Chapter 41
FORTY-ONE
JED
Dominguez’s jaw tightens, and his fingers whiten where they’re steepled on his desk.
“Thank you for informing me of this. I want you to know we don’t take this lightly.
We won’t tolerate this kind of behavior.
There are procedures we’ll need to follow.
I have to report this to the front office, and they’ll open an internal review.
Do you know of anyone else who has had issues with Devereux? ”
Paulie and I are sitting across from the skipper’s desk.
It’s just past five-thirty. As soon as we let him know our topic of concern, he arranged for us to come in for a meeting.
We just got done letting him know about what’s been going on with Devereux in the locker room.
I catch Paulie’s eye. We haven’t let him know about Frankie yet.
“My brother,” Paulie says quietly.
Coach’s thick dark eyebrows pull together. “Your brother? What do you mean, Nebiolo?”
“Last night, the team went out to celebrate our win. My brother—who also happens to be gay—joined us. Devereux assaulted him. Ended up with a fractured cheekbone and a minor concussion.”
Dominguez curses under his breath. “I need names. Witnesses.” He rubs a hand over his mouth, cheek flexing.
“The only people around when it happened were Olander, Devereux, and my brother. When I got there, Frankie was out cold on the ground. Olander was trying to pull Dev off him.”
“Cono. All right. This is getting escalated. He’ll be kept away from the clubhouse at minimum while we review this. What’s Olander’s involvement in all of this?”
Paulie and I exchange a glance.
“We don’t know, sir,” I say.
Frankie’s been tight-lipped about the entire thing. Which only makes me more suspicious. If Olander had attacked him or somehow been a part of Dev’s assault, I can’t imagine Frankie would be staying silent.
Coach lets out a sigh. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention. And Nebiolo? I’m damn sorry about your brother. How’s he faring?”
“He was discharged this afternoon. In pain, but otherwise good. Not sure if he’ll need time off work. His job requires nearly full-time staring at a computer screen.”
Dominguez shakes his head. “Unacceptable. We’ll see this sorted. I’ll let you know if I need anything further from you two. And if you know of anyone else, please make sure they come forward.”
He leans forward, brown eyes glinting with something sharp.
“I won’t tolerate this in my clubhouse. I know how deep the systemic prejudice runs in this sport, but this team is not going to be part of it.
The Jetties hold a strict zero-tolerance policy for discrimination.
I will suspend the entire fucking team if I need to.
If anyone needs to talk, my door is always open. ”
“Thanks, Skip,” Paulie and I say in unison.
I’ve always really appreciated Dominguez as a skipper.
He truly cares about his players and knows what we need when it comes to baseball.
But seeing this side of him sparks a whole new level of respect.
A lot of teams and organizations spout zero-tolerance for discrimination.
But it’s all press fluff, for show and image.
Times are changing, but baseball’s roots are deep, and buried in that history is a whole lot of inherited bigotry that doesn’t disappear overnight.
Paulie and I stand.
“Stone. A moment.”
I give Paulie a wave, and he leaves as I retake my seat.
“Yes, sir?”
“I was planning on giving you a call, but when you and Nebiolo reached out, I thought I’d wait to tell you in person.” His eyes soften, and a smile tugs at his lips.
My brows knit. “Yeah?”
“Right before I got Nebiolo’s call, I’d just gotten off the phone with Noonan.”
My gut clenches.
That couldn’t—
This couldn’t—
“You’re getting called-up, Stone.”
My heart stops.
“They want you there first thing in the morning. You’ll be taking over for Sanders in tomorrow night’s game.”
Oh my God.
It’s finally happening.
My moment.
Everything I’ve worked myself bloody for.
So why…why can’t I breathe?
I stumble through the front door of the guys’ townhouse.
I don’t even remember the drive here. My pulse is beating at a dizzying pace.
It’s sharp—a scalpel slicing through my arteries.
I haven’t been able to catch my breath since I escaped Dominguez’s office.
I’m not sure how well I hid the immediate internal upheaval his news gave me.
“Jed?”
I look around, but I can’t see. I can’t hear. I can’t—I can’t.
Fingers slide over my face. “JJ. Baby. What’s wrong?”
I can’t focus, but I recognize his voice, his citrus scent. My Sunshine. I fall into him.
“You’re scaring me.” His whisper dances over my neck.
I pull back and finally find those blue eyes. Let them ground me. “I got called up,” I croak.
His fingers still. Confusion flickers for a heartbeat, and then his face falls. “Jed…” he whispers hoarsely. “Babe.”
It’s one word, but it says so much more.
It’s understanding. That my dream and my nightmare are coming true.
I shake my head. I can’t form words. Not when grief is trying to choke me like a knee to the throat.
A fault line splinters down my chest, cracking my ribcage open. But there’s no heart there.
It died seven years ago.
I’m a freshman again, standing in my dorm room, phone thudding to the floor as my father’s agent and best friend’s words echo through my head. Your father was in a car accident. I’m so sorry, son, but he didn’t make it.
“Wait, Stone. You’re getting called up?” Easton’s voice registers.
I blink back to the present, his blurred form at the kitchen table slowly coming into focus.
“No way!” Paulie shouts and makes for all of us from the living room but stops in his tracks when his gaze falls on me. “Wait. If you’re getting called up, why do you look like somebody died?”
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. My knees buckle.
Shane catches me, clutches me to him, and I do the same. I hold on to him like he’s the only solid thing left in my world.
My eyes sink shut and my world warps. I’m hanging over the edge of a cliff, and his grip is all that’s left to save me.
Save me.
“Paulie,” Shane hisses. “What the literal fuck is wrong with you?”
Their voices swirl around me, distant beneath the roar in my ears. My eyes burn. God, the pressure is so intense it’s like my skull might crack from the inside out.
“Oh fuck. Oh my God, Jed. I’m so sorry, man. I wasn't thinking.”
I try to brush it off. I open my mouth—but that was the last thread of resistance. The dam breaks. Not even Shane can hold me together any longer. A sob tears out of me.
I’m back dangling over the cliff, nothing but endless black threatening to take me. I stare up at Shane, hovering on the edge of the rock. My grip slips.
“I’ve got you,” he shouts, but he’s already fading, echoing from miles away. I shake my head. It’s hopeless.
Our fingers slide apart.
I fall.
The black abyss of grief swallows me.
It was supposed to be us. It was supposed to be me and Dad out there.
Your father was in a car accident.
Major league ballplayers. Father and son. It was our dream. My dream. And we were so close to making it happen.
I’m so sorry, son, but he didn’t make it.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to walk onto that field without him.
There’s a gaping hole inside me, and nothing can fill it. Not therapy. Not time. Not baseball.
Shane’s whispers pierce through the blackness. Small slivers of sunlight.
“I’ve got you.”
I sink into a soft surface.
“I’m so sorry, babe.”
Something wraps tight around me. Warm. Strong.
“I’m here.”
It helps, but not even my Sunshine can steal away this darkness.