1. Evan #3
He lifted his chin toward the TV to change the subject, redirecting her attention.
The pregame panel had regressed into its usual theater, with two overcaffeinated former infielders trying to share anecdotes over their laughter, a former pitcher with a monotone voice and the personality of a slug, and a host in a suit looking like he’d rather be anywhere but there.
The end of the season tended to make everyone a little slap-happy.
They cut to slow-motion reels of Chicago Blazers highlights—the same five angles set to the kind of thunderous rock music that made the plays feel inevitable.
And there he was, in a two-second loop that shouldn’t have been enough to almost bring him to his knees.
Chris Hartman. CJ. The number forty-four across his back, shoulders broad under the navy.
The briefest flash of his face when he turned to chase a line drive in the gap.
Evan used to know that profile well. He had seen it in low light and lightning and daylight on dusty diamonds, knew the way that square jaw would soften under his palm, knew how that mouth—
He looked away.
The universe didn’t care, and the broadcast doubled down, replaying a catch from the last round of the playoffs.
CJ sprinting, his eyes focused on the bright-white orb hurtling toward the wall and the precise point where he’d found it with his glove, his body defying gravity and physics.
He’d slammed shoulder-first into the wall hard enough to knock the padding loose, then dropped to the running track, landing face down in the dirt.
Evan held his breath now the same way the crowd had that night, waiting for CJ to move.
When he finally rolled over and held up his glove, the crowd roared, and Evan felt light-headed as he exhaled.
The panel host said something about “tough as nails” and “never takes a play off,” and the lower third of the screen was full of numbers that meant very specific things to Evan and nothing to almost everyone else who was watching.
Defensive runs saved. Outs above average.
Sprint speed percentile. All of them were stats that tried to measure something that couldn’t be measured: the moment when a man put himself exactly where he needed to be and the ball agreed.
“Handsome,” Rosa said mildly, startling Evan and following his gaze before he could move it. “Friend of yours?”
“He plays in Chicago,” Evan said, not answering her question. He hated that his voice sounded like it had more edges than it needed. “They’re in the Series.”
“I can read,” she said, not unkindly. Then, because she was Rosa, she asked again, “You know him?”
That was a loaded question, and the truth had many complicated versions. Evan chose one of its lighter variations. “I used to, a long time ago. We played college ball around the same time.” He didn’t mention that they’d played for the same team.
“Ah.” She read what he wasn’t saying on his face. “Do not let your head make a movie of what-ifs tonight,” she said briskly, as if the warning could scold him out of it. “You eat. You watch the game. Then sleep. No Grindr, no trouble.”
He choked on absolutely nothing, and for one horrifying second, his brain stopped working.
He knew she’d seen enough of his late-night takeout orders after a hookup, where he’d been either pleased with himself or disgustingly annoyed, to know he wasn’t spending all his free time alone.
His panic came from the sudden certainty that she’d somehow put the pieces together.
That at some point, she’d looked at him, taken everything she knew about him, and made a leap to the right conclusion about the part of his life he kept locked down so tightly even he could ignore it sometimes.
His heart kicked hard against his ribs. “I never told you—”
“You don’t have to tell me.” Rosa’s face softened. “I told you, I know you. Also, sometimes you blush like a boy when your phone buzzes.”
Relief washed over him. She didn’t know for sure. She was just guessing. Very accurately, unfortunately, but still guessing.
“I don’t blush,” he protested, feeling heat creep up his neck and into his face, immediately proving her point.
“You blush all the time,” she countered. There was fond laughter tucked in her words and she reached across the counter and patted the back of his hand. Warmth and frankness in equal measure. “Be kind to yourself.”
“I am. I got myself breadsticks,” he said. It was a weak protest, but he didn’t trust himself to say anything else in public.
“Two orders, I remember,” she said, already moving, already shouting to the kitchen about extra sauce and “for my baseball son, the good Parmesan.”
The bag came warm and heavy, greaseproof paper printed with small olive branches.
She tucked in a square of tiramisu without comment and slid the bag across the counter.
When he reached for his wallet, she batted his hand like a cat.
“You bring me a home run ball next year,” she said. “From a game you win.”
“Deal,” he said, throat tighter than it should be.