Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
JED
I’m leaning against the rail in the dugout, gaze glued to Shane in the batter’s box.
Caught looking. Strike two.
Paulie grunts next to me.
Big swing—at a ball way outside. Went fishing.
We both groan in unison. That’s Shane’s tenth strikeout.
He hasn’t gotten on base the last three games.
I don’t know where Shane’s disappeared to, but the ghost-like version that’s walking back to the dugout isn’t him.
He hasn’t spoken in the locker room since that night with his father.
We haven’t spoken, though it hasn’t been much better with the rest of the crew.
I’ve still been over at their place the majority of the time.
Paulie and East refused to let me be exiled to my apartment.
I discreetly glance at Paulie. He’s studying Shane, dark brows crushed together. I’m so damn grateful for them, for the whole crew, really. I’ve gained some incredible friends this year and hadn’t realized how much I’d been missing by going it alone all these years.
“He’s gotten worse,” Paulie murmurs. “Since Shelby left.”
My heart gives a weak flop. It’s been settled on the floor of my chest since that night.
It’s torture; seeing someone you love drowning in pain.
Shane’s put a wall of distance between all of us—except Shelby.
She’d slept in his room every night until she had to go back to Connecticut.
There had been a modicum of comfort knowing she was with him while he’s in this dark place.
Even with that, my nights alone in my apartment were sleepless.
And now? I’m pulled tight, my anxiety scraping at every nerve.
I know what it’s like to be in the space he’s in right now.
He’s slipped below the surface, and I’m on top of a frozen pond, desperately searching for him below the ice. But I can’t find him.
I’m terrified he doesn’t want to be found.
Dominguez pulls him aside. Shane doesn’t even try to offer his fake smile.
I know a team is just that—a team—but there’s no denying seeing the life of our team…
die out…has everyone subdued and dragging.
The guys have been watching Shane, and I’ve fielded a few questions about what the hell is going on.
He’s still managing to show up on the field, but the drain of what he’s battling in his head has been bleeding into every at bat.
Olander slides in next to me and Paulie.
“I think we need to go out tonight. The whole team. We need to boost morale.” He throws his thumb over his shoulder to where Shane and Dominguez are murmuring quietly.
“We need to help Michaels get past whatever it is that’s brought him low.
He’s our boy. It’s our job to help him out. ”
That’s…the first time Olander has said anything I’ve actually respected.
“I can’t see him agreeing to go out,” Paulie says.
Olander scoffs. “Dude. He doesn’t agree. We just drag him out. Remind him how to have fun. Maybe find some ladies to cheer him up.” He bounces his eyebrows while I try to keep the contents of my stomach down.
I grab my helmet and head toward the entrance of the dugout.
I’m in-the-hole, and Easton is on-deck. I pass Shane, who’s sitting on the bench, gaze trained on the ground.
My hope that we would work back to where we were has withered more and more each day.
I don’t even know what we are at this point.
We haven’t talked about it, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem like we’re together anymore.
Maybe find some ladies to cheer him up. Olander might be right.
My insides twist over themselves. A pit of snakes writhing in my gut.
The thing is, as much as it kills me, if that’s what he needs to move forward, then I’m behind him, even if it breaks me.
Shane’s barely had a chance to see how the world reacts to queer individuals, even if he’s seen some of the ugliness in our locker room.
It hits different when it’s your own family—someone whose approval you’ve longed for your entire life.
I don’t want it to push that part of himself into hiding, but it’s a fight he has to be ready to live every day of his life in our occupation.
There are people like his father and Dev everywhere.
Right now, I’m not sure Shane’s ready for that fight. I can see it in the flatness of his gaze, in the way those lips are turned in a direction that just feels wrong. Those lips are never turned down. Not my always-smiling surfer boy.
Not yours.
My fingers tighten around my bat, the material of my gloves squeaking softly. No, he’s not mine.
Not anymore.
He needs to figure out where he stands, what backlash he’s willing to handle.
As much as I want to get on my knees and beg him, plead with him to see that it’s worth it, that I’m worth it, that’s not fair to him.
He needs time to process freely on his own without influence. He needs to choose himself.
The reality is, I might not be worth it for him.
Easton’s up, so I move into the on-deck circle.
I could really use a big hit right now.
When it’s my turn up, I get my wish. I muscle out a cheap homer, swinging so fucking hard I snap my bat clean in half.
Fitting: a broken bat to match my broken heart.
The team disperses into the bar, cheers following us from the patrons.
We brought home a win today after two losses in a row, so the guys are extra rowdy.
Paulie and East somehow managed to convince Shane to come out with the team.
Convince is a generous word. They kind of…
threw him into the back seat and boxed him in.
Easton said something about returning the favor.
I drove us all over in what was the most awkward car-ride known to man.
My gaze catches on Maddox’s raised hand. He and Frankie are at the bar. They came out to celebrate with us…and to have an extra set of eyes on Shane. I’m not the only one worried about him.
Before we even get to the bar, Olander’s already shoving a beer in Shane’s hand. “Come on, man. Let’s celebrate!” He throws an arm around Shane’s shoulders and walks him over to where Thompson, Roche, Dev, and O’Neil are settling at a table.
“Hey, Maddox,” I greet, and we bump forearms. “Frankie.” I nod to Paulie’s brother.
“Hey, handsome.” He turns to his brother. “Hey, ugly.”
Paulie rolls his eyes. Then dives on his brother and gives him a noogie. Frankie lets out a feral sound, and all of a sudden Paulie’s in a headlock crying uncle.
“What have I said about touching my hair,” Frankie growls.
“Not to,” Paulie whines.
Frankie lets go of his brother and runs his hand through his hair, tousling it back into the stylized mess it was before. “Damn fucking straight. You do that again, and I will castrate you.”
“Uh…why are people getting castrated?” Olander’s uncertain voice draws our group's attention. He looks between us all. “I just wanted to get a tray of shots. Maybe I should come back when…my balls are safe?”
Frankie leans back against the bar and crosses his arms. “Oh, Ollie-babe, your balls are definitely safe with me.” He winks.
Olander’s eyes go wide.
“Frankie, behave,” Maddox and Easton say at the same time. They grin at each other. “Jinx.”
“Leave him the fuck alone,” Dev growls, stepping up to the bar and shoving his shoulder into Frankie.
Frankie doesn’t budge. Instead, he leans even more into Dev. “Careful, honey. I’m touching you. You might catch the gay. And wouldn’t that be a shame to the entire queer population?”
“Back. The fuck. Off,” Dev hisses.
The two glare at each other, and I think we’re seconds from a barroom brawl. Dev’s a big guy, but Frankie’s deceptively strong. That and me, Paulie, East, and Maddy would be on him in a blink.
“Dev, relax, man,” Olander says with an awkward laugh. “It’s Nebs’s brother, for fuck’s sake. He’s just joking around.”
Paulie steps in and pulls Frankie away. “Not worth it,” he mutters.
I get it, though—where Frankie is coming from. It’s hard to let it go. The impulse to put assholes like Dev in their place is strong. They don’t deserve to win. To get the last word.
The bartender slides Dev over his whiskey. Dev grabs it and turns a scathing look on Frankie. “I’d back off if this one could go five seconds without making someone uncomfortable with his creepy remarks.”
“You mean, like you do with the women here?” I sweep a look over him, and I don’t hide my disgust.
Dev’s jaw tightens, but he turns and stalks off.
“It’s okay,” Frankie calls loudly. “He’s just jealous because he’s the only man here I wouldn’t be caught dead flirting with.” He takes a sip of his drink. “I’m not picky, but I wouldn’t touch that with a fucking ten-foot pole.”
Olander clears his throat awkwardly. “Sorry about him.”
I eye the guy. I really don’t get why he’s friends with Devereux. Sometimes I think he might be all right, but then it’s like he absorbs some of Dev’s bigotry.
Olander steps up to the bar and places an order for shots, then quickly greets Maddox.
Oddly enough, those two have developed somewhat of a friendship.
I’m not sure if it’s because Maddox has blended in with the Clippers seamlessly and feels like one of us.
He knows his baseball and was a great college ballplayer.
They talk a lot of PT, because Olander has been having issues with his rotator cuff.
No one has blinked twice at Maddy’s and Easton’s best-friend story. It’s one of the advantages of being a straight-presenting queer person. My hand balls into a fist. Advantage. I hate the word. Hate that it’s true. They can accept us because they can’t see our queerness.
Not everyone can hide. And that means the world isn’t always safe for them. It’s a hard thing to accept: in this world, I’m safer simply because I can step into a room and disappear. We shouldn’t have to hide. We shouldn’t have to worry about our safety at all.