Chapter 11
ELEVEN
JED
“All right, how’s that feel?” Duncan, the Clippers’ athletic trainer, asks. He’s a lean guy with sleek dark skin and rich brown eyes that are always full of laughter. He’s a really approachable guy, which is a good trait in an athletic trainer.
I point my foot and flex my calf. “Good. Loose. Thanks, Dunc.”
We’re a couple weeks into the season, and even after a grueling Spring Training, nothing really prepares you for the grind once the season starts. There are no more substitutions now, no more easy days. As long as the baseball gods keep me healthy, I’ll be out there nearly every night.
The past week, I’ve been getting brutal charley horses. Might as well call me Donkey Kong with the amount of bananas I’ve been eating.
Duncan slaps my thigh, and I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the table.
His brows pinch, and his eyes narrow. “How’s the elbow? Need me to take a look?”
I extend my arm and bend it a few times. “A part of me wonders if I’m always going to think I feel something.”
He holds out his hand, and I let my arm fall onto it. “That’s normal,” he says, palpating my elbow. “Any soreness? Any pain when I push here?”
I shake my head.
“So much of coming back from an injury is mental. Just don’t be shy about telling me if something does feel off, even if you’re not certain.”
He won’t need to worry about that. It’s extremely common for athletes to play through injuries, to downplay them, trick their own head into thinking it’s not a big deal.
That won’t be me. I’m on the other end of the spectrum.
I have what is called paranoia. Us athletes definitely keep the staff on their toes.
I leave the small exam room that’s in our clubhouse locker room, passing O’Neil, our starting left fielder, who’s heading for his turn with Duncan.
The locker room’s bustling. We’re all getting our turn with the trainers, getting some extra stretching in, suiting up, and starting on our pre-game rituals.
Nebiolo’s already strapped into his catching gear, talking quietly with Araujo as they make their way toward the exit of the locker room. Araujo’s our starting pitcher tonight, so those two are heading out early to start their routine and make sure Araujo’s arm is warm.
“We’ve got a wild one tonight,” Olander says. “Everyone better be on their toes when they step into the box.” He pretends to do a Matrix move.
“Wild thangggg,” Devereux sings.
The opposing pitcher tonight, Lucas Morgan, was known for not having the best accuracy last year. His velocity is impressive, but the command—yikes. He’s on a new team this year. He’s already been traded twice since he got drafted. Not sure what’s going on there.
There haven’t been enough starts this season to know if we should still be expecting to duck out of the way. Let’s just say, I had four starts last season before I pulled my groin and was out again—and I got hit by one of this guy’s pitches.
“I think he does it on purpose,” Olander says, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “Guy’s got a fucking shit attitude.”
Like some others I know. “Maybe the new team will have done him some good,” I murmur. Not all organizations are the right fit for a player.
“Let’s hope,” Roche, our veteran first baseman, says. “I can’t move like you young guys. I’ll just have to stand there and take it.”
“That’s what she said,” Devereux calls out.
I grimace. What a lovely thing to say.
“You’re not any younger, Devereux,” Olander taunts. “You going to be bending over for Wild Thing tonight?”
“Fuck you, man.” His gaze skates over to me. He doesn’t say anything more, but the disgust burns hot in his eyes. My and Nebs’s setdown back in Spring Training may be keeping him in check for now, but the kind of hate he has isn’t something a few words can eradicate.
He glances away and mutters under his breath. But I heard it. I saw his lips curve around the slur.
My jaw locks tight, and I jump to my feet. “Want to say that loud enough for the entire locker room to hear, Dev?”
The room goes silent.
He sends me a smile that’s thick with contempt. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
We stare each other down, a wordless battle raging between us. He breaks first. Good. Fuck. Him.
My gaze slides to the clubby who’s stopped dead a few feet away from Dev.
The glare he’s directing at Dev is sharp enough to be lethal.
Aiden Turner, Dominguez’s nephew. He’s got long, shaggy dark hair, dark eyes highlighted with black eyeliner, and two full sleeves of ink covering his arms. Let’s just say it adds to his murderous vibe right now.
Apparently, I’m not alone in my fury at the bigotry some of these guys spew.
I turn away. I’m not a people person to begin with, but Devereux and Olander are at the bottom of the list of people I can tolerate. Not only because they’re both clearly homophobic fuckfaces, but they’re both really fucking annoying.
My attention catches on Winters, who’s looking at me owl-eyed.
Clearly, he caught Dev’s remark too. His gaze darts away, and he turns toward his cubby.
It’s weird seeing him without Michaels by his side.
And right now, he doesn’t have Nebiolo either, since Nebs already left for the field.
His fingers shake lightly as he taps out a message on his phone.
Probably taken aback by other people’s hatred.
It can be shocking to see it firsthand. You’d think he’d be used to it by now. All locker rooms are the same.
I chew on my lip. Or maybe I’m not the only queer man on the Clippers.
Which only fuels me more to give guys like Dev a piece of my mind.
People don’t understand how deeply words cut.
You can’t understand. Not until every day you’re told you shouldn’t exist simply because of who you love.
Every. Day. You’re the butt of their jokes.
You’re the insult they throw around. Sideways glances, avoidance, aggression.
It starts with words. But it doesn’t always end there.
I try to swallow past my dry throat and walk stiffly to my cubby to finish suiting up.
My muscles are unsteady, like I haven’t eaten enough, and my stomach has lodged itself up in a baseball-sized knot.
The comedown from the adrenaline spike of going up against someone.
This is the last thing I need before a game.
I focus on breathing, emptying my mind. I know exactly what will help.
I exit the locker room and head down the hall toward the field.
“Hey, Stone. Wait up!”
I halt and look over my shoulder. Aiden is hurrying my way. He stops in front of me and brushes back his chin-length hair. “I just wanted to say I appreciate you standing up to pieces of shit like Dev.”
My eyes widen. You don’t normally hear clubbies talking about players like that—even if the players deserve it. I sweep a gaze over Aiden; I suppose he does give off the air he doesn’t give a fuck.
“It starts with one person. Shutting that shit down. Making change.” He grins.
“I have no problem doing it, but I don’t carry the weight you do.
” He bites his lip, his black lip ring wiggling with the movement.
His dark eyes rake over me. “Pretty cool, you being an out bi man playing professional baseball.”
Amusement bubbles in my chest. Bold as fuck. Not gonna happen, kid.
He arches a brow. “If you ever need to…de-stress, I know a storage closet.”
I shake my head. “I don’t do clubbies, Aiden. That’s not a line I’m crossing.”
He shrugs a shoulder and shoots me a wink. “The answer’s always no if you don’t ask. Had to shoot my shot. You’re sexy as hell, man.”
I chuckle. “Thanks. For the compliment. And for lightening the mood a bit after…that.”
He gives me an upnod and starts walking backward. “You got it. Good luck today. Break all the legs and arms or whatever.”
My lips twitch, and I resume my walk to the dugout.
It’s time to get in my talk with Dad before the game starts.
I was blessed with a dad who loved me, every part of me.
It’s a sad world we live in that that is considered lucky.
But it’s an unfortunate truth. I still remember the day he found out.
I was sixteen. I hadn’t realized Dad was home, and I snuck a guy up to our penthouse.
Regardless of your sexuality, there are some things you really don’t want your parents walking in on.
God, the terror I’d felt that day. I take a deep breath. I had always known my father loved me, but I grew up in the world of baseball. Straight was the only sexuality that was allowed. He took me into his room and broke down in tears.
Not for the reasons one might think.
The fear on your face, JJ. I’ve failed you as a father. There is nothing in this world that could ever lessen the love I have for you. And because of who you love? Never because of who you love.
And just like that, my poorly stitched up heart rips wide open.
Something about loss? You don’t lose the person once.
You lose them a million times in a million situations.
They’re a part of you, your mannerisms, your routines.
You turn to them at the breakfast table to find they’re not there—never going to be there again.
You pick up the phone to call them after a killer game, like you always used to.
But no one’s picking up on the other end of that line.
On days when the world didn’t want to accept me, I had a father who always would.
But I don’t anymore.
Fuck, I miss him.