Caught by You

by Jennifer Bernard

  “Hey, big brother,” he said when his brother’s voice came on the line. “Got something important to run past you.”

  “This is not the best . . .” Joey’s voice sounded scratchy and distant. Probably a bad connection, since the clubhouse was notorious for its poor reception.

  “You okay? How’s my kidney?”

  “Processing the aftereffects of a dirty martini.” Now that sounded more like Joey.

  “Nice. Party it up, bro. Listen, I’ve been thinking I want to shake things up.”

  “Didn’t you already do that by getting engaged? I want to meet her, Mike. Soon. Send me your travel schedule. I’m not teaching any summer school this year.”

  That was odd. Joey loved teaching so much that he seized every opportunity to take on extra classes.

  “Sure, I’ll send it to you tonight. But I’m not talking about Donna. I’m talking about going public.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do a PSA or something.”

  Joey was ominously quiet. “A PSA for what?”

  So maybe he hadn’t quite thought this through. “Gays?”

  Joey laughed, breaking off into a cough.

  “Seriously, are you okay, Joey?”

  “I’m okay. Honored to be considered someone who needs a PSA. What’s going on, Mike?”

  Mike filled him in on the situation with Yazmer. Joey didn’t say anything for a long time. Background noise filled the gap—­a woman’s voice, the beeping of a monitor. His heart sank. Joey must be at the hospital, and now Mike was adding to his stress.

  “Listen, forget it, Joey. The last thing you need is reporters bugging you, and if I do this, there might be a few. Not as many as Yazmer gets, but the whole point is to go public. So the goal would be to . . . never mind.”

  “Listen, Mike.” Joey cut him off. “I’m fine with it. Just give the family a heads-­up, because they won’t be happy. But there’s something—­”

  “Solo! Get your ass into the dugout. A kid who called 911 and saved his whole family from a house fire is about to sing the frickin’ National Anthem.” Duke’s voice thundered down the corridor. “And then we have a cat who’s going to throw out the first pitch. It’s a circus, Solo, you don’t want to miss it.”

  “Coming, Duke.” He spoke into the phone again. “What were you about to say, Joey?”

  “Call me later. It sounds like you need to go.”

  “I will. And I’ll deal with the family, don’t worry about that. Love you, Joey.”

  “Love you too. Blast it out of the park, my brother.”

  Mike skidded back to the clubhouse, tossed his phone into his locker, and barely made it on the field in time for the 911 kid.

  Yazmer had the start. When he jogged onto the field, noise swelled in the stands. Some applause, some boos, but it didn’t seem to matter to Yaz. Noise was noise. He waved cockily, and set his cap on his head at the particular angle he preferred, just within regulation. Mike muttered as he took his position behind the plate. If only he didn’t have his damn Father Kowalski ethics, he could mess with Yaz a little. Call a bad game, or just let Yaz call the shots. Tip the batter off to his next pitch. So many ways he could sabotage Yaz. One crap game wouldn’t affect Mike’s stats, unless he missed a catch, but it would affect Yaz’s.

  The Reno Aces’ batter, Dave Foster, came to the plate. “Heads-­up, Solo. I’m aiming straight for that asshole’s mouth.”

  “I didn’t hear that,” Mike answered with a laugh, before lowering his face mask. Foster stepped into the batter’s box, Mike went into his crouch and signaled for a fastball. Yaz shook it off. He called for the curve. No go. He went through all of Yaz’s pitches, then finally called time and jogged out to the mound.

  “What the fuck?”

  “You on the D-­L, Schmooz-­o Solo?”

  Clearly, the man didn’t mean disabled list, but Mike hadn’t a clue what he did mean. “What are you talking about?”

  “D-­L. Down-­low. Can’t trust a catcher that plays it both ways.”

  Mike stared at him blankly. Finally it clicked. Plays it both ways. Dave Foster had been spotted in a gay bar once, though he denied he was gay. Mike didn’t care one way or the other, but apparently Yaz did. And Mike had been laughing with Foster before his at-­bat.

  “You miserable little shit, start pitching or get off the mound.” He gestured at the stands. “These ­people didn’t come here to watch you exercise your neck muscles shaking me off.”

  Mitch, the pitching coach, jogged onto the field. “What’s up, boys?”

  Yaz and Mike were still locked in their stare-­down. Yaz smirked. “I want me a different catcher.”

  “That ain’t your fucking decision,” said Duke, who had carted his bulk from the dugout. “It’s either Mike or that cat that threw out the first pitch. End of story.”

  “Bozo Solo’s a big fail on the get-­Yaz-­to-­the-­bigs gig. Different catcher, I’d be King of the Friars by now.”

  Mike would have given his left nut to be able to punch the smirk right off the pitcher’s face.

  Yaz went on. “What I hear, that cat’ll make the biggies before Solo does.”

  Mike’s gut clenched. Is that what ­people were saying? He’d been distracted by Donna and all that glorious sex they’d been having. His stats were still good, but he hadn’t been obsessively checking the transactions the way he usually did. He didn’t know what trades had been made, or what moves the Friars were making. And he’d made so little progress with Yazmer that the guy was requesting a different catcher.

  Way to go, Solo.

  “Keep this up, neither of you will make it,” barked Duke. He had just enough authority to get through to Yaz, whose smug smile dropped.

  Bieberman piped up nervously. “I’m allergic to cats. Anyone else allergic to cats?”

  Everyone turned to stare at him. “I think that cat might have pooped on the infield grass,” he added, shrinking back from the array of intimidating glares. “Can someone . . . maybe . . .”

  Mike cut him off. “Yaz and I were just trying to get our signals straight. No need for a summit meeting here. We got this.”

  “You better,” growled Duke. “This is baseball, not middle school. I want to see both of you in my office after the game.”

  Mike nodded, as did Yaz, with one more resentful look in his direction. With a heavy sigh, he jogged back to home plate, where Foster was chatting with the umpire. “You guys get it all figured out?” Foster asked with a grin. “Bet you can’t get called up soon enough, eh, Solo?”

  Hell to the yes. But now it was time to put his personal feelings aside and do some work for the Catfish.

  “You got that right. When Yaz is in this kind of mood, no one’s safe, not the catcher, not anyone. Just a friendly warning.” He pulled his face mask down, hiding his grin as Foster eased back from the plate a hair—­enough to strike out swinging.

  For the rest of the game, Mike worked Yaz’s volatile personality, riding the pitcher’s quicksilver emotions to produce a six-­hit, 4-­2 victory. Hopefully someone noticed and gave Mike credit, but Yaz sure wouldn’t. He’d do his usual postgame YouTube and Instagram update in Yaz language, all about the brilliance of Yazmer Perez. Hashtag CrushIt.

  For the first time, it didn’t bother Mike. Because he had a plan to fight back now.

  The first time the PSA aired, Mike was in bed with Donna at her tiny apartment with the view of the sewage treatment plant. The production coordinator at Equal Rights in Sports, the group he’d chosen as a vehicle for his message, had given him a list of airtimes. He and Donna surfaced from one of their delirious bouts of sex in time to switch on the TV with only seconds to spare.

  “I’m a little nervous,” he confessed, rubbing his hand across his chest. “Not used to being in the spotlight.”

  “We
ll, you should be. You’re just as cute as the ones they always show.” Donna’s singular loyalty always made him smile.

  “Think you’re a little biased, what with that secret crush and all?” He couldn’t believe she’d handed him such a convenient weapon with which to tease her.

  She blushed, as she always did when he mentioned it. “You’re never going to forget that, are you?”

  “Nope. When did it start? In the closet at the library? Before that?”

  “You should worry more about when it ended.” She poked him in the ribs. “Which happened pretty much when you opened your mouth.”

  “What I want to know is, why’d you make me jump through hoops to get you to like me, when you were already there?”

  “Shhh! You’re up.”

  Mike sat up against the headboard, one knee bent, the other leg stretched forward. The sound of a ballpark filled the screen, along with his face against the backdrop of a baseball field—­not Catfish Stadium, but a field Crush Taylor had installed on his ranch when he first retired.

  “Hi, I’m Mike Solo. I’ve been a baseball player most of my life, but I’ve been a brother since I was born. My big brother taught me how to skateboard, how to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, and how to stand up to bullies. I’ve never forgotten any of those lessons, which is why I’m coming forward—­with his permission—­to say that he also happens to be gay. This should be a private matter, but sadly, for some ­people it isn’t. They want to exclude ­people like my brother from living their lives and performing their jobs. I think that’s unfair and shortsighted. Shouldn’t the important thing be how well a person does their job? Not what they do in the privacy of their own homes? That’s how I see it, anyway. I’m proud of my brother, and if anyone tried to exclude him, I’d call that a bush league move. I’m baseball player Mike Solo and this has been a message from Equal Rights in Sports.”

  The music soared, the ERS graphic swirled onto the screen, and it was over. An ad for Rice-­A-­Roni took the screen, little elbow pastas dancing arm in arm. Mike was afraid to look in Donna’s direction.

  “We went back and forth on that ‘bush league’ line,” Mike said nervously. “Is it stupid? Did it sound ridiculous? We couldn’t think of another baseball saying that sounded right.”

  Donna threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him sideways off the bed. “Are you kidding? It was awesome. You just told it like it is. And you looked seriously hot. What was that shirt you were wearing?”

  “It’s an away uniform from one of my high school leagues. No team identification on the front, so it worked. Did it look too tight?”

  “No way. It looked hot.” Donna’s eyes glowed with a golden sheen, her enthusiasm radiating from her like sunbeams. “I’m so proud of you! I was thinking of something like this when you were looking at Yazmer’s tweets.”

  “You’re the one who gave me the idea.”

  “Really? It came out so much better than I even imagined.” She raised her hand for a high five. “Touchdown, Mike Solo!”

  “What . . . did . . . you . . . say?” Menacingly, he narrowed his eyes at her, then flipped her onto her back. Fighting giggles, she widened her eyes innocently.

  “Oopsies. Did I say touchdown? I totally meant . . . goal!”

  “Oh, you are seriously asking for it. Try one more time.” He stripped the sheet off her and straddled her hips, his cock, completely spent five minutes earlier, stirring with new appreciation for her curvaceous nudity. But now was not the moment for sex; this was a time for ruthless tickling.

  “Home run! I meant home run!” She shrieked as he dove in with both hands. “Don’t tickle me, I swear you’ll make me pee!”

  “You’d better not, missy. Say it again! You know what I want to hear!”

  “Baseball is the best game in the entire world! Ever! In all of human history!”

  “That’s more like it.” He stopped tickling her, because he knew by now that she was serious about the peeing. And besides, he’d thought of another game that rivaled baseball. “There might be this one particular game with a big advantage over baseball.”

  And he positioned his hand at the softness between her legs, ready to demonstrate, ignoring the phone calls that were already pouring in.

  Chapter 18

  MIKE’S PSA CREATED a sensation. It got picked up by the national sports media, which meant lots of free publicity. Everyone wanted to interview him, and every time he spoke, with his charming, mischievous, regular-­guy manner, he won new fans—­no surprise to Donna. He also won new enemies. He’d gotten a few pieces of hate mail—­or at least, hate Facebook posts—­and the group that had wanted to get rid of the Kilby Catfish last season suddenly had new life.

  “Can the Catfish! We’ve had enough of the constant scandal and controversy. Isn’t it high time the Catfish moved to another location?” read their latest statement in the Kilby Press-­Herald.

  Reporters got to work unearthing all the details of his family history. The fact that he’d been at the Naval Academy, with the eventual goal of becoming a SEAL. The fact that he’d left the Navy when he donated a kidney to his brother. Even the end of his engagement to Angela found its way into the profile Sports Illustrated did on him. Most of the coverage was positive, but even so the sudden onslaught of attention was disorienting, especially for Donna.

  She’d thought Kilby’s interest in the Catfish Wedding of the Decade was over the top, but this was on a whole different level. The next time she brought Zack to a game, there was a photographer waiting near the entrance. After she’d picked up their tickets, she moved toward the turnstile, holding Zack tightly by the hand. The photographer aimed the camera at her face and walked backward while he screamed questions at her.

  “What do you think about your fiancé’s revelations? What do you think of Yazmer’s response? Have you seen his new YouTube video?”

  “I haven’t seen it,” she told him. “You should go interview someone else.”

  “Why did Mike Solo keep quiet so long about his brother? Was he ashamed?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped. “It was private. Can you get out of our way, please?” Zack had wrapped both of his arms around her leg, which made it even harder for her to make it to the safety of the stadium.

  “If it was private, why is he coming forward now?”

  “Because the time was right. Because of that stupid petition Yazmer is circulating. Why are you asking me these things?”

  “Are you calling Yazmer stupid?”

  Donna glared at the man, who she could barely see behind his camera. Glasses, ruffled brown hair, a weaselly appearance. “You rotten creep, did you just twist my words around? For the record, I support Mike, I think Yazmer’s a publicity ho—­I mean, hound—­and I don’t have any comment.”

  By the time she made it inside the turnstile, she was completely flustered. She was absolutely the wrong person to face a nosy reporter. Zack lifted his arms, begging to be picked up. She swung him into her arms and headed for the concession stand where they could buy a gigantic lemonade to share. Mike, already in his light blue Catfish home uniform, came running toward her. The girl inside the ticket booth must have alerted security.

  Still holding Zack, she practically fell into his arms. “Oh my God, Mike, that was crazy. I think I totally messed up. I wasn’t prepared! He came at me out of nowhere.”

  “Shhh, shhh. It’s okay. Security’s on it. They’ll try to confiscate the tape.”

  “I hope they do, because I kind of called Yazmer a ho. I tried to change it to ‘hound’ but I’m not sure he caught that part.”

  “Forget about it. I don’t want you to worry. This is my battle, and I’ll make sure they leave you alone.” Enfolded in his arms, she felt a little better.

  “Who was that man?” Zack piped up. “He’s poopy.”

  “That’s one way to put it
, Zack-­a-­doodle. Let’s just say he’s not someone we want to hang out with. If we see him again, we’ll go somewhere else.”

  The next day, the headline on the Daily Sports Blog read, “Catfish Catfight! Solo’s Sweetie Calls Yaz a ‘Ho.’ ” Donna peered over Mike’s shoulder as he read the entire text on her computer.

  “Me and my big mouth,” she groaned. “Can you just put some duct tape over it for the next month or so?”

  “Oh no. I have other plans for your mouth.” He gave her a teasing leer, all twinkly eyes and wiggling eyebrows, but she could tell he didn’t like the direction the controversy was taking.

  “It’s turning into a circus, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it’s not your fault. Yaz likes circuses. I thought he’d be pissed about the PSA, but he isn’t. He gave me a big fist bump. Like we’re playing some kind of game for the public’s entertainment.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Nothing. Just go about your regular life. If ­people ask you questions, don’t answer. I know it’s hard. They’re tricky. They’re experts at getting ­people to respond. That’s their job. Just block them out and do your thing.”

  “My thing? What’s my thing?”

  He swiveled the chair and scooped her into his lap. “That thing you do. Breathing. Existing. Smiling. That sort of thing.” His kiss drained every last bit of worry out of her. Mike made her feel valuable and important in a way that no one else ever had. Every moment she spent with him made her love him even more, and made the task of disguising those emotions even more difficult.

  Good thing she had long practice at hiding her feelings behind a fun-­loving, carefree exterior.

  The next day, two photographers were lying in wait in the parking lot of Dental Miracles. This time she was prepared. Since silence wasn’t her strong suit, she’d concocted another plan.

  “Good morning,” she chirped to them as she shouldered her purse and hauled her blue-­blazer-­clad self toward the front door.

  “Do you have any comment on what commentators are saying?”