Chapter 9 OZZIE
OZZIE
My hand was shoved deep into the pocket of my hoodie, my thumb pressed firmly against the side of my phone that Henderson and Ryan didn’t know about. I felt the slight vibration through the fabric—the silent confirmation that the recording was still running.
I’d seen the look in Henderson’s eyes during spring training. I’d heard the “old-school” jokes he made when he thought the younger guys weren’t listening. I knew that the moment our secret slipped, he wouldn’t just be a coach; he’d be a hunter. And I knew instantly that he was homophobic.
I stood there, listening to Ryan—my Captain, the man I loved—risk his entire legendary career to defend me. My heart almost cracked with joy when I heard him say I was the man he loved. He loves me…
Every word he spat at Henderson was a nail in his own professional coffin, and yet he didn’t hesitate. But I wasn’t going to let him burn alone.
“It’s okay, Ryan,” I said, my voice steady for the first time since we’d entered the room. I pulled my hand out of my pocket, holding the phone face-up on my palm. The red ‘Record’ timer was ticking: 08:42… 08:43…
Henderson’s eyes dropped to the screen. The purple flush in his face drained instantly, leaving him a sickly shade of grey.
“Why, you little…” He started toward me, but Ryan stepped into his path, his shoulder blocking the Coach completely.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Ryan warned, his voice like grinding stones. “Don’t go near my boyfriend.”
“Everything you just said, Coach,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “Every word about ‘not tolerating queer players.’ Every threat to my career because of who I am. It’s all right here. High-definition audio. You shouldn’t have said that.”
I tapped the screen, hitting Save and immediately uploading the file to a private cloud folder I’d set up before we left my room. I’ll probably post this on TikTok. Light a fire under his homophobic ass.
“You can’t use that,” Henderson hissed, though his voice was shaking. “This is a private meeting. You’ll be blackballed from the league for recording a superior.”
“Maybe,” I shrugged, feeling a strange, cold calm.
“But you’ll be the one explaining to the Commissioner, the press, and the sponsors why the Rock Hills Beavers are led by a man who thinks talent is secondary to prejudice.
You think the fans in the Midwest love winning?
They love it a lot more than they love a manager who brings a lawsuit and a PR nightmare to their doorstep. Fucking try me.”