always giving him big, squeezing hugs and waves of physical affection. In their absence, he looked for others to give him his share.

  I hugged him tight and stared deep into his eyes. I didn’t expect what happened next. Andy Fitzgerald kissed me. I could see it coming, and I did nothing to stop it. He closed his eyes first, then pursed his lips, and I didn’t move.

  Andy kissed me, and it wasn’t just a little peck. Our lips pressed together, and then he parted his slightly. I thought I felt tongue, and then my reflexes took over, and I pulled back. I stumbled over my next words, “I…I’ve gotta take a shower Andy. It’s late. We’ve gotta get up just a few hours from now.”

  I thought I saw a momentary frown, but then he released me from the hug and turned toward his bed. In a dull monotone, he said, “Thanks for a great evening, Blake. I’m going to sleep now.”

  Pulling the bathroom door shut tight, I began to strip out of my clothes. Thoughts assaulted me from all directions. Did he really kiss me? Does Andy want to be more than friends? Was that his tongue? What the hell was he doing? Did I like it? I tried to shake it all out of my mind as the hot, steamy water began to cascade down over my body.

  I’m not being conceited when I say that I was good-looking. I was blessed by inheriting great genes. My parents were prom king and queen at their high school. I was six feet two, and it was easy for me to put muscle on my frame with the bare minimum of exertion in the gym. Playing the game of baseball was a lot of work for me, but looking good while doing it never was.

  That’s why almost everyone would be shocked at my relative inexperience in the romance department. I had a few dates with girls and women here and there, but nothing I would assign the lofty label relationship. I looked at men from time to time, too. It seemed like a normal thing. I grew up with a couple of high school friends who proudly labeled themselves bisexual, but I didn’t think anything would come of my occasional lingering glances at handsome guys. Baseball was my life. Relationships had to wait. Eventually I would find a woman to marry and consider creating a family.

  Then Andy kissed me. As I worked the shampoo through my hair, I suddenly remembered a comment tossed out by a teammate named Carson shortly after Andy arrived. He said, “He’s kinda sweet on you, Powell. You better keep an eye on him.”

  I just gave Carson a good-natured shove and then trotted out to the field for batting practice. I wondered how many of my fellow teammates picked up on Andy’s attraction. Do they think I’m into Andy, too? I rinsed the shampoo from my hair and thought about the kiss. His lips were firm, and the something moist, it had to be his tongue. That felt good. I had to admit it. It was really good. It sent a little jolt of electricity through my body, and, fuck, I was hard just thinking about it.

  Climbing out of the shower and toweling myself off, I tried to kick thoughts about Andy out of my mind. Tomorrow was an afternoon game, and batting practice started early. I was in a bit of a hitting slump. The coaches suggested that I adopt a slightly different stance, and I was eager to try it out in practice. I pulled on my boxer briefs and stepped into the darkness of our shared room.

  I could hear Andy’s slow, steady breathing. He was already fast asleep. I climbed into my bed and rolled over to the side facing away. Fortunately, the alcohol in my bloodstream helped sleep come quickly.

  * * *

  In the morning, Andy was his normal self. He acted as if nothing unusual happened the night before. Maybe it wasn’t as unusual for him. I wondered if he was drunk enough that he really didn’t remember what happened, but I was certain I saw him down his last beer more
than an hour before we left the celebration in Landers’ room. He didn’t bob or weave on our way back to our room. He only trudged like someone exhausted, and he had every reason to feel exhausted.

  We ate breakfast together with three other guys, and when we reached the stadium, Andy just jogged off to center field to stretch and toss the ball around like usual on his non-pitching days. I was the one completely wrapped up in the aftermath of the kiss, and I had a hard time shaking it from my thoughts.

  The change in batting stance seemed to help. I didn’t normally hit with a lot of home run power, but I managed to launch three balls over the outfield fence in practice. It was enough to finally kick the fixation on Andy from my mind and get my head back into the game. By the time we took the field and I jogged out to third base, I was ready to kick everything about my performance up a notch.

  My first time at bat, I launched a double into the corner in right field. I had a big grin on my face as I slid into second well ahead of the tag and then stood up brushing the dirt off my knees. When Landers came to the plate two batters later and brought me in to score, Andy was the first to greet me on the steps of the dugout. Suddenly, the thoughts about the kiss were back, and I pulled away slightly from his hug.

  When I batted in the fourth inning, it already looked like we might have the game in the bag. I felt good, and I felt relaxed. At first, I thought about swinging for the fences, but I knew that I would do better just trying to plunk a single into short right. With a count of two and two, I connected with the ball. Instead of the hole in short right, I got around on the ball too quickly, and it carried to just to the left of the third baseman. I knew there was a chance the fielder could reach the ball to make a reasonable throw, so I dug in for a race to first base.

  Halfway there, Andy suddenly flashed into my mind. I was staring into his eyes and parted my own lips for a kiss. It was just enough distraction to throw my base running off. I tried to block Andy from my mind as I dug for first, but, at the last second, I realized my timing was off. My right foot landed at an angle on the outside edge of first base. Then I heard the ball land “thwack” in the glove. It was followed by a much more sickening sound.

  I heard the snap and then pain suddenly shot up to my hip. Tumbling to the ground, I knew instantly that my leg was broken. There was no mistaking the sound. The only question was how badly. I tried to stand, and the pain was so intense I nearly blacked out. Instead of putting any weight on it, I lay on the ground howling and grabbing for my calf.

  The next thing I remember, the trainer, first base coach, and manager were all gathered around me. I heard other players mumbling. The words, “I knew it as soon as that foot came down,” were distinct enough to make out.

  Bennett, our trainer, said, “Don’t try and stand up, Blake. We’ll call out a stretcher. If you try and stand, you’ll only make it worse.”

  I laid my head back in the dirt and stared up at the sky. I remembered thinking it was wrong that it was such a beautiful day with white puffy clouds in the sky. If I was breaking my leg, it should be in the middle of a thunderstorm with lightning flashing all around. At least there should be a sudden cold breeze. I closed my eyes, and then I felt at least six hands lifting me and placing my body on the stretcher.

  Most of the time it’s a great thing to hear applause from the stands. The one time you don’t want to hear it is when you are being carried from the field on a stretcher. I wondered if I should open my eyes and smile courageously to the crowd. Instead, I just kept my eyes closed and worried that my career was over. I was worried that a kiss killed my career.

  * * *

  Later that night as the doctor was explaining the surgery they needed to perform, Bennett looked on shaking his head. The doctor explained that they needed to install a plate and screws to make sure the bone would hold together when it healed. He said that I might be in the hospital for up to three days, but he expected everything to heal up well. Finally, he said the words I dreaded to hear. He said, “It will never be the same again, but you should be able to walk normally, run, jump, and do most things that you want to do.” Never the same echoed through my skull. That meant I couldn’t ever be the athlete I was before I kissed Andy.

  After the doctor left the room, Bennett gave me the more serious news. He said, “Blake, I have to be honest with you.”

  “It’s bad?” I asked.

  He nodded. “For a minor leaguer yeah. If you were in the majors, the team already has so much invested, this might just be a bump in the road, but the chances of coming back from this when you’re in the minors…not good.”

  I said, “I can work my ass off. I’ll work double-time with physical therapy…”

  Bennett rested his hand on my shoulder. He said, “Blake, if you’ve got a plan B, I would start thinking about it really hard. It’s late summer now. The chances of you being back in good enough condition for spring training next year are really slim. This kind of injury usually takes at least nine months to be back on top of your game. Sometimes it’s a year or more. The game isn’t going to wait for you.”

  I slammed a hand down on the bed and bit my tongue to stop from shouting in Bennett’s face. Instead, I clenched my teeth and whispered, “Just leave me alone now.”

  He pulled his hand back and said, “I’m really sorry, Blake. All I can say is this really sucks, but there’s a lot more to life than just being a baseball player. Seriously, there is.”

  I growled, “I don’t need to hear that right now.” Then I shouted, “Get out! Just get out now!”

  He headed for the door just as a nurse was entering. I heard her ask if anything was wrong, and Bennett said, “He’ll be okay. It’s all just starting to sink in.”

  1

  Ian

  I remember the day that I first met Blake Powell, because it was mid-August and the hottest day of the summer. He was struggling on crutches with a gleaming white cast on his left leg, and his T-Shirt was soaked to the skin with sweat. He was tall, maybe six feet two, and I could see the sculpted muscle underneath the shirt clinging to his body.

  I was outside early in the morning pulling weeds in the flower bed sandwiched between the front porch of my bungalow and the slope downward to the street. It was barely 6:00 a.m., and I was avoiding the searing, humid heat promised for later in the day by getting my gardening work finished just as the sun rose. Blake exited the house next door, and I watched him painfully navigate the concrete steps down the slope to street level while wavering on the crutches.

  That’s when I noticed that the “For Rent” sign next door was gone. It was Monday morning, and I arrived home after dark on Sunday after visiting a good friend for a long weekend in Door County. I was among the hundreds of thousands of others from further south in Wisconsin and states beyond who were seeking a respite from the summer heat. The “For Rent” sign was out for a good month. Now it was gone, and a tall, muscular man hobbling on crunches was taking up residence.

  I stood up from the bed of slightly sun-scorched impatiens, and brushed the dirt off my knees. Hurrying to the base of the concrete steps, I called, “Can I help in any way? It looks like we’re neighbors now.”

  He stopped midway down the slope and, in a flat voice ragged from the physical effort, he said, “No, I can make it. Thanks for the offer.”

  I watched as he lowered the crutches to the next step and then swung himself downward in a movement that caused his entire body to sway precariously. Despite his rejection of my assistance, I climbed up the steps to try and create a human wall in case he lost his balance. “You haven’t been on those long, have you?” I asked.

  Heading down to the next step, he grunted and said, “Left the hospital last Thursday.” He paused until his body stopped swaying and said, “You ask a lot of questions.”

  I backed down so that he could move another step closer to street level. “Stop me if I’m too nosy. I’m just trying to be helpful. My mom broke a leg a couple of years back, and she came to live with
me for two months. It was hard on her.”

  Perched just one step from the sidewalk, he balanced his weight on the crutches and looked directly into my eyes. I did my best to smile in a friendly fashion. I’ve heard that my smile is one of my best attributes. I was worried that I might receive another rebuke when he said, “My name’s Blake. I just might need some of your help.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from curling my mouth up into a grin. Close up, Blake was strikingly handsome even with his lips twisted into a grimace and his clothes soaked with sweat. I said, “I’m Ian, and it’s really none of my business, but why are you out here at this hour anyway? Watching you make your way down the slope like this to the street, it almost looks like you’re running away. In slow motion.”

  While I waited for a response, I backed up so that he could navigate the final step to the sidewalk. After planting himself at street level, Blake sighed heavily and tried to push himself to a slightly more upright position gingerly resting the bottom of the cast on the surface of the sidewalk. He said, “I have a doctor’s appointment, and I’m supposed to meet the medical transport van down here.”

  Looking at the leg and thinking about my Honda Accord, I asked, “Would you rather have a ride in a car? My treat? I work from home so my time is flexible. You won’t need to bother with total strangers.”

  He smirked and said, “You are a total stranger.”

  “Well, you’ve got me there, but I’m a stranger who can produce references. All I need to do is send a text message.” I paused. “On second thought, it’s probably not good for me to ask for references at 6:00 a.m.”

  He cocked his head to the right. “Are you serious about the offer? And could you pick me up after? It would beat calling for the van and waiting half an hour for the pickup.”

  “Where is your doctor?” I asked.