The Way We Swing (Out at Home #1)

1. CHAPTER 1

There were two things I cared about. The first was winning a state title in baseball. The second? Absolutely nobody finding out that I was gay.

Then Easton Chase showed up to our first workout of summer vacation, and my plans went to hell.

A dozen of us were on the baseball field, finishing the last sprint of the morning while the sun still climbed. My shirt clung in sweat to my body as I sped past the third baseline, hearing footsteps close behind.

Afterwards, we sprawled out on the grass, recovering from the brutal workout. Every face was familiar—mostly teammates and a couple of girls from the softball team—except one.

“We’re done for today,” I said, looking around the group. “Same time tomorrow.”

“Captain Tanner Quinn, ladies and gentlemen, always telling us what to do,” Ricky sniped as he pushed his glasses up his nose.

Ricky had the vibe of someone who belonged in a comic-book club, not behind home plate: wire-rimmed glasses, a lanky frame, and no power in his swing.

But there wasn’t a better catcher around. And he was my best friend.

“Shut it, Ricky,” I said, standing.

I glanced over at my brothers. Zach, almost sixteen and heading into his sophomore year, leaned against the fence, breathless. Ten feet away was Gavin, the thirteen-year-old spitfire who’d been begging to join these workouts for years.

Gavin looked like our parents had copied and pasted me, except I was four years older. We had the same mop of dirty-blonde hair; ears that would make Dumbo blush; and, worst of all, a nose that looked too small to smell properly.

I walked toward Gavin, who was talking about the Cardinals game from last night to the only person I didn’t recognize.

New Kid’s dark hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, but his posture didn’t sag.

He was more alert than anyone else—eyes scanning like he was memorizing everything.

Including my face, which at that moment was very clearly staring at him.

“Sup,” I said. Smooth.

“Hey, man,” said New Kid.

I turned to Gavin. “I’m finishing up with a mile or two. Catch your breath and then go help Ricky clean up.” I started toward the foul pole, but footsteps echoed behind me again. New Kid.

“Can I join you?” he asked, showing off a quick smile.

“You think you can keep up?” I asked.

He winked at me and said, “Try me.”

I blinked, heat crawling up my neck. Had a guy ever winked at me before? Pretty sure the answer was no. I shook the thought out of my head as we started to run.

When I was thirteen, my dad had taken my brothers and me to the state finals to watch all of the games. The day had been electric—fans screaming, cameras everywhere, and the best baseball I’d ever seen.

The next day, I’d rounded up the other three players in my grade and told them if they followed my plan, we were going to win a state title of our own.

Thankfully, they hadn’t laughed at me and instead agreed to work out every morning during summer break.

That had been four years ago, and we were still all here at eight every morning with no coach in sight.

That’s why I pushed myself—and everyone else—so hard. I didn’t do empty promises.

Today, my legs burned, but I wasn’t going to stop early with the sound of New Kid’s breathing behind me like a challenge I hadn’t asked for. I kept my eyes on the cornfield that surrounded both sides of the field, avoiding looking at New Kid for as long as I possibly could.

After twenty minutes, we pulled to a stop around the first baseline, away from the rest of the group.

“Told you I could keep up,” he said, his chest heaving, a smile still etched on his face.

“Where’d you come from?” I asked the first question that popped into my head.

“Ashland.”

“How'd you find out about this?”

“I’m going to school with you next year. I got ahold of the baseball coach, and he said you guys ran these workouts all summer. Seemed worth it.”

I wiped sweat from my hair as we walked to the other side of the field. New Kid stood shoulder to shoulder with me. I’d call us 6’0”, but my doctor probably had me down at 5’11”.

“What grade are you in?” I asked.

“Sophomore. I’m sixteen, though,” he said, almost guiltily as we walked back to the group.

“Hey, Easton, guess what?” Gavin said when we rejoined the group. Who the hell was Easton?

“What’s that?” New Kid answered. Right. His name wasn’t New Kid, it was Easton.

“We have a pool and a batting cage. You should come hang out.”

I shook my head at Gavin, who’d strike up a conversation with a parking meter if it looked lonely.

Easton looked at me with his eyebrow raised, still smiling, asking for permission without saying a word. Then I saw his dimples.

Why did he have to have dimples? They were my kryptonite, like light switches that turned on red bulbs in my cheeks.

The last thing I needed was him at my house, in my pool, in my head—but try telling that to Gavin.

“Sure. Did you drive?”

“Walked. Let me text my grandparents where I’m going.”

Grandparents. Not parents. He said it like it explained everything, but it just added to the mystery. Who was this dude?

My brothers and Easton got in the car; Zach sat in front, absorbed in his phone. Easton and Gavin talked in the back as if they had been friends for a decade.

I sat in silence, thinking about my one rule in life: absolutely no lusting after a teammate. Too many complications, too tough to keep that secret.

It was an easy rule to follow when I’d played with the same guys for the last twelve years. We’d grown up together, and they were basically brothers at this point.

I stopped my thoughts of Easton from racing too far as we pulled into our driveway. Ricky pulled up behind me in his mom’s green minivan. Easton, Zach, and Gavin were out of the car in a second; I was sure Gavin was giving his new best friend the grand tour.

I looked at the house we’d lived in since I was eleven. Mom and Dad had bought it, saying it was time the three of us had our own rooms before we burned our previous house to the ground.

Mom and Dad had always been good to us. I figured they’d be okay with it…but I couldn’t really be sure. I’d read stories about kids getting kicked out of what they’d thought were loving homes. I’d seen the hate gay people got all over social media.

And being a gay athlete? Yeah, right. Everyone knew the expectation when you played sports: find a girlfriend, fall in love, have 2.5 kids and the white picket fence, possibly with a golden retriever. College might be different—but not now.

“Who is he?” Ricky asked as he got to my car.

“Easton,” I said.

“That’s all you’ve got for me?” Ricky asked.

“That’s all I know.”

“Want me to dig around?” For Ricky, digging around meant searching online to find out everything social media could tell him.

“No, Ricky. Just be normal and talk to him like you’re human.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asked as we made our way to my room as splashing noises already came from the back yard.

“He seems fine,” I muttered, “Just…don’t run him away.”

“Fine. Toss me a pair of swimming trunks.”

Ricky had yet to bring his own pair since we got the pool five years ago. I’d given up on reminding him, so I tossed him a pair and shut my door.

I changed with my back to Ricky, quick and practiced. Shirt off, trunks on, don’t look. Don’t think. I wasn’t scared of doing anything—I was scared of looking like I might. One second too long, that was all it would take.

Any hint of being gay needed to be squashed as quickly as possible. Before it could turn into a problem.

“Why do you always turn away from me when we’re changing, Quinn?” Ricky asked from behind me. “Is there a reason you don’t want me to see that beautiful body of yours?”

“What is wrong with you?” I asked as I pulled up my trunks. Ricky’s preferred state of being was awkwardness. He was an acquired taste.

“Nearly everything,” he said.

We walked onto our deck, which Dad and I had built together the year I turned twelve. Next to it on the right was the Christmas present the three of us had gotten the same year—a batting cage, the only toy we needed.

Ricky and I took a seat in the deck chairs and watched the others. The sun beat down on my bare chest as I tried to look anywhere but at Easton in my pool. The smell of chlorine filled the air; it was my second favorite of summer—the first being the smell of a freshly cut baseball field.

“Throw the ball!” Gavin shouted. He was the only other one out of the water, knees bent at the edge of the deck, ready to launch.

“Three. Two. One!” Zach shouted, chucking the ball in a lazy arc.

The ball glanced off Gavin’s hands as he dove in with a splash.

“You call yourself a baseball player?” Easton teased, water splashing as he swam to Gavin. Easton had the same farmer’s tan that I did, the white of his chest and biceps resembling a T-shirt.

I forced myself to look away before I could see if he had a four-pack or a six-pack, then turned back, unable to resist.

He wrapped Gavin’s wrists in his hands. “These? If it hits these, you catch it. Simple.” Then he dunked Gavin into the water.

Gavin popped up laughing and lunged at him, but Easton shoved him aside with little effort.

“Try harder than that,” Easton said.

He climbed out of the pool, ready to try what Gavin had just failed at. He wore what looked like a pair of Zach’s old swimming trunks; the powder-blue shorts clung to his body with the wetness of the water. If I’d thought his dimples had made me blush….

Easton jumped in, and I decided it was time to show off. “Zach,” I said, “give me a throw.”

Zach counted down again. I jumped, caught the ball left-handed, passed it behind my back, and twisted in midair to fire it into the hoop on the far side of the pool right before I plummeted into the water.

I surfaced to cheers that let me know I had sunk the shot.

“That’s how you do it!” I shouted, tackling Gavin again. He could handle it.

We spent the next couple hours in the water goofing off; the pool doubled as the perfect post-workout shower for a bunch of teenaged boys, simultaneously cooling us and making us even more tired. Yeah, we were gross, but whatever.

Eventually, Ricky got out and started reading his current book of choice—something to do with baseball analytics—on the deck.

I never grasped how he could read for pleasure, especially on the first day of summer vacation.

But I guessed that was why he was smart enough to be looking at Ivy League schools, and I wasn’t.

The rest of us gradually joined him on the deck, collapsing onto the plastic chairs. The next thing I knew, Gavin was nudging my shoulder.

“Tanner, can we do catching drills? I have practice in an hour.”

I blinked the sleep out of my eyes. “Sure,” I said.

Grass pricked my bare feet as I followed him to the batting cage. Gavin geared up as I grabbed the bucket of tennis balls from our shed.

“Can we just do blocking?” he asked. “I let too many get past me last game.”

I smiled. Most players just wanted to show off what they were already good at.

“Sure,” I said again. I dumped the balls and sat on the empty bucket, lobbing one after another into the dirt. Gavin twisted and dropped, trying to keep each one in front of him. “Head down,” I reminded him. “Dig your mask into your chest.”

A few more pitches, and he was getting it. Then I faked him out—a clean pitch across the plate. Gavin dropped anyway, and it smacked his arm before bouncing into the net.

“You’re cheating,” I laughed. “Lucky that wasn’t a real ball, or you’d have a bruise the size of the Arch. Read it. Don’t guess.”

Footsteps sounded behind me. Easton walked past me and knelt by the plate; I kept tossing, but now I was watching him, too.

“Hold up,” Easton said. “I think I see something. Can I show him, Tanner?”

My chest tightened as I realized he was asking my permission for something I thought was obvious he could do.

“Sure, bro.”

“You’re too straight,” Easton said to Gavin.

Gavin giggled. “I’m fine being too straight. I love boobs.”

“Shut up, Gav,” I said. “He’s right.”

Easton got down next to him. He placed one hand on Gavin’s back, the other on his chest, and adjusted his angle forward. Gavin let him do it without resistance.

“If the ball hits you here,” Easton said, tapping Gavin’s chest, “it drops right in front. But if you’re straight up, it can bounce anywhere. Stay low, and it’s easier to handle.”

Gavin nodded and adjusted, mimicking the motion. “Like this?”

“Perfect,” Easton said. “Let’s get a few more in before you go.”

We went through another dozen balls. Gavin kept his form.

“How’d that look?” I asked.

“Excellent.”

“Felt good, too,” Gavin beamed.

Why was Easton so good with Gavin? We’d met this guy six hours ago, but he acted like he’d known us for six years.

“Go get changed. Your ride is going to be here soon,” I told him. It was 4:30, an hour and a half before our actual practice.

Zach snored on the deck. Ricky read, barely acknowledging that we were living what he was reading.

“Want to hit?” Easton asked. “You’re probably gonna get nailed at least once, but I can throw all day.”

“Sure. Help me get the screen.”

I hit a bucket, then we traded places. And, yeah, this kid could hit. Ball after ball smacked the screen or rocketed past me. He had that sound—when the ball caught the sweet spot and made everyone in the dugout go quiet.

“Where’d you learn to hit like that?”

“My dad. He used to throw to me all the time.”

"You guys still hit together?"

“No.” He turned away, the muscles in his jaw tensing like he'd said more than he meant to.

I opened my mouth to ask more, then bit down on the words. Not the time. Not my business. Not my man. “What about the lefty swing? Have you always done that?”

“When I was two, my dad tossed me a Wiffle ball, and I wanted to swing lefty. He let me. Says it’s the best decision he ever made.”

“I think I agree. What position do you play?”

“Middle infield. Normally shortstop.”

I laughed. “Then you’ll have to take that spot from me.”

“I will.”

My pulse jumped. I didn’t know if it was the challenge or the way his hair stuck to his forehead—or the curve of his grin a second later.

Ricky shouted something from the deck, and I flinched like I’d been caught. I needed to get it together. My eyes went anywhere but on Easton. I remembered the rule I'd never broken—don't lust after a teammate. It had always been easy with familiar faces and no surprises.

I didn’t know if it was his grin, his swing, his confidence, or the way he kept looking at me. But I knew the rule would no longer be easy to follow.