Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
KENNETH
The office feels different today.
Maybe it's because Royce is sitting across from me in one of the visitor chairs instead of beside me. Maybe it's because every time our eyes meet, I remember exactly what they look like naked, what they sound like when they come, how it feels to fall asleep in their arms.
Or maybe it's because for the first time in months, I don't feel like I'm walking on eggshells around them.
"The concession sales were up forty-three percent from last season's opener," Royce says, scrolling through their tablet. They're wearing one of their perfectly tailored suits—charcoal gray today with a burgundy tie—with a skirt instead of pants and a pair of sheer stockings.
I want to lean over and kiss them. I want to rip those stockings off with my teeth.
I don't. We're at work. We have boundaries.
Even though those boundaries feel a lot fuzzier than they did three days ago, I won’t indulge.
"That's incredible," I say, forcing myself to focus on the numbers instead of the way the curve of their jaw looks in this lighting. "The new vendors we brought in must be making a difference."
"Mm-hmm." They make a note on their tablet. "Although I think we need to adjust the staffing for the third-base side. The lines were too long during the seventh-inning stretch. People were missing the game. I noticed the complaints in some of the group chats on our app."
I pull up the staffing schedule on my laptop. The fact that Royce thought to look on the Blue Jays fan app for reviews of the game is impressive. "Good catch. We can shift two people from the first-base side. That area moves faster anyway."
We fall into an easy rhythm, going through all the data from opening night. It's strange how natural this feels—working together, bouncing ideas off each other, making decisions as a team. Lately it’s been good between us professionally, but now there's this added layer of… emotion.
Trust.
Understanding.
Or maybe I'm just riding high on the fact that I woke up this morning with Royce in my kitchen, making coffee and humming to themselves while I showered.
"What about the luxury suites?" I ask. "Any feedback from the high rollers?"
Royce's lips quirk into a small smile. "Mostly positive. Although apparently the Johansens didn't appreciate being seated next to the Hendrix bunch. They mentioned a business dispute."
"Noted. We'll keep them separated for the rest of the season. Anything else?" I make changes in our system to keep the families apart.
"One of the suite holders mentioned the sound system was too loud." They glance up at me, eyes filled with amusement. "But honestly, I think that's just Mr. Patson being his usual grumpy self. Everyone else loved it."
"Patson complains about everything," I agree. "He once stopped me to say the hot dogs were too hot."
Royce laughs, and the sound does something warm and pleasant to my chest. "How dare we serve hot food at the appropriate temperature."
"The audacity."
We grin at each other for a moment, and I can see them fighting the urge to say more personal things, things that has nothing to do with work. But they hold back, professional as always, and return their attention to their tablet.
"The field conditions were perfect," they continue. "Groundskeeper really outdid himself. I want to make sure we give him a bonus for that."
"Absolutely. Add it to the list." I lean back in my chair, stretching my arms over my head. My shoulder pops, and I wince slightly.
Royce's eyes sharpen. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just stiff. Old injury acting up."
"Old injury?" They set their tablet down, giving me their full attention. "From what?"
I hesitate. It's not that I'm ashamed of what happened—not exactly—but it's also not a time I talk about often.
The end of my baseball career isn't my favorite topic of conversation.
Plus, anything relating to younger me has been a cautious subject.
I never want to remind them of the years before my frontal lobe developed.
Except, this is Royce. And if we're doing whatever this is between us, then I should probably be honest about the important stuff.
"From when I played college ball."
Their eyebrows rise. "You were injured in college? I feel like I knew that."
"Yeah, well. It didn’t last long. No reason for you to know." I shrug, trying to play it casual even though my stomach is twisting.
"Kenneth." They stand up and come around the desk, leaning against it so they're closer to me. Close enough that I can feel the heat of their body. "Tell me. Please."
The please does me in.
Because it's not demanding, not pushy. It's genuine curiosity mixed with concern, and I'm learning that I'm completely helpless when Royce looks at me like that.
"I was recruited to play for a Division I school," I start, my fingers drumming against my thigh.
"Full scholarship. I was a pitcher—had a pretty decent fastball, good control.
It was supposed to be my ticket out from under my parents' thumb, you know?
They wanted me in business school, grooming me to take over the family empire. But I wanted baseball."
Royce nods, encouraging me to continue.
"I was good too. Really good. My freshman year, I was already getting looks from scouts.
There was talk about me going pro, maybe getting drafted after my junior year if I kept improving.
" I can feel the old excitement creeping into my voice, the memory of what it felt like to be on that mound, the ball in my hand, knowing I could throw it exactly where I wanted. "It was the best time of my life."
"What happened?" Royce asks softly.
I take a breath. "Sophomore year, championship game. We were up against our biggest rival, bottom of the ninth, tied score. I'd already thrown over a hundred pitches, but Coach left me in. Said I was his ace, that I could handle it."
The memory comes flooding back, sharp and vivid despite the years.
The crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that pulsed through the stadium. I could feel the electricity in the air, the weight of the moment pressing down on my shoulders. My arm was tired. More than tired, really. It ached with every movement, a deep burning that told me I'd pushed too far.
But I couldn't say anything. Couldn't show weakness. Not now.
"One more out, Meyer!" Coach yelled from the dugout. "You got this!"
I nodded, rolling my shoulder and trying to ignore the sharp twinge that shot down my arm. The batter stepped into the box. It was Jake Morrison, their cleanup hitter. The guy was built like a tank and had already hit two doubles off a pitch I threw earlier in the game.
The catcher signaled for a fastball. I shook him off. My arm couldn't handle another fastball, not at full speed. The catcher signaled again. Again, I shook him off.
From the dugout, I could see Coach making angry gestures. Throw the damn fastball.
I wound up, my body going through the familiar motions even as every instinct screamed at me to stop. My arm came forward and—
The pop was audible even over the crowd.
Pain exploded through my shoulder, white-hot and blinding. The ball sailed wide, nowhere near the strike zone, and I collapsed on the mound, clutching my arm and trying not to scream.
The crowd went silent.
"Meyer!" Someone was running toward me—the pitching coach, maybe, or the trainer. I couldn't tell through the haze of pain. "Don't move, don't move!"
But I knew.
I knew the moment I felt that pop, the moment my arm went completely numb. This wasn't a strain or a minor injury that would heal with rest.
This was over.
They carried me off the field on a stretcher, and the last thing I saw before they took me into the tunnel was my father's face in the stands. Not concerned. Not worried.
Satisfied.
"Torn rotator cuff," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "Complete tear, plus damage to the labrum and some other connective tissue. They did surgery, tried to repair it, but…"
I trail off, absently rubbing my shoulder.
"It was never the same. I couldn't throw anymore, not like I used to. My velocity dropped, my control was gone. By the time I was cleared to play again, my scholarship was revoked."
Royce is quiet for a long moment, their expression unreadable. Then they reach out, their hand covering mine where it's still rubbing my shoulder.
"Kenny," they say quietly. "I'm so sorry."
I shrug, trying to play it off even though their sympathy is making my throat tight. "It was a long time ago. I've made peace with it."
"Have you?" They squeeze my hand. "Because it doesn't sound like you have."
Damn them for seeing right through me.
"My father was thrilled," I admit, the bitterness creeping into my voice despite my best efforts.
“Oh, I bet he was if he’s anything like your mother. All the disrespect intended.”
I snort at their boldness. "He finally had an excuse to pull me out of that 'foolish sports nonsense' and get me into business school where I belonged. He paid for the surgery, paid for the medical bills, and in return, I agreed to give up baseball and focus on the family business."
"That's why you took over the team. You couldn't play anymore, but you found another way to stay close to the game," Royce says, understanding dawning in their eyes.
I manage a small smile. "Pretty pathetic, huh? Couldn't hack it as a player so I became the guy writing the checks instead."
"That's not pathetic." Their voice is firm, almost sharp. "Kenneth, you've done incredible things with this team. The improvements you've made, the culture you've built. That matters. That's real."
"I know," I sigh, running my free hand through my hair. "Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd just refused to throw that pitch. If I'd listened to my body instead of trying to be the hero."
"You were a kid! A kid under pressure from your coach, your team, probably from your family too. You can't blame yourself for that."