Chapter 8
EIGHT
JED
“Feeling good? Excited to finally get back out there?”
I glance up at Henderson, our Triple-A second baseman, as he leans on the wall next to my cubby, his sunglasses tan stark against his typically pale skin.
The locker room thrums with chatter and the thud and scrape of guys packing up for the night.
The scent of sweat and soap mingles in the air, a slight humidity coating the room from the hot water drifting out from the showers.
I give him a nod. “It’s been way too long.”
We’re only a little over a week from the start of the season. I pull on my clean shirt. I’m ready to head back to my apartment, down some sustenance, and pass the fuck out.
“Who’s coming out tonight?” someone calls from behind me. A chorus of ‘I’m in’ follows.
It’s always a little weird moving over to minor league camp.
It’s a different atmosphere. Rowdier. Reminiscent of college ball.
We’ve got the guys fresh off last year’s draft all the way to the Triple-A vets walking around like they own the place.
It’s comical to see the personality shift in some of them.
They get that king-of-the-bus complex now they’re not surrounded by big leaguers. Goes to their heads.
Henderson nods to whoever is organizing the outing tonight, then turns back to me.
“I can only imagine. God, I feel for you, man. But I’m so fucking glad you’re back.
Looking forward to playing by your side again.
Maybe a little of that Jed Stone Junior spotlight’ll rub off on me, yeah? ” He grins at me and lifts his forearm.
I bump it. Henderson’s a great player with tight defense, but he’s weak at bat, and it’s definitely holding him back. Especially since the Jetties’ current second baseman is only five years in and has been killing it. Unfortunately for Henderson, I don’t see that spot opening up any time soon.
“You coming with us?” he asks.
Jackson Olander takes that moment to slide over in his wheely chair, Devereux hot on his heels. “Come on, Pebs. You haven’t gone out with the team since the beach.”
Olander, is our Triple-A center fielder. He’s even larger than me. He’s got some sort of foamy shit between his hands and fluffs it through his damp, curly dark hair. He bounces his heavy-set eyebrows that make him look perpetually broody. “It’s spring break, man. You know what that means.”
“Horny college girls,” Devereux crows.
I somehow hold back my grimace. Devereux is crude. He’s also a career Triple-A player who is married. Yet he’s going out looking to hook up. He’s classic handsome, with fair skin and light brown hair, and walks around like he’s God’s gift to this earth.
He has zero respect for women. For anyone, really. He’s been that way ever since I first got called up to Triple-A three years ago. He took Olander under his wing and has been teaching him the ways of the assholes ever since.
“So, Pebs? What will it be?” Olander pushes, those silver-blue eyes hopeful.
I hesitate, and a grin splits Devereux’s face. “Ah, so that’s how we convince Pebs to hang out with us. There just has to be the promise of some pussy.”
If I’m being honest, it’s not high on my list right now.
But I can’t deny I’ve been…distracted lately.
My attention wanders over the locker room until it lands on a head of golden curls.
Maybe it’ll be good. Find a blond-haired, blue-eyed man and get that fantasy out of my system.
Michaels tips his head back and laughs at something Nebs said, then reaches forward and squeezes Winters’s shoulder. Those three are really tight.
Before I get a chance to respond, Olander and Dev are already rolling over to the threesome. “You three coming?”
Winters shakes his head, and his cheeks flush. “I already have plans.”
“Oh, really.” Olander leans forward, and his curiosity practically fills the locker room. “Who is she?”
Michaels slides an arm around Winters’s shoulders. “What do you mean, who is she? Maybe he just wants to hang out with his awesome roomie. I’m out too. I’m beat.”
Olander lets out a dramatic sigh. “You two are almost as bad as Araujo and Thompson. I swear those two are inseparable.” He glances around. “Speaking of. Where are they?”
“Still in the showers I think,” Nebs says.
“Ah, probably jerking each other off.” Olander snickers.
I stiffen. My walls go up—instinct, honed from years in the locker room.
Devereux pitches his voice high. “Oh, Thompsonnnn, right there, don’t stop! Those two are so fucking gay.” He punctuates it with a laugh, but the derision is loud and clear.
Laughter echoes through the locker room, and someone cat calls. I grind my teeth. Here we go. Olander is always running his mouth. And his toxic other half, Devereux, always brings the homophobia home. Dev never shies away from dropping slurs.
Nebiolo doesn’t laugh, though; he glares down at them.
I glance over at his friends—who aren’t laughing either.
Winters’s face is white, and Michaels is in front of him slightly now, fists tight.
I think this might be the first time I’ve ever seen Surfer Boy without a smile. That puppy has his hackles raised.
Olander’s grin flickers. “Dude. I was just making a joke.” He glances between Nebs and Michaels. “Chill, guys.”
Nebs crosses his arms and sweeps a disgusted look over the pair. “What was the joke?” His voice booms through the locker room, and it goes dead silent.
Olander’s mouth pops open and nothing surfaces. He glances around the locker room before looking back at Nebiolo. “You know, man…”
“No, I really don’t. One of you explain it to me.” The tension is fucking thick. Awkward as hell. And my respect for Nebiolo just grew tenfold. “What’s so funny about two guys jerking each other off? I’m waiting for the punchline.”
“You’re awfully sensitive over this, Nebiolo. You got something to tell us? That girlfriend of yours just a cover? We all know it runs in your family.”
Devereux says “it” like Nebs is about to admit he’s got an STD or something, and my fists ball at my sides. The sad thing is a few of these guys would probably rather have one over being called queer.
Nebs doesn’t rise to the bait. “Doesn’t matter how I identify. It doesn’t give either of you the right to be homophobic assholes.”
Damn. Fucking. Straight.
Devereux rolls his eyes. “Bro, relax. No one can take a fucking joke anymore. Everyone’s so damn sensitive these days. You’re literally the only one who cares. It’s not like anyone here is gay. Besides maybe you, since you’re all pissy about this.”
God, that’s fucking enough.
“Not true,” I say, stepping toward the assholes. Devereux’s and Olander’s faces snap to me. “You both know I’m queer.”
They both know, and I’ve told them to shut their mouths on more than one occasion. Little good it does.
Olander waves me off and laughs. “But you don’t count, Pebs. You’re like mostly straight. I’ve only ever seen you with women.”
My jaw locks. That one always hits. That somehow my queerness is written off because I tend to gravitate toward women.
I actually find more men attractive than I do women, but when it comes to opportunity?
I’m Jed Stone Jr., and cleat-chasers want a piece of that.
So, yeah, if we’re talking numbers, it means I’m going home with women more often than men.
And it’s not as though these two are around when I go to gay bars.
“So glad you can forgive my queerness because I tend to pick up women.” My sarcasm is as thick as molasses. “Because making sure you’re not uncomfortable is all I’m concerned with.”
Olander goes to open his mouth, and I can see it in his eyes: regret, the panicked desire to backtrack. I’ve never seen someone six-foot-six look so small. But he and Dev dug their graves. You don’t get to throw that shit around and not get it thrown right back at you.
“You think I don’t count?” I shake my head at him. “Let me fix that for you. Because you don’t get to decide which parts of me count and erase the parts that make you uncomfortable. I like men. I sleep with men. Jerking off in a shower with a man sounds pretty fucking great to me.”
People write off my queerness because I look straight. They can pretend the part of me that makes them uneasy doesn’t exist. Well, fuck them. Let them be uncomfortable.
“Better yet, I’d enjoy jerking him off. Does that help? Am I gay enough for you now?”
The silence is heavy with discomfort. Good.
“Nebs had it right—there’s nothing funny about who somebody loves. You say we can’t take a joke, but you're not harmlessly teasing or ragging. It comes from a place of hatred and disapproval. You just tried to hide it behind humor. Keep your bigoted views out of this clubhouse.”
“I’d ask the same of your queerness,” Devereux shoots back, “but we’re fucking stuck with you.”
My breath shudders from me. How I hate that prick. “The feeling’s mutual,” I grit out. “I’m not the biggest fan of playing side by side with jackasses. But here we are.”
I shove my wallet into my pocket and grab my keys. I turn on my heel and make for the door. I’m fuming, trying to get myself under control. You said your piece, now it’s time to leave. Don’t stoop to his level.
I stop in the doorway and turn back to Dev. “Have fun cheating on your wife with a bunch of college girls. You tell them the same lie you told her? That one day you’ll play in the big leagues?”
I flip him off and keep walking.
Whoops. Couldn’t fucking stop myself.
I storm down the hall toward the exit to the parking lot. Fucking hell. I’m so wound up now I doubt I’ll be able to sleep. I’ll have to hit the tiny gym in my apartment building.
One thing about being a legend’s son—and having the game to back it up—is that I walked into this organization with a hell of a lot of respect already waiting for me.
This is one time I’ll gladly take the perks of nepotism.
It gives me the space to be quietly out as a bisexual man in professional baseball and shut down any bullshit from teammates.
Footsteps thunder down the hall, and I tense.
“Yo, Pebs. Wait up.”
I relax and slow my pace. Nebiolo catches up to my side, panting lightly. His gaze sweeps over me as I wait, his dark brows pinched.
“You okay, man? Back there… Those two are fucking assholes.”
I shrug, but some of the fire in my chest eases at the concern in his tone. “I’m used to it.”
“That makes it worse. It shouldn’t be that way. I’m sorry.”
“The last thing you should be is sorry, Nebs. Thanks for back there…stepping in. Its…ah…not common to have someone on my side.”
I hesitate, trying to find the right word. Friend? Ally? Another queer guy? I’m not sure how he identifies, but it doesn’t matter.
He sends me a lop-sided smile. “I’ve got your back.”
Yeah, that. “I appreciate it.”
He nods and starts walking backward. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yeah, Nebs. Thanks.”
He touches the brim of his cap before turning back down the hall.
There are a lot of assholes in this business.
But there are good people too.
You hold on to that. You have to.