Chapter 3
three
Maddox
Present Day – July after Junior Year at GCSU.
I walk over and shove a fresh beer in Easton’s hands. It’s either that, or he’s going to go bald from the way he’s pulling at his hair. And that would be a true tragedy, those toffee locks gone.
The day’s finally here.
The draft.
The one where both Easton and I are eligible. I know my name won’t be showing up—maybe if the draft was still the forty rounds like it used to be—but while I love baseball, I’ve never had what it takes to make it big time. Not like East.
Baseball has never been to me what it is to East. East and baseball are interwoven; it’s an essential part of him. So, for me, the sport has always equated to…East. It’s been less about the game and more about the connection it provided, the memories we built on and off the field because of it.
Would I have loved playing alongside him in the big leagues? Fuck yeah. But only because it would mean being with East. What excites me now is getting my doctorate in physical therapy—the chance to help athletes like East keep living their dream. That’s my calling.
East paces the living room of his parents’ house, wearing a path in front of his couch, the draft coverage streaming from his baseball app to his TV. He’s completely ignoring the beer in his hand, but at least he’s not fisting his hair any longer.
Last night was the first day of the draft, when the first three rounds went.
It wasn’t any surprise East’s name didn’t come up then.
The advisor he’s been working with has a good feeling Easton will go in the first ten rounds, though.
The host on the TV calls the last player in the fourth round. Another round gone.
Easton freezes.
I can practically hear his thoughts. There’s usually a steep drop-off in signing bonuses after the fifth round.
Not always the case, but more often than not.
My chest is so damn tight I can barely breathe.
God, I hope he goes this round. He deserves it so much, has worked so fucking hard.
Outside, I’m calm, cool, and collected, though.
East feeds off anxiety, and then it breeds like rabbits.
He needs someone to ground him while he spirals.
“E, come here and sit,” Shelby, Easton’s girlfriend, says softly from where she’s cuddled up on the couch in one of East’s tees and a pair of his pajama bottoms.
Shelby’s another person who helps ground Easton. They met during the middle of sophomore year in class and became fast friends. I wasn’t at all surprised when it evolved into more. Shelby had heart-eyes for East from day one. Don’t we fucking all?
She’s really good for him. The organ in my chest twists painfully tight.
A piece of it tears off every time I admit that.
But in the end, all I want is for East to be happy, to have someone who balances his nervous, anxious nature.
Someone who appreciates and understands him.
I can’t ever be that person, not the way Shelby can.
Shelby drags him to the couch because he’s still frozen, gaze locked on the screen. She shoves him to sit down, walks around the back, and then starts massaging his shoulders, murmuring soft words of assurance to him. A small amount of tension eases from his frame.
I catch her gaze, and she smiles, but there’s strain behind it.
She feels the same way I do. We feel every ounce of his anxiety right now.
We’re right there with him. All the horrible what-if’s our minds make up are loud.
There’s no way he won’t get drafted. I’m like ninety-nine percent certain.
But it’s still fucking terrifying. And there’s this thing about getting drafted in the top ten rounds…
It means something. It’s not just getting picked; it’s validation.
It’s proof you’re the real deal, you know?
Easton is the real deal. He’s going places.
East keeps hitting the side button on his phone, the screen lighting up and showing no notifications. It’s making me jumpy. It’ll ring when a scout calls. There’s no way any of us will miss it.
I’m about to snatch it away from him when it lights up all on its own, his ringtone blaring through the living room.
The world stops. Oh my God.
All right. This is it. Most likely. I swear to the Great Bambino, if his mom is calling right now, I will have a very stern talking-to with her when she gets home later. Respectful, of course, but stern. My gaze drops to the phone, and the caller ID definitely doesn’t say ‘Mom’.
Game time.
I hurry over and mute the TV. Easton is staring at his phone, eyes bugging out, like it’s some foreign object he’s never seen before. I glance up at Shelby. Her eyes are wide, panic reflecting back at me.
“Do something,” she mouths.
I drop between East’s knees and gently pick up his phone. “I’m going to press the answer button, East. Then you’re going to talk.” I squeeze his knee with my free hand, and his gaze pings to mine. “You’re going to say, ‘hello, this is Easton Winters.’ Can you do that?”
His blue eyes steel over with determination, like they do when he takes the field. He nods. There he is. My East. I press answer and hand him the phone.
“Hello, this is Eason Winters.”
My heart smiles. Atta boy.
Then reality slams into me, and my pulse skyrockets. Suddenly I’m in the bottom of the ninth, tie game, two outs, the go-ahead runner on second. East steps up to the plate. One hit—that’s all he needs to do to bring that runner home.
Easton laughs a little self-consciously, a blush coloring his cheeks, and he runs his hand through his hair, the way he always does when he’s flustered. “Uh, good. And you?”
My eyes are glued to him. He’s nodding and murmuring sounds of assent, but it gives nothing away. Who’s on the other side of that call? What team? Why didn’t we put the phone on speaker? I don’t know what way’s up or down. I’m a fucking Abbott-and-Costello routine right now.
Damn, my boy just went fifth round in the MLB draft! Fifth fucking round! My body is a cacophony of emotions. Impatience. Excitement. Pride. And underneath it all, heartbreak. Knowing how close we are to goodbye.
Easton stops breathing. His eyes are so wide, I actually fear that they’re going to get stuck that way. He chokes out a wow. Damn it. This is killing me.
He swallows hard, then says, “I will. Thank you so much.”
He ends the call and stares silently at his phone.
“Oh my God, E!” Shelby shouts. “I’m going to die from anticipation. Details, babe!”
He lets out a slow breath and meets my eyes.
His blue irises are swimming, and I pray to all the baseball gods that it’s a good emotion overflowing there.
“I know minor leaguers are traded like baseball cards,” he says shakily.
“And I still need to speak with my advisor to go over the contract, but…”
My heart stutters. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
He nods slowly, because he can read me just like I can read him.
I jump up and let out a roar. “Fuck yes!”
Easton vaults off the couch and is in front of me in the next second.
Just like when we win a game, his hands latch onto my upper arms, forehead pressed to mine, as we jump up and down, and howl.
We’re nothing but overflowing adrenaline and happiness too big for our bodies to contain. Pure. Fucking. Elation.
Shelby is swearing at us in the background because we’re not letting her in on the secret: My boy just got drafted to the Bridgeport Jetties!
Our. Fucking. Team.
That’s the dream of every little leaguer out there, getting drafted by your home team, the team you grew up rooting for.
We calm down from our over-the-top jock display, and Easton turns to Shelby. He wraps her in a hug, burying his head in her dark-brown hair. “I’m going to be a Jetty.” His muffled words drift into the room.
She squeezes him tightly, and I recognize the look in her bright eyes. It’s hope.
“So, that means you’ll be close by?” Her voice lilts up.
The Bridgeport Jetties are a town over from GCSU and a few towns from where East and I grew up. As much as I wish I was in Shelby’s place, my heart breaks for her. For what I’m about to say. “The farm team East will report to is in Florida, Shelbs,” I say gently.
Her face falls. Fuck.
“Hey,” East soothes. “It’ll be okay. What’s a little long distance? We’ve got this.” He’s right, and it’s not like it’s across the country. But for college students, it’s not easy to hop on a plane to Florida any time they want to see each other. Not to mention, that shit is expensive.
Shelby quickly covers any disappointment with an overlarge smile, and it makes me love her—and hate myself—even more. She cares so much for East. Every jealous, bitter thought I have is eroding my insides, eating away at me like an infestation.
“You’re right,” she says and kisses him. “We’ll figure it out. Regardless, today is about celebrating.”
I don’t miss the suggestion in that tone. Neither does East if the way his lids lower is any indication. He bites his lips, and I look away when he grinds his hips against hers. I can avoid looking at them, but I can’t avoid the piercing scream my heart makes in my chest.
Freshman year, East had revealed to me some things about his sexuality.
We haven’t talked about it since, but it seems like East has figured some things out…
A part of me wonders if he’s demi, given how everything developed with Shelby.
I suppose either way, their relationship is confirmation he’s straight.
Because if what he needed was a connection with someone to feel that spark, then… wouldn’t I have been enough?
But he’s never wanted me.
I hadn’t realized I’d still been holding onto hope until that truth shattered me. I drank myself sick on Captain Morgan the night they started dating, blacking out under the trampoline in our backyard, wishing I could shut it all off. Not my finest moment.
“My parents don’t get back from work for another couple hours,” East says huskily.
That’s my cue. “I think I’m going to dip,” I say loudly, before the two who have clearly forgotten I’m here start going at it right in front of me.
Easton’s blue gaze snaps to mine. “You’ll be back for dinner?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
He throws me a lopsided smile, and I catch it just like one of his throws on the field, keep it close to my chest. One more for my collection. You know, the one I open up and torture myself with when I feel like being a masochist.
Which is more often than I care to admit.
But East has a great girlfriend now. It’s never happening between us.
I know this. I fucking know this. I think it took seeing him with Shelby for me to realize what I needed to do to finally get past this.
My problem. This is a me problem. I don’t want to lose Easton as a friend.
I need him in my life in any capacity I can have him.
The only way that’s going to happen is if I get over him.
So, I’ve come up with a plan. After he signs this contract—because, let’s be real, there’s no way he’s not signing with the Jetties—he’ll be getting on a plane to Florida.
There will be a whole coast of distance between us, and he’ll be so busy he won’t have time for anything but baseball.
I’ll use that to my advantage. Minimal communication; none, if that’s what’s needed.
I’ll get over him, and then we can go back to being friends.
It’s going to hurt like a line-drive straight to the gut.
It's not the perfect plan.
But it’s the only option.
I can’t keep loving him. It hurts too much.