by Roz Lee
“Shit.”
Driving away, he focused on the road ahead and nothing else. No looking back. No regrets. If only one of them could be happy, he wanted it to be Bentley.
She doesn’t love you the way I do, Bent. I’d sell my soul for you.
Hell, I already have.
Chapter Fourteen
It was possible to avoid someone for weeks. It took determination and focus, but it could be done. Checking into a cheap, by-the-month, chain motel after leaving Bentley’s pool house had been a stroke of genius. He’d told no one where he was living these days. No one on the team would suspect he would choose such a place given the Mustangs were giving him a stipend to cover living expenses until he found a place to buy or rent. Why choose austere when you could have luxury?
Because it suits me.
Paring down his life to the bare essentials so he could concentrate on his future was the only way he could survive. No reminders of the past. No looking back. Just looking forward from now on. He’d start from the bottom again, work his way up—with his personal life and the team.
Avoiding Bentley at the stadium and on road trips took more planning, but he’d managed thus far to insure they were never alone anywhere, putting as much distance between them as possible at every function. He tried not to look at the left fielder, but every once and a while, he couldn’t help it. He needed to see his face, if even for a brief second. Mostly, he managed to glimpse him when the man wouldn’t know he was looking, but a few times their gazes had locked across a crowded room. The pain in his former lover’s eyes would almost convince him to change his mind, to try to make it work, one more time. But then he’d remember Ashley. He couldn’t forget the look on her face the night she’d seem them kiss. That alone was enough to shake loose any lingering hope he had for his relationship with Bentley. Nothing good could come of reopening that particular wound.
Refocusing his energy on his career was paying off in small increments. His averages were improving all around, and he’d moved up in the batting order. Thanks to extra training sessions as well as religious adherence to his PT schedule, his hip felt better than it had in years. The season was shaping up to be one of his best ever, if not the best. Management was talking contract renewal, which was nothing short of a miracle given the way he’d begun with the Mustangs—brawling on the locker room floor with one of their star players.
Professionally, he’d come a long way in the last few weeks. Personally, he was a wreck. Not a minute went by he didn’t think about the man he loved and want him. A few times he’d considered going to a bar searching for a casual hookup—anything to relieve the pressure—but when it got right down to it, he couldn’t bring himself to follow through. If he couldn’t have Bentley Randolph, he didn’t want anyone.
He’d become so adept at avoiding the one person he most wanted to be with, his techniques had become second nature to him. He no longer gave conscious thought to taking the longer way around, or waiting until everyone else had chosen their seat on the plane before choosing his. The other man’s lack of interest in figuring out his methods in order to thwart them was proof he’d done the right thing by sneaking out of the pool house. If the man wanted to talk to him, he could find a way.
“Hello, Sean.”
A familiar figure blocking the hallway stopped him in his tracks. Well, hell.
“What are you doing here?” Few people other than delivery people and maintenance personnel used the narrow passageway connecting the back exits of the various rooms in the Clubhouse. It had become Sean’s primary means of traversing the underground warren over the last few weeks.
“Looking for you. You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been avoiding everybody, in case you haven’t noticed. Don’t think you’re special.” He took a step, intending to go around, but the man put his arm out to block the hall.
“Move out of my way, Randolph. We don’t have time for your bullshit. The game starts in ten minutes.”
“Fuck the game. Why did you leave?”
Scraps of memory flashed through his brain. All those years ago—the paralyzing pain when he realized the man had fled to the Mustangs to avoid him. The loneliness. The gut-wrenching despair.
“You have the nerve to ask me why I left? After what you did to me in St. Louis?” He sneered. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“I’m not fucking with you. Isn’t that the problem? I’ve already apologized for asking to be traded, and you said you understood why I did it. But the situation is different now. We found a way to be together then you left without a word. After you…after we…in the kitchen. I thought we were going to make it work.”
“What planet are you living on? Did you see the look on your fiancée’s face? She might have been saying the words, but that’s all they were, words. She fuckin’ hated what she saw. It scared the shit out of her.”
“She was okay with it.”
Sean noted the uncertainty in the man’s voice. “No she wasn’t. Don’t fool yourself into believing otherwise. She has no intention of sharing you with anyone, especially not me. I did what I had to do. I left. So, go back to the little woman, Bentley. Marry her. Have enough kids to have your own baseball team. Be happy. Whatever you do, just stay the fuck out of my life.”
Saying those words turned his stomach, but he needed to say them. In his own way Bent had chosen this road for both of them by choosing to ignore the signals Ashley was giving off.
“You don’t mean that,” he said, his voice low and laced with pain. “She’ll come around. I know she will. We just have to give her time to get used to the idea.”
“She isn’t going to come around no matter how much time we give her. She loves you, but not enough to give you what you want.”
“What about you?”
“I’m not part of the equation.” He took a deep, cleansing breath then let it out. “Tell me something. You took her to bed after I left, didn’t you?”
Bentley nodded.
“Did you think about me when you were fucking her?”
Silence.
“I thought so. You’re good at compartmentalizing. There’s just one thing wrong with your neat little compartments. You can’t keep them separate forever. Once the contents start mixing together, they’re going to destroy each other.” He pushed Bent’s arm out of the way. “You made the choice to keep the compartments separate when you let me walk out of your kitchen the other night. Go home to your woman, and forget about me.”
He took a few steps along the hallway then turned. “Have a nice life. Name a kid after me.”
Bentley leaned his shoulders against the wall, listening to the sound of Sean’s metal-spiked cleats grinding against the concrete floor, growing fainter with each step. Was he right? Had he subconsciously chosen Ashley? Had he made a choice when he didn’t insist on his lover staying?
Would things have blown up if he had stayed?
Stunned to find every trace of Sean gone from the property the following morning, he tried calling him but got a disconnect message for his cell phone. He’d gone back to the house to tell Ashley. What had she said? Something like, “I guess he decided he didn’t want to share, after all.”
Was that it? He couldn’t remember. He’d been too lost in his own thoughts, wondering what the hell happened, and where the man he loved had disappeared to.
Since then, Ashley had thrown herself headfirst into planning their wedding. He nodded his agreement on every decision from the color of the bridesmaid’s dresses to the color of ribbon on her bouquet. He couldn’t have cared less about any of it. None of it mattered. Once he’d seen the first baseman was alive, he’d focused on one thing, finding a way to talk to the man alone.
Easier said than done. He’d become a ghost, flitting in and out of the shadows, gone before you were sure you’d seen him at all. When he did see him, he was surrounded by a crowd—inaccessible. He’d known the evasion was deliberate from the beginning but figured it would run i
ts course. His irate lover would get over it, whatever it was then they’d talk. Except that never happened. After almost three weeks, feeling as though he might crawl out of his skin with need, he decided he had to find a way to talk to him.
A door opened somewhere around the corner followed by the Batboy’s voice.
“There you are. They’re looking for you. The game is about to start. Have you seen Mr. Randolph?”
“Yeah. He’s down the hall.”
The door shut, followed by the echo of quick footsteps growing closer.
Time to go. He shoved away from the wall.
The other man’s accusations followed him all the way to left field. How could he think his leaving now had anything to do with what happened back in St. Louis? It wasn’t the same. He’d run in order to put distance between himself and a temptation that scared the life out of him. Sean had left because he couldn’t have everything he wanted.
Fuck you, Flannery. We could have made it work. You were just too chicken to try. Your fault, not mine.
Distracted was the nice word for his condition on the field. Fucked up was the accurate word. His fielding error in the first inning almost cost them a run, and his appearances at home plate were dismal, at best. He was zero for three—all strikeouts. Big, ugly, whiff at dead air, strikeouts.
The Claim Jumpers were on their third relief pitcher, down by just one run. Stepping into the batter’s box once more, with a runner on base and one out in the inning, Bentley had a chance to put the game almost out of reach. If he could hit the damn ball.
Focus, asshole.
He stepped out of the box.
“Time,” the umpire called.
He needed to do something to get back into the game. Naturally right-handed, he most often batted right, but he could hit from either side of the plate. Switching sides was sometimes a matter of strategy—where to place the ball or to disconcert the pitcher, but batting left-handed required his complete concentration on his body mechanics as well as on the pitch. God knew, he needed to concentrate.
Decision made, he stepped to the other side of the plate. He scanned the field, noted the runner on first base, the shortstop shifting toward second, the outfield adjusting to the new dynamics. They were well aware of the percentages. Chances were, if he hit it, the ball would go to the right side of the field.
The umpire waved him to the plate. Time to play fuckin’ ball.
He dug his left foot into the dirt until the grip felt good then planted his right foot. Gaze locked on the pitcher, he brought the bat to his shoulder.
He opened his mind to the subtle strain on seldom-used muscles—used it to distill his focus. Everything dropped away except the weight of the bat in his hand and the pitcher on the mound.
The first pitch went wide. Ball one.
On the next one, the pitcher over-compensated, and Bent had to jump backward or take a hit on the kneecap. Ball two.
The third pitch was inside, but good enough he swung, cringing at the sound of leather smacking against leather. Strike one.
Another pitch went high out of the strike zone for ball three.
Fuck. He’s throwing everything but the kitchen sink. Bent stepped out of the box to adjust his batting gloves—giving himself a moment to contemplate where the pitcher would go with the next one. He needed to even the count so it would be a strike. He’d most likely paint the outside edge of home plate, hoping to get a foul ball strike. Speed? Fast. He’d be crazy to shave velocity off a pitch at this point.
Muscles tensed, he stepped back into the box, shrugged to loosen up.
You and me, buddy. No one else.
The instant the ball left the pitcher’s hand, Bent knew it was his. Instinct? A lifetime of watching pitches, looking for the perfect one? It didn’t matter. His brain made the almost instantaneous calculations, calling on muscle memory trained into his body to do the rest.
He swung.
His eyes never left the ball, using the sensory information to guide his hands, position his arms, his shoulders, his hips and legs. Everything in perfect alignment to hit the ball—crush it.
Thwack!
The smooth vibration traveling from his hands, along his arms to the rest of his body confirmed what he already knew. That ball was going.
He tracked it until it bounced off an empty seat in the right field bleachers.
A fuckin’ homerun!
Crossing home plate seconds behind Jason Holder, who’d been the runner on first base, he joined in the jubilant celebration taking place. He couldn’t help scanning the group, looking for one teammate in particular. Sean stood at the dugout railing, watching. Their gazes met, holding for the span of a heartbeat, then Sean shook his head and ducked inside.
He felt like a starving puppy turned away from the back door of the butcher shop. “No scraps for you today.”
Fuck off, Sean. I don’t need you. Never did. Ashley loves me. I’d name a kid after you, but asshole wouldn’t look good on a birth certificate.
Sean locked gazes with Bentley. For a heartbeat or two, blinding heat sizzled between them. He looked away, dropping down from the raised fence to the dugout floor. Just because he’d said the words to sever their relationship didn’t mean his feelings for the left fielder had died. He’d long since realized they never would.
He’d wished for many things in his life, and rarely gotten any of them, so why was this any different? As long as the asshole insisted on walking through life with blinders on, he’d see what he wanted to see. Bentley didn’t want to see anything outside the path he thought he should walk.
Face it, Ashley is smack in the middle of his path, and you are not.
Ashley is safe. She’ll never challenge him to be more than an adequate husband or an attentive father.
You challenge everything he believes.
Not a thing had changed since St. Louis. He might have admitted to himself he had desires beyond the social norm, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the world know. When push came to shove, he retreated back into the small closet society said was appropriate and pulled the door shut.
He wasn’t much better. He loved playing baseball, but telling the world he was gay would pretty much end his career. At the very least, he’d always be known as the gay player. Everything he did, any record he might achieve would be prefaced by the words “openly gay player, Sean Flannery.” He did not want that to be his identity or his legacy.
He’d much rather be known as “two time All-Star player, Sean Flannery” or even “Major League veteran, Sean Flannery.” Why his sexual preferences had anything to do with his ability to play baseball was beyond his understanding. But he wasn’t stupid enough to believe the press wouldn’t have a field day with the information if they got their hands on it.
Fuck you, Randolph.
He grabbed his glove from the bench. Following the third out, he took his place on the field. Just three outs away from a win, he cleared his mind except for the game and his part in it. Jeff Holder, the Mustangs’ ace closer, came in from the bullpen, shutting down the first two batters with ease.
One more out, then we’re done. I can get the hell away from here.
His mouth watered, imagining the first taste of the cold beer he intended to down as soon as he could find a bar. Getting rip-roaring drunk sounded like a plan. The team had tomorrow off, perfect timing in his opinion.
The next batter swung at and missed the first two pitches. Sean relaxed as Jeff consulted with the catcher, his brother, Jason, on what pitch to throw next. The umpire broke up the discussion, and the players resumed their positions. Sean settled in, focused on the batter.
Make it quick, Jeff. I want to get the hell out of here.
As soon as the bat connected, Sean’s feet were moving, tracking the popped up ball with his eyes. He lifted his gloved hand high to block the glare from the stadium lights that had come on midway through the game to chase away the early evening shadows.
I’ve got it. I�
�ve got it.
He shuffled to the left another foot then suddenly the ball was gone. Lost in the lights. His heart jumped into overdrive.
Fuck. Where is it?
He wavered, spotted the spinning orb again. Realizing it had traveled farther foul, he stretched his arm out, glove up. His feet left the ground as he launched himself toward the spot where his glove might, with a dose of diamond dust luck, intercept the ball for the final out.
He felt the impact of the ball against his palm at the exact same time someone slammed a sledgehammer into his left hip. Stars blinded him. He reached out with his free hand for anything solid to stop his momentum but came up empty handed.
Time slowed as he tumbled over the railing like a rag doll. Life flashed across his retinas like a Picasso painting—jumbled fragments came together to create a surreal tableau he had no control over. Railings. Concrete. Faces. The lineup card on the dugout wall. A television camera.
Pain clouded his brain. His hip. His ribs. His knee. They all hurt. He was flying. Then he wasn’t.
He landed face-up on the dugout floor. For a heartbeat, he saw nothing but white pain. Someone called his name. He opened his eyes, saw open sky above him, then everything went black.
Chapter Fifteen
Holy shit!
Bentley froze. He watched from his position in left field as Sean disappeared head, then feet-first over the dugout rail.
Blood roared past his ears as he waited, breathless for him to pop up, laughing and smiling triumphantly at having caught the final out of the game. Except he didn’t pop up. Not the first heartbeat, the second, or the third. A sick feeling took hold in his stomach.
He’d never seen an uglier fall in all his years playing baseball.
No.
No.
No.
He forced his feet to move, the mantra playing through his mind with each running step.
Please, God. Let him be okay.
He pushed his way through the crowd blocking the steps.
