Chapter 4
FOUR
JED
I flip my sunglasses up into my hair and let my head fall back against my beach chair, closing my eyes. The sun’s rays sink into my skin, my eyelids glowing red. The team’s laughter and chirps mix with the subtle crashing of waves.
It’s our annual Jetties beach cookout. We have one every Spring Training, scheduled on one of our few game-less days.
Most of us clocked in some training this morning, and some players were held back a bit longer for more one-on-one sessions, like our pitchers and the more green players who have promise.
Like Shane Michaels.
But I’m not thinking about him today. My throws are getting better. Ish. Fuck. Not really at all. I’ve been trying to manifest. I’m not doing a good job. I’ve never been into the woo-woo shit. But I’ll try anything at this point to get my throws back in command.
“Pebs.”
I turn my head toward the voice and squint open one eye. Mike Sanders, our current shortstop, grins back at me. His black hair is plastered to his head, water still dripping from it down his face and neck. His normally pale skin already holds the rosy hue of sunburn. The man burns in a minute flat.
His grin widens, and I don’t have any time to react, even though I know what’s coming. He shakes his head and cold water sprays all over me.
“The fuck, man!” But my words are light with amusement.
He plops down heavily in the beach chair next to me. “You should try it. The water. Volleyball. I don’t know—fun.”
I drop my sunglasses back over my eyes and stare out at the revelry.
This area of the beach has a volleyball court set up.
Our coolers are all stashed on the sidelines.
We have tables with all the grub. A few guys are throwing a football, some are playing cards, and—I squint—yup, Araujo and Thompson, two of our Triple-A pitchers, are building a giant sandcastle.
“I am having fun.”
“You are quite literally the old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn right now—just the beach version. Except you’re like, early twenties?”
“Twenty-five,” I murmur as I glance around.
So, maybe Sanders has a point. I’m the only one sitting by myself in a lounge chair. But I did have an empty chair next to me, which Sanders happily took. The offer to be social was there; I just wasn’t being loud about it.
A new group of guys joins our crew at the coolers—must have just gotten done with afternoon training.
My eyes find him instantly. It’s impossible not to when you can see that grin from outer space.
He’s dragging two guys I’ve seen him hang around with toward the water—Paulie Nebiolo, who I spent a little time playing with last year before re-injuring myself, and Easton Winters, another hot prospect who, based on whispers, will be joining Triple-A this year.
The three kick off their shoes, shed their shirts, and then Michaels is bounding into the water.
He full-on belly-flops into the ocean, and I wince.
His friends are hot on his heels, their laughter drifting back to us.
Michaels bursts out of the water, slicking back his blond curls with his hands.
Bursts of sunlight reflect off the water, washing down his chest and abs.
My gut squirms, and I look away from what could have easily been a scene from Baywatch.
My nails bite into my palms. Can’t risk looking for too long.
I hate it. Everyone notices people. Walking down the street, you might see someone who you think has a pretty face, a body-type that’s your jam.
It doesn’t mean you’re about to drag them back to your sex dungeon.
You’ll probably forget them a minute later.
It’s not a crime to notice beauty. Unless you’re queer.
Dial that up to a thousand if you’re queer in sports.
“Like those guys,” Sanders says, snapping me back. He points exactly where I don’t want to look.
I glance back just in time to see Nebiolo charge Michaels and take him down in the water.
“We do these team-bonding days for a reason, Pebs.”
Pebs or Pebbles is a nickname I earned early on with the Jetties organization.
I don’t remember who came up with it, but my father was always known as Stone, so when I joined the league, I was Little Stone, hence Pebbles.
Maybe some guys would have taken offense to being called Pebbles—like it’s emasculating or something.
I don’t buy into that shit. I also know Dad would have loved it, so the nickname has a bit of a soft spot in my heart.
“We spend an inordinate amount of time together, Stone. February through October. One-hundred-and-sixty-two regular season games. Those twenty-six guys become your family. Chemistry counts for something. And the support.”
My attention slides back to him and collides with his meaningful stare.
“Everyone goes through hard times, slumps. You have us to lean on when that happens. It’ll be really fucking lonely and dark if you don’t.”
He's right. I just…don’t know if I can be that person anymore.
Go out there and have fun, be easy-going and carefree?
I’ve improved a lot since I started therapy, and I’ve moved past the darkest point in my life, but I’m not sure the muscles in my face even remember how to curl upward. I’m content like this.
My gaze drifts back to Michaels for a heartbeat, Nebs’s arm around him, both bent over laughing.
The thing is, when you have important people in your life—friends, partners—you’re giving the universe a chance to take something from you.
I know that pain. I live it every day. To open myself up to that again… in any capacity…I don’t want that risk.
“You’ll get past it,” he says quietly.
He’s talking about baseball. Has no idea those words fit more than what he means them for. At least with baseball, there’s hope. I take a breath and let his words sink in. Let myself believe them.
“You’re right.” Force myself to believe them.
“And I know you’re freaking out behind your resting-grump face, but no one has lost confidence in you, Pebs. This is my last year. I don’t have a single doubt about that fact.”
I roll my eyes at his dig—even though I do always have a death-glare in place. I spent so many years hating the world, my face got stuck like that. Sanders is a great guy. He took me under his wing when I came up to Triple-A, knowing I was his next-in-line.
“You’re ready?” I change the subject. Because even though deep down, I’m pretty sure he’s right; there is one person who has lost confidence: Me.
He shrugs. “The R-word has been looming for me for a while now. You know I’m on a year-to-year contract with the Jetties.
When they say it’s time, it’s time. I’ve been with them since day one, and I refuse to play for another team.
I’ve had an amazing career, and I’m grateful.
I think we all thought two years ago was going to be my last season, but then… ”
His gaze darts to my elbow. I got injured.
“So, I guess in a very unfortunate turn of events, I have to say thank you for giving me a couple more years.”
I snort.
He gasps theatrically. “Was that almost a laugh? You are human after all and not a robot?”
“Fuck off, Sanders,” I say, but there’s no heat in my words. “If I were a robot, I wouldn’t be struggling with my throws.”
“Touché. My whole point in all of this is if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.
So is the rest of the team, the coaches, and staff.
And not just because you’re Jed Stone’s son.
The talent you have?” He whistles. “You’re a franchise’s wet dream.
Even with the issues you’re having with your throws, you have the most RBIs out of any of us this Spring Training, and every other aspect of your defense is tight.
Even in your fucking slump, your game is better than most players ever get to be. ”
I bite the inside of my cheek as a wave of emotion rolls over me. I don’t think I realized how much I needed to hear those words. “Thanks, Sanders. I mean it.”
“Damn. That almost sounded heartfelt. Two un-robotic moments in less than five minutes. Is your system about to short-circuit?”
I just shake my head and wing a sardonic brow at him, but somehow the cloudless day just got a tiny bit brighter.
“What’s this? Are we having a super-secret shortstop soiree?”
Urgh. Nevermind. I recognize that voice—a certain up-and-coming shortstop. The guy has no problem inserting himself into conversations. He flits around from group to group, soaking up every ounce of attention he can get his hands on.
I turn to face him and am assaulted by the sight of a dripping wet Shane Michaels.
His puppy-dog grin is in place, blue stare bouncing between me and Sanders.
His chest heaves from running straight up from the water, board shorts plastered to a pair of muscled thighs.
Fuck my life. Everyone knows wet bathing suits hide nothing. Nothing.
I grind my teeth and stare out at the water as my gut goes rigid, and my hands clench on my thighs before I force them to relax.
Sanders chuckles next to me. “A super-secret-fucking-what now? Say that five times fast. A tongue twister if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Nothing my tongue can’t handle,” Michaels fires back.
Oh, God.
“The ladies can attest,” he adds.
Even though I’m not looking at him, I’m 99% certain he winked. Everything about the guy is loud, even his expressions.
Sanders bursts out laughing. “Man, to be a young cocky shit. Those were the days. I was actually trying to convince Pebs here to get off his surly ass and have some fun.”
“Pebs?” Michaels’s voice raises an octave, and my attention snaps to his face.
“Ah, you haven’t heard yet? Stone goes by Pebbles.”
Michaels’s face is pure glee. “How adorable. I can’t believe you haven’t shared this with me yet, Pebbles.”
“It’s usually Pebs,” I grunt out.
“Oh, no, no, no. I think Pebbles is so much better.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Is it because of your unusually small stones?” He bounces his eyebrows.
Sanders loses it. I, on the other hand, try to murder Michaels with my gaze. It doesn’t work.
“It’s because he’s Stone Junior—Little Stone,” Sanders manages between gasps. “But God, that is great.”
Michaels’s grin fades, and his eyes turn serious. “No hate, though. I didn’t mean to imply there was something wrong with small balls, man. Small balls deserve love too. Plus, they have their advantages. Easier for the ladies to put in their mouths, ya know.” He winks at me.
My mouth drops open. The sheer absurdity of the things that come out of this guy… It’s like an unending stream of whatever pops into his brain.
A choking sound bursts from Sanders—who is clearly loving this exchange. “That was actually part of what made the name that much better,” he wheezes. “Clearly, you haven’t met the monster yet.”
I roll my eyes behind my shades. Here we go.
It’s not exactly something you can hide in our vocation. There’s a lot more privacy now compared to how it used to be—private shower stalls and all that—but after decades in team locker rooms, modesty isn’t really a thing any of us have.
Oh, the fucking irony. All these straight men are always commenting about my dick. Imagine if I said something similar about them? I can already hear HR calling.
I do my best not to walk on eggshells, because I fucking hate the double-standard, but the reality is, it’s all jokes and locker-room banter until someone is actually queer. Then suddenly it’s “too far” or “uncomfortable.”
“Met the monster?” Michaels glances between us.
“Let’s just say, Pebbles here is at risk of giving some of us a complex with what he’s walking around with.”
Michaels’s eyebrows fly up. “Dude, good for you, man.”
He holds out his fist for dabs, and I just stare at him, unmoving. I am not dabbing him for my dick size.
Eventually he takes his hand back and shakes his head, grin turning devilish. “Mark my words, Pebbles. One of these days, you’ll warm up to me.”
I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were him.
Even putting aside the fact that his presence at Spring Training makes him a threat to my standing with the team, he’s someone I’d never willingly associate with.
He’s all life and laughter and endless optimism. I know that guy well—I used to be him. And I know how quickly it all falls apart. The last thing I want to do is spend my time staring at the version of myself that didn’t survive.