Chapter Eighteen
With a bit of mud lingering under his fingernails, Nico hummed as he and Jake walked back to the clubhouse via the tunnel from the storage area.
Still in their workout gear, they’d listened to music and scuffed a few bags of pearls after team stretch and batting practice.
Nico’s stomach was calm, and he didn’t have the sweats.
His little iPod dock tucked under his arm, Jake asked, “You liked that album?”
“Yeah. I love that one song especially—the opera-ish one?”
He grinned. “‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ Everyone loves that song.”
“It’s really good. I didn’t recognize most of the other ones, but I liked them.” He couldn’t resist teasing. “Not bad for old music.”
“Hey, this is before my time too, I’ll have you know.”
“Sure, sure. I believe you.”
Lightly taking the back of Nico’s neck, Jake leaned in. “Watch yourself, or I’ll have to punish you later.”
Nico couldn’t hide his smile. “Promises, promises.”
“Hey, Ricky!” Jake smoothly dropped his hand and put a foot between them before Nico even realized Palmer had appeared at the tunnel bend.
“How’s it hanging? Agresta, you ready to strike those fuckers out?” Palmer raised his hand for a high-five.
Ricky Palmer was relatively tiny at only five-seven, and fresh out of the minors, a streak of bright purple still dyed into his short afro. He’d lost a bet, but decided it was his lucky charm now. Nico slapped his palm. “You know it.” He sounded confident, but a knot looped tightly in his gut.
Jake raised his arm straight above his head. “Up high.”
Laughing, Ricky bent his knees and exploded up to slap Jake’s hand. “Gotta love the plyometrics! Hey, Loyola and I’ve been tweaking my curveball.”
As Ricky chattered away like usual, falling in step with them as they reached the clubhouse and headed for the locker room, Nico tuned him out, concentrating on his breathing, playing the Queen song over again in his head. He was ready for this. He was going to pitch a great game.
What if I don’t? Their lineup’s been hitting homers almost every night.
He thought about the scouting reports, the strengths and weaknesses of the Boston hitters reeling through his mind like a PowerPoint presentation on crack.
Laughter and music and the beeping of video games filled the air in the locker room, and Nico automatically looked at the clock. Twelve minutes after six.
“Fitz, come look at Barcena’s fastball,” Alvarez called from where he and some other guys huddled over a tablet. Barcena was on the mound for Boston, and his fastball was a smoker. Nico was jealous of the pure power, although he could lack control.
Ricky was still talking a mile a minute, and Jake looked between him and the guys on the couch, and then at Nico. Nico waved him off. “See you in a bit.” He made a beeline for his locker in the back corner, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck one side and then the other.
He was fine. He was ready. He could do this. He didn’t have to be perfect. His father still loved him the way he was.
Breathing deeply, he changed into his uniform, visualizing Boston batters swinging at the air or caught looking, the ump fisting his hand to indicate the strike. Nico tied his cleats and pulled his red socks up to his knees over his pants, images of success running through his mind.
He looked at the clock.
His feet seemed to move of their own accord, and he glanced at Jake, still huddled with the other guys, dissecting the Boston pitcher’s heater. Then Nico was in the bathroom, going straight to the last stall. He latched the door and lifted the seat.
Hands on his knees, he contracted his abs. It was 6:15, and he had to do it. His stomach didn’t actually feel that bad, only a little acidy, but it was better this way. Better out than in. This way, he could let go. Release his anxiety and have a clean slate.
He kept quiet as he opened his throat and mouth, emptying his lunch into the toilet with a series of little splashes. Wiping his mouth with toilet paper, he breathed more easily, the sense of release and relief flowing through him. It was better than puking on the mound.
But would I really? I didn’t feel that bad. I felt pretty good until I started looking at the clock.
Flushing and escaping the stall, Nico froze in his tracks. Jake leaned against the sinks, his arms crossed and jaw tight. He nodded to the bottle of water on the counter beside him.
Nico forced himself to move. Feeling Jake’s gaze intensely, he unscrewed the bottle and took a gulp before spitting into the sink.
“Thanks. Sorry, I got anxious.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
Nico washed his hands, lathering the soap until it released little bubbles. “You’re not mad?”
Sighing, Jake said, “It’s not about being mad, Nic. I’m worried. This isn’t healthy. I’m sure your dad would agree if he knew you were still doing it after all this time.”
“What, are you going to tell on me?” He scrubbed his hands, getting under his blunt nails, squirming under Jake’s scrutiny.
“Of course not.”
“I just can’t deal with humiliating myself like that again.” Nico rinsed his hands, soap bubbles cascading down the drain.
“I know it must have been awful. The way your dad marched out there and hauled you up, I—”
Nico turned his head so fast his neck strained. “You watched it?” Even though he’d just emptied his stomach, bile surged up his throat. He gulped more water and spit into the sink, dropping his head, staring at himself in the mirror through his lashes.
“I’m sorry.” Jake turned and rubbed the back of Nico’s neck, but Nico wrenched away.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Forget it.” God, please forget that fucking video. His skin crawled, memories of his teammates’ laughter echoing, dirt beneath his hands and knees, vomit soaking into the mound, ruining it. Ruining everything.
Nico pumped more soap into his palm and scrubbed again. “I’m a weirdo, okay?” He tried to laugh it off, glancing around to make sure they were still alone. “I mean, I like getting spanked and stuff. I’m a freak.”
Jake sharply said, “Hey. That’s not true.
” He leaned in close, his breath warm on Nico’s face.
“You’re not a weirdo or a freak or anything bad.
You hear me? Not any more than I am for getting off on dominating.
Lots of people do stuff that’s way more intense.
There’s nothing wrong with it. We have fun together.
We…connect. I’m not apologizing for it, and neither should you.
As for this other thing, we’ve got a game to play. Now let’s get out there and do it.”
Nico nodded, rinsing off his hands and breathing more easily. “Let’s do it.” He chanced a smile, relieved to drop the subject. “You’re sleeping over tonight after?”
“Yes. Don’t think about that yet.” Peeking over his shoulder, Jake slid his hand down Nico’s thigh, squeezing their sign.
Voices preceded the bathroom door banging open by a few seconds, and they sprang apart, Nico busying himself drying his hands as Jake talked to the guys who’d just come in.
The minutes ticked by mercilessly, and soon he and Jake walked to the bullpen to warm up.
Fans trickled into the stands, red shirts everywhere.
Nico glanced at a white-haired lady who waved vigorously and turned around to point to her back, his name and number 33 emblazoned on her jersey.
He smiled and waved, breathing in the warm breeze, the dome open to the summer evening.
An hour later, he wondered if the nice lady in the stands was cursing him now.
Three runs had scored and there were two on at first and second with only one out in the top of the third.
And he was down in the count, two balls to zero strikes.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d walk the bases loaded.
Part of him wanted a timeout to talk to Jake, but no, he had to deal with this. He could do it.
Jake flashed the signs between his thighs, separating his thumb and finger to indicate a splitter. Nico nodded. His splitter hardly ever missed. He had this.
He wound up and unleashed the ball, his fingers wide. It sank perfectly and painted the corner of the plate while the batter didn’t move. Nico waited for the ump to call the strike, but after a few interminable seconds, the man straightened up.
Ball three.
What the actual fuck?
The crowded booed the call, and Nico pressed his mouth into a line thin, choking down the swell of fury. That was a motherfucking strike, and the ump’s zone was bullshit tonight. It wasn’t fair, and now Nico was going to walk this asshole and it would all fall apart and it would be ruined and—
He focused on Jake’s hand pressing against his inner thigh. Puffing out his cheeks, imagining Jake was there with him on the mound, grounding him, Nico nodded. He read the signs as Jake’s fingers flew.
At the end of the sequence, Jake pressed his thigh again, just for a second. The coaches would wonder about it, but Nico knew Jake would come up with some explanation.
Spreading his fingers on the ball, Nico threw another splitter. The batter swung and missed, cursing to himself as he kicked dirt off his cleats and regrouped. Then Jake called for a changeup on the inside, and Nico nodded.
Crack!
The ball rocketed straight to him, and Nico threw up his glove on instinct, the ball thwacking the leather.
He pivoted and stepped toward second base, firing the ball straight over the base to Diego, who caught it perfectly, his foot on the base, and whipped the ball to first, dodging the hard slide of the runner.
The batter was fast, and the ball just beat him in time, the crowd screaming as the ump held up his fist for the out. Nico whooped and hopped off the mound, the inning over just like that. They’d gotten three runs off him, but it was okay. The Caps could make it up. It wasn’t ruined yet.
Jake met him on the way to the dugout, giving him a light smack on the hip. “Good focus.”