Chapter Twenty-Two. Knock It Out of the Ballpark #2
The camera is switched to Lachlan. Even through the in-suite monitor, his voice sounds powerful and smooth. He truly is a brilliant singer.
Calum and Mateo successfully finish the performance. The crowd goes wild. You’d never know part of the minute-long piece wasn’t even sung.
They wave to the audience then head off-field. On the sidelines, Lachlan gives Felix a consolatory hug. When Felix pulls back, he stares at the ground, his body language betraying his mortification. Will and Mateo give encouragements of their own, while Calum pats his shoulder.
Necktie speed walks over to them, anger evident even from up here.
But what else is new? I don’t get a good look at the interaction before the group disappears into the building.
Assuming they’re on the way to the suite, I go to the beverage station and pour hot water into a cup, then rifle through the tea assortment before selecting decaf throat comfort.
By the time it’s steeped, four of the boys and Necktie enter the suite. Felix still has a pink blush on his face and the tips of his ears, but he’s recovered his composure. I offer a supportive smile and hand him the tea.
Necktie plops into one of the armchairs and starts aggressively typing on his phone—though, pretty much everything he does is aggressive. He could be writing a love note for all I know.
Felix seems relieved he’s distracted as he, Will, and Mateo settle onto the barstool seats while Lachlan makes his own cup of tea, his aura practically euphoric.
“Where’s Cal?” I ask, approaching the barstool next to Felix.
“He’s throwing the first pitch,” Lachlan answers as he sets his tea on the stool I was about to take. He pulls out the one next to it and motions for me to sit. After I do, he pushes it in for me and sits beside Felix, putting himself between us.
Felix watches the whole thing with a puzzled frown, before it turns into something more appreciative. He knocks his shoulder into Lachlan’s. “Thanks for saving me.”
He grins. It’s almost identical to the glee I saw when sitting with him and Calum on the flight from Toronto. “I’m sorry that happened, but also … I did crush it.”
Felix laughs. I can’t really blame Lachlan for being giddy about the mistake. I imagine it was satisfying to get his moment in the spotlight.
“All of you were amazing,” I add.
We turn our attention to the field as Calum stands on a dirt mound in the middle of the diamond, a glove on one hand and a ball in the other.
The Jumbotron displays the determination and concentration on his face.
He winds up, standing on one leg, and throws the ball.
It soars through the air in a nearly perfectly straight trajectory, and a Red Sox player squatting behind home plate easily catches it.
More applause erupts, but his bandmates cheer the loudest. They give him a standing ovation, whooping and catcalling. I laugh and do jazz hands.
Some of the slowest hours of my life pass during the game. Calum is completely enamored and continually explains rules to us or judges the umpire’s decisions, but after the first twenty minutes, we all tune him out.
“You’re not allowed— —complain about how ‘boring’ historical sites are anymore,” Mateo grumbles to Calum.
Will swallows a bite of hot dog and adds, “This is taking years off my life.”
I lean forward and peer at Felix. He’s zoned out, staring at the water bottle in front of him, but underneath the table, his fingers move quickly, repeating the fingerspelling alphabet with both hands. Warmth spreads through me, delighted by the absentminded practice.
Sitting back up, I glance at Lachlan’s phone. He’s been scrolling through social media for a while, and I don’t mean to snoop, but I can’t help noticing how his previous thrill fades as he flicks among apps.
His brows knit as he reads a long caption on a picture of the boys mid–national anthem, then moves to the comments. I can’t see what they say, but his scowl worsens by the second, and every hint of elation is erased.
He reads several more posts, on multiple platforms, before shutting off his phone and standing up. He pushes his barstool in, and it hits the table with a clang. The other boys’ attention snaps to him, but they don’t pay him any mind as he stalks out of the suite. I guess they’re used to it.
When he doesn’t return after a few minutes, I go check on him.
I spot him standing by the red railing on our level. He works his jaw, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, as he blankly stares at the concourse below us.
“Hey. What’s wrong?” I ask.
He doesn’t acknowledge me for a long, tense beat. “The entire internet is talking about how shitty it was for me to ‘steal’ Felix’s parts. Would it have been better if I’d let him flounder?” He scoffs. “I’m a villain for trying to help.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But we know the real you, and Felix knows your intentions. That’s what matters, right?”
“No.” His sharp gaze bores into me. “Because all people know about me is what— —label’s released, which is nothing, because management doesn’t like me. Everything else— —public opinion. But they’re no better. I don’t even know why I try anymore.”
Sometimes simply ranting can help, so I don’t reply, leaving space for him to vent.
“Did you know there was— —online poll asking who would care— —I wasn’t in DAYDREAM? And— —majority— — wouldn’t. Fifty thousand people said they wouldn’t care if I left.”
He scrubs hands over his face, then continues, “Maybe it makes me— —pompous asshole or self-absorbed, but I want to be recognized. I want to be cheered for. I don’t even care if— — don’t like me as much as the others, but I want— —at least care that I exist.”
“You don’t deserve to be treated like that,” I finally speak. “How can I help?”
Lachlan turns toward me with darkened eyes. “You could tell me what’s really going on between you and Felix.”
I recoil, taken aback by the shift. “What?”
“You sure seemed like more than ‘friends’ this morning.”
“Nothing happened,” I enunciate. Disbelief is painted on his features. Annoyance rises in me.
“Look, if you really want to help me, maybe … maybe you should keep your distance from him. He’s my best friend, and I’d never— —but you don’t know him like I do. I don’t want— —get hurt, okay? I care about you … and Felix,” he adds almost as an afterthought.
A muscle in my jaw leaps, and frustration pulses through me. Lachlan would never be an afterthought to Felix. And he’d never go behind his back to issue vague warnings like the Oracle of Delphi.
“You don’t get to decide who I spend time with. And you definitely don’t get to take shit out on me. I want to be a supportive friend, but I will not be your punching bag,” I snap.
When I bite back, the irritation washes off his face. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He gulps. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”
I study his face but don’t find any sign of deceptiveness or disingenuity. “OK.” I’m still riled up from the sudden accusations, but I take his apology at face value. For now.