Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
KENNETH
I'm not sure what to make of tonight.
We're sitting at a table in La Famiglia, one of the more upscale places in Bellport. Royce went home to change and has come back in a beautiful outfit that is everything I expect from them and more. It's flashy, but not in a bad way. I can't keep my eyes off them.
I, on the other hand, went home, put on more deodorant, and argued with myself for twenty minutes about whether changing would be in my best interest—until I got a text that they were ready to meet me.
I'm thankful I wound up changing, but now, as we sit here awkwardly at the table, it's apparent neither of us has a plan.
When my mother showed up earlier, I froze. Having her there while Royce was around felt all kinds of wrong.
She's a part of my life that I compartmentalize. I don’t talk to her about baseball unless I’m asked specifically about the business, and I don’t dare mention that I’m interested in men.
She’s still holding out hope that I’ll marry one of her friend’s daughters and give her grandchildren. My father is much the same.
So when she appeared, and I was enraptured by Royce, it felt as if she could see past all the defenses I normally keep up.
"What's the deal with your mom?" Royce asks, quickly pulling me from my whirlwind of thoughts.
I shake my head and place the menu down. I'll figure out what I'm eating at some point. The waiter went to get our drinks—I know it’s only been a minute or two, but it feels like an eternity.
"What do you mean, what's the deal with my mother?" I ask them.
They tilt their head to the side, eyeing me in a way that says they call bullshit.
"You know exactly what I mean, Kenneth. There was tension between the two of you."
I roll my eyes. “There's tension between a lot of people and their parents. It doesn't have to mean anything.”
The waiter appears with Royce's whiskey and my champagne. Really, I wanted to order a fizzy and sweet drink, like a cider or maybe even some apple juice.
It isn't really appropriate for a lot of people though. I don't need to give Royce any other reason to question me.
I can tell they’re still wary about my intentions—about whether I truly mean what I say and what I'm doing.
Royce takes a sip of their drink, staring at me like I'll crack. I mimic their movement, sipping mine.
I give an involuntary wince at the sharpness.
Royce pauses, their eyebrows rising.
"You don't like it, do you?" they ask.
I swallow thickly in an effort to regain my composure. I don’t think I’m a good liar when it comes to them.
The attraction there makes me a bit loopy.
Besides, I don't really want to lie.
I begin to shake my head, but at the dip in their brow, I slowly nod.
"What would you have instead, if you could have anything?" they ask me. Their fingers drum on the tabletop as they wait for me to gain the courage to respond.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "I like things like juice or punch. The fancy stuff is a requirement at big parties and places like this, so it's what I get."
At my tone, they nod sharply, then reach their hand up to gain the waiter's attention.
When the young man bustles over, they lean forward, speaking directly to him. They share a few whispered words, and then the waiter rushes off with a smile.
Royce leans forward, arms on the table. It's not proper etiquette, and they know it. I can tell from the grin tilting up the corner of their mouth.
"Now then, if we're going to be honest, let's continue talking about what I want to know. Why was your mother acting so…" They pause, as if searching for the correct word.
I can think of several—distant, abrupt, frustrating, aloof. I feel like a damn thesaurus.
Then again, I've thought of a million ways to describe my parents through the years—between my own inner thoughts and my work in therapy. I've narrowed it down to the fact that they're simply not emotionally available.
I was their ticket to continuing the family lineage—another child to make them look good among their peers. Love isn’t something they truly understand. Not in the way most people do.
Knowing how tenacious Royce can be, I decide it’s time to tell the truth.
"My relationship with my family is strained," I admit. "Unlike the Bellports, who are very close and understanding, mine are not. They’ve never understood me—and quite frankly, don’t want to. I keep the peace with them by doing as they ask when I can. Other times, I avoid them. It’s easier that way. "
Royce’s shoulders rise. I feel the anger rolling off them.
"I just don’t understand why. You don’t have a close relationship with them at all?" they ask.
I shake my head. "No, not at all. They hated that I bought a baseball team. They hated when I played and was trying to go pro. If I would just fall in line and keep to the path they planned for me at birth, then I’d be perfect for them."
"But you can’t do that," they finish my thought.
I nod.
The waiter appears again with my juice, this time in a glass similar to the one I had before, which makes what’s inside it less obvious.
"Thank you," I tell him as I lift the glass and take a big sip.
It’s so refreshing that I let out a sigh and close my eyes, savoring it on my tongue.
When I open my eyes again, it’s to find Royce staring at me with a heated sort of gaze. At least, I think it’s heated. I hope it is.
It’s the first true sign that there’s more here than meets the eye. Maybe I’m not alone in my desire. Maybe all those moments when I’ve felt tension between us were real.
Or maybe I’m just delusional and hopeful.
Dinner is a grand affair. The minute someone realizes Royce Bellport is in the building, they pull out all the stops for us.
We get served course after course, and the chef even comes out to greet us. Royce thanks them, and they chatter briefly about the Bellport Foundation and the plans that will be put in place.
While they speak, I pull out my phone to check messages. I want to be sure I haven’t missed anything. My inbox is barren, and I don’t have any texts from anyone.
I decide to play a couple of rounds of a game on my phone to pass the time.
It’s only when there’s silence around me that I realize they’re done.
Royce is staring at me again. This time it's not with heat. More like amusement.
“I’m sorry,” I rush out as I tuck my phone away.
"It's okay," they tell me. "You seemed entertained. I apologize for getting caught up with the chef. They’ve helped us with a few catering events, so it's always good to keep up a good rapport."
"I understand," I tell them quickly. "It's no problem at all."
Our dessert arrives, and in the irony of all ironies, it's a single piece of cookie cake topped with ice cream and two spoons.
"Looks like we'll be sharing," Royce says, voice laced with humor.
I gulp, nodding along as I reach for my own spoon.
The food is probably delicious, but I can't taste a single bite—not with the way Royce keeps their gaze locked on me.
Their eyes flit from my mouth to my eyes to my hand, watching as I scoop up each bite. They neglect their own dessert in favor of keeping track of what I’m doing.
Part of me wants to put on a show. I want to make it enticing for them—to see if I can truly push their buttons.
Maybe swipe some of the melted chocolate over my lips intentionally so I have to lick it off.
The creamy vanilla has melted enough to aid in my messy endeavor.
If I were brave enough, I might've given it a go.
Then again, I also don’t want to fuck things up. It’s still too soon in this process of transition.
I have to be around, and if I send things sideways by admitting my feelings, I could jeopardize the entire Blue Jays team. I won’t do that to those guys.
I understand what it means to sacrifice yourself for the greater good.
I’m willing to do that, even if it means I miss my chance with Royce.
Two days after our impromptu dinner, Royce and I are on the field watching practice.
It is devil’s-asshole hot out here, and quite frankly, I’m ten minutes away from telling the guys we need to go inside and finish things up. Sweat clings to my skin, soaking through what I was told was moisture-wicking clothing.
Royce was adamant that we be out here with the team. They want to see the process in person. It’s been that way ever since they showed up—every little detail, down to what type of water bottles we buy, is being cataloged in their brain or in the massive spreadsheets they’re such a fan of.
Gil steps up to the plate, bat in hand. He goes through his motions, swinging a few times as he adjusts his positioning.
Luigi steps onto the mound and draws his arm back to throw the pitch.
I watch his form, checking to make sure his old injuries aren’t acting up. It’s not like I would bench him if they were—I’d simply make sure he gets the help he needs.
The second the ball flies out of his hand, I know Gil is going to hit it.
The crack of the ball hitting the bat echoes around us, halting practice. Everyone turns to watch it soar across the field.
Gil whoops loudly and begins to run the bases—run being an exaggerated term. It’s more like he sashays around them.
Royce chuckles beside me.
“He’s a character. Reminds me a bit of Jake.”
I smile at the thought. My memories of Jake Bellport are crystal clear—much like the ones I have of Royce.
“Jake has always been a character, hasn’t he?” I ask.
Royce nods when I glance over. “He has. He’s the best little brother I could ask for, but he’s definitely a handful. It’s the reason he needed two boyfriends to keep him in line.”
Of course, everyone has heard about Jake Bellport’s two boyfriends—the ones who play on the team he bought and manages.
At first, I thought people would be outraged. I should have known better, though. It’s the Bellports. Plus, Jake’s such a character, anyone who’s ever met him wouldn’t be surprised by this outcome.
“They seem like nice guys,” I say.
Royce nods again, reaching up to wipe their forehead. Sweat trickles down the side of their face, and I fight between wanting to swipe it away with my hand and using my tongue to see how salty they taste.
A shiver works through me at the vision of doing just that.
Royce quirks a brow at me. “My entire family is a handful, to be honest.”
Gil makes it back to home plate and does a little dance as the guys cheer and clap for him.
We watch a few more players come up to bat as we wait. The sun beats down on us, and minute by minute, I feel my body weakening.
I know if I’m struggling, then Royce has to be even more so. Their frame is leaner than mine, and I haven’t seen them drink anything all day.
The thought startles me. I spin on my heels and rush to the coolers on the sidelines in the dugout.
Snatching one open, I grab three water bottles. I move back into position beside Royce and hand them one.
“Here.”
They take it, their face giving me a look that screams confusion.
I open another bottle for myself and lift it to my lips, chugging it back. It’s refreshing in the way I needed—so cool against this heat.
Royce mimics me, drinking from their own bottle.
When they finish a few minutes later, I hand them the third bottle I brought.
“I thought that was for you,” they tell me.
I shake my head, eyes trained on the field. “No, I’ve had plenty today. But you haven’t.”
As they take the bottle from my hand, their fingers graze mine. Their cool fingertips graze my wrist.
Another shiver moves through me.
This time, it’s got to be visible—I know because Royce sucks in a breath.
I don’t dare look at them. It’s too much. Too many emotions are pushing against the surface. One look at my eyes, and they’re going to know how I feel.
They’re going to see more than I’m willing to give right now.
Play it cool, Kenny. Play it cool.
The minute we pull apart, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Another challenge survived.
Now, to just get through a couple more months, and this won’t be such a big deal anymore.
Sleep is a crucial function of life. Without it, we're all monsters ready to torment one another. I’m one of those people who simply cannot function without enough of it. It’s not good for me—or anyone near me—if I don’t get my solid seven hours.
So imagine my surprise when it’s eleven at night, and I’m still wide awake, staring at the ceiling as the day replays in my head.
I think about how Royce looked in their jean shorts and flowy blouse, how their hair was pulled back into a high ponytail that whipped every time they turned their head.
I think about how I wanted to run my hands through that hair—how I wanted to wrap myself around them, breathing in the scent of their skin like it was my lifeline.
My body aches with want. My cock is tense under the sheet, and it’s only by sheer willpower that I don’t give in and touch myself again, not after how often I’ve already thought of them today.
Grabbing my phone, I decide to kill time the only other way people do—scrolling social media.
I check the usual suspects first, seeing if there are any updates from friends or extended family.
My immediate family doesn’t use social media.
When nothing catches my attention, I switch to my favorite—Pinterest.
I’ve spent countless hours there looking up ideas for team promotions or decorating my house.
There’s always room for improvement, which is why I’m constantly scrolling.
But tonight, something’s different. Instead of baseball themes and Korean BL illustrations filling my feed, I find clothing suggestions.
Outfits that look exactly like what Royce would wear.
I blink at the screen, wondering if my phone heard me muttering earlier about how attractive Royce is—and how tempting their clothes can be. These things listen to us all the time, so it would make sense. Jokes on it, though, because now I can’t stop thinking about Royce again.
Would they actually like any of this? Is this where they get their inspiration?
I have too many questions and not nearly enough answers. Then I spot an outfit that’s far too perfect not to share. Before I can stop myself, I hit share, copy the link, and open our text thread.
Saw this and thought of you, I type, paste the link, and send it.
The message shows as delivered, and a wave of drowsiness washes over me, like all I needed to do was close out my day by reaching out to them.
As my eyes grow heavy, I see the message change to read, timestamped, and my last thought before sleep claims me is: I wonder if Royce would actually wear it.
What I should have been thinking was how deeply personal that message might seem. Because sending that—telling them this reminded me of them—was more than what two people trying to keep their distance would ever do.