Switch Pitching (Off the Bench #1)

27. Ethan

27

ETHAN

SEPTEMBER

James isn’t himself. I mean, he’s getting better physically, as in he can move his left shoulder and wiggle the fingers on his right hand, but he’s not doing well. While he keeps insisting that everything is fine, his usual upbeat moods have been replaced with resignation and sighing.

It’s understandable. What James is going through, recovering from a potentially career-wrecking injury, would take a toll on anyone.

Between being on the road, practice, and games for most of the week, I’m not home a lot. Sure, I have days off, but James has to leave for physical therapy appointments, and other than that, all we do is stay in bed together. Not even in a sexual way. James sleeps and I hold him. That’s it. He sleeps a lot , and he says it’s because he doesn’t have anything better to do. I’ve tried coaxing him out of the house to go on walks with me, but he doesn’t see the point.

Long story short, we went from being together 24/7 to maybe getting an hour or two a day with each other. I miss him all the time, even when we’re right next to each other.

A few weeks in, I suggested that James should try talking to one of the team therapists because he’d said all of three words to me in just as many days, and he only shrugged and mumbled “sure”. To his credit, he started calling them once a week, so that’s something positive, especially since I’m not equipped to help him get out of his emotional slump in any way beyond just being there for him. I did some late-night research and dug myself into a terrifying hole of information, but I’m starting to suspect that James is depressed. Maybe not clinically, but situationally. At least that’s what I hope it’s limited to.

The days go by, and honestly, nothing drastic happens. James’s recovery is slow and steady, but his mood doesn’t pick up. He’s quiet and distant, which is the complete opposite of how he usually is. I want to be with him through it all, laughing and joking with him like usual, but I can’t just drop everything to stay by his side. The career that we both chose doesn’t stop.

When I’m not home, I can’t shake the thought that things could go downhill, that there’s something that might happen that will widen the gap between us. As much as I hope that things change, that James will get better, I can’t help but dread some nebulous, uncertain event that makes everything harder.

It happens as soon as I come back from a three-day trip to New York. As usual, I book it back to the apartment from the airport, eager to see James again. Even though he’s been down, seeing him still makes me light up inside. I still get that warm calmness whenever I see him, even four months and two injuries into our relationship.

When I open the front door, James is sitting on the couch, dressed in something other than sweatpants and an old shirt. All shaved, styled, and groomed, he’s a lot more like his old self.

“Hey.” I greet him.

He runs a hand through his untrimmed but combed hair. “Hey.”

Smiling, I walk over and plant a kiss on his cheek. “You look good, are you feeling better?”

No response. I pull back and rub his shoulder, hoping that prompts him to reply.

“I’m going back to Toronto for a bit.”

My stomach lurches, and it takes everything in me to keep my expression neutral.

He’s leaving?

But I dispose of that thought almost as soon as it enters my head. This isn’t about me, it’s about what’s best for James and his recovery. If time at home is what he needs, he should go, that’s for sure.

“Right,” I start. “That sounds like a good idea.”

James glances up at me, not saying anything and wearing the same resigned, neutral expression that I’ve come to know too well.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m gonna have to get used to not having you around, but I’m never home. You might feel better after spending some time with your parents.”

“Sure.” James fumbles next to him, searching for his phone between the couch cushions. After a while, he fishes it out and lazily begins tapping on it. “Besides, Boston is headed for the playoffs, so you can focus on that without me distracting you at home.”

Instinctively, I hold up my hand. “James, you aren’t a distraction,” I insist. “You’re my boyfriend. I have enough energy to be with you and play baseball. That hasn’t changed since we got together.”

James’s lack of a reply tells me that he’s unconvinced, and he just keeps pressing away at his phone.

“It’s done,” he says after a few minutes. “I’m checked in, and the flight leaves tonight at eight.”

I don’t know what to say to that, or if I can say anything that won’t make this worse for both of us. Instead, I walk over to the couch and sit next to James before wrapping him in the most comforting hug I can muster up.

“I’m gonna miss you,” I begin, James’s head resting on my chest. “Hopefully some time back home helps you feel more like yourself.”

“Gonna miss you too.”

“I mean it. I hope you feel better. James, I?—”

—love you and it kills me to see you like this?

“—I care about you a lot.”

“Thanks,” comes the muffled reply through a mouthful of my sweater.

Love isn’t a concept that I throw around lightly. I haven’t been in love with anyone before, but I’m almost certain that what I feel for James qualifies. It’s been a while since I’ve been ready to tell him, but with the injuries and then his shaky recovery, the right time hasn’t come around.

Okay, maybe the thought of telling James that I love him sends me into a cold sweat every time it crosses my mind. What if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if he can’t feel the same way because he’s processing the premature end to his first professional season?

Whatever happens, I’m hoping that there’ll be a time when it’s right for me, or us, to say that we love each other.

But seeing James take his passports out of his old room plants a tiny seed of doubt in my mind. We’ll have to do long-distance, and I don’t know if James booked a return flight. What if we don’t make it? What if Boston holds too many bad memories for him and he tries to sign somewhere else?

No. Stop it . Thinking like that is useless. James will go back to Toronto, spend time with his parents, and he’ll get better. That’s all I can hope for.

Slipping his passports and printed boarding pass into his backpack, James looks up at me, his mouth flat and stoic.

“I should head out,” he says.

“Do you want me to drive you?” I offer.

“Nah. I ordered a ride. Don’t want to bother you.”

I walk over and hug James, almost as if I’m trying to stop him from slipping away. “It’s not bothering me, James,” I say. “You’re my boyfriend. Of course I’m going to help you.”

A beep rises from James’s hand, and he looks at his phone.

“My car’s here.”

Oh.

With that, James unceremoniously detaches himself from me, puts on his jacket, and slips out of the front door. I’m left standing there in the living room wondering if he’ll ever come back.

Shaking my head, I tell myself that he will. Of course he’s going to come back. His career is here, and his contract renewal is practically guaranteed. Right until his injuries, he was on track to having one of the best rookie seasons for any pitcher in the league’s recent history.

James isn’t the kind of person to throw something like that away.

James Hernandez

Hey. Landed in Toronto

Nice. How was the flight? Miss you already

Miss you too

You doing OK?

I guess, yeah

Call me if you need to talk or anything. I’m here for you

Thanks

Want to call later?

Kinda tired, might just crash

Everything good? Haven’t heard from you in a few days

Yeah sorry. Been busy with PT and stuff

How’s the hand holding up?

Recovering? It’s better

That’s good! It’s hard being away from you

Yeah for sure. It’s hard for me, too

Miss you

Miss you too

The texts we exchange are the greatest extent of our communication. They aren’t anything too deep, just quick updates here and there. To be fair, he’s responding, so at least there’s that, but every successive message seems more and more distant. I try not to read too much into it.

The days drag on, and nothing much changes. I don’t get much time to myself between training and games, but I find myself checking my phone almost obsessively, waiting for a message to come through. Of course, I don’t bombard James because he needs time and space to get better. Hounding him won’t help.

As the near-radio silence stretches on, I get recurring, intrusive thoughts that James won’t come back, that he’ll just stay far away. Thinking about that just isn’t productive, I remind myself, and that he has to come back.

But the longer this goes on, the more it feels like I’m losing him.