2. Sean
TWO
SEAN
Hotel rooms are the worst kind of quiet, especially when you’re alone. It’s not as peaceful as you imagine after a brutal loss. I feel trapped in a room with bad carpet that’s absorbed a thousand bad decisions and still hasn’t forgiven anyone for them.
I stand under the shower until the water goes lukewarm, scrubbing at my skin like I can take the night off me. Like it’ll erase the feel of his hands laced with mine, the chain link biting into my palms, his mouth at my ear, and the way he said Cobre like it belonged to him.
It doesn’t.
I don’t.
That’s the whole problem.
When I finally step out, my fingers are pruney and my chest feels bruised from the inside. The mirror is fogged, but my silhouette still looks guilty. Like a man who did something he wasn’t supposed to do.
I wipe the glass with my palm.
My reflection stares back.
Red hair damp and sticking up. Cheeks flushed from heat, and a faint mark on my neck that wasn’t there earlier. It’s not dramatic, but it’s enough. Enough to make my throat tighten.
Catholics are trained to notice evidence.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark.
I stare at it like it’s going to start burning.
Because he’s going to text.
Emiliano always texts.
He texts like he pitches: confident, precise, like he already knows where you’re going to swing.
The phone buzzes.
My stomach drops.
I pick it up.
Emiliano
You run fast for an outfielder
It’s stupid. Playful. A rope thrown across the gap so we can pretend it was just a game.
My chest tightens anyway, and I don’t answer.
I set it down like it’s a snake.
Two minutes.
Buzz.
Emiliano
You ok, Cobre?
No emoji. No teasing. Just checking in.
That one lands harder.
I stare at the ceiling like it’s going to give me instructions.
If I answer, I open the door.
If I open the door, he walks through it.
And Emiliano doesn’t accept half-measures.
He’ll want the thing I can’t give him.
I don’t answer.
Buzz.
Emiliano
Look, I’m not mad. I just don’t like when you disappear.
My hands curl into fists.
I hate that he can call it what it is so easily. Like I’m not complicated. Like I’m not a mess of rules, fear, and Irish Catholic guilt wrapped around a baseball uniform.
I grab my phone again, thumbs hovering.
Sean
I’m fine.
Delete.
Sean
Don’t.
Delete.
Sean
It was just—
None of the words are true, and I don’t know how to send a lie that won’t unravel the second he looks at it.
I set the phone down harder than necessary.
Like a punishment.
Like I can discipline the want out of myself.
I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling until my eyes burn. Sleep comes in scraps. In restless dozes. Flashes of chain link and his mouth and the way he almost kissed me like it meant something.
I wake up once to another buzz.
I don’t look.
I look.
Emiliano
If you’re going to pretend you hate me, at least be good at it.
My breath catches, and a laugh tries to escape before it gets strangled halfway out.
When I don’t answer, he goes back to banter. Back to the language we use when honesty feels too sharp.
It still hooks me.
It still makes me want to respond.
I still don’t.
The next morning tastes like regret and stale hotel coffee.
Our whole team is at the airport, a tired herd in matching sets with duffels rolling behind us.
The terminal is too bright, the air recycled and cold, and the line at security looks like it was designed to punish athletes with long legs and bad attitudes.
Brooks is his normal chipper self, with Mike beside him pretending not to be amused every time Brooks leans in to say something.
Yeah, they’re so obvious it’s just sad at this point.
Will is on FaceTime with Camila, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it with anyone else.
“I swear, baby,” he says. “No free hotel cereal for breakfast.”
Camila’s voice comes through the speaker like a drill sergeant wrapped in warmth. “Más te vale que no me estés mintiendo, que esa carita no te salva. I packed you some good snacks; don’t give them away.”
Will smiles. “Yes, ma’am.”
Whipped.
Jake walks behind us with that calm, steady presence he always has. He’s the ace, even when he’s not pitching. Quiet authority. Observant eyes.
Jackson’s got his cap low and his earbuds in, but I can tell he’s listening anyway. Andres is beside him like a shadow, hand on Jackson’s lower back in that casual, possessive way.
It shouldn’t make my chest ache.
It does.
How freeing it must be to be comfortable with who you are. To not care that people judge you or stare.
Kai’s loud because Kai is always loud, and Isla is on the phone with him because she’s pregnant and he’s incapable of being normal about it.
“Lemme talk to the baby,” Kai says. “Come on, Princess… just hold the phone up to your belly so I can say hi.”
Gael rolls his eyes next to him, and we move like a pack through TSA, joking and complaining, and for a minute it’s just normal.
Then my phone buzzes again.
I feel it in my pocket like a hot coin.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
I ignore it.
Brooks leans over, voice dripping with mischief. “Who’s blowing your phone up, O’Malley? Your secret girlfriend?”
I glare. “No.”
Brooks’ grin widens. “Secret boyfriend?”
My stomach drops so fast I swear it hits my shoes, and Mike coughs like he choked on air. Will turns his head sharply, eyes wide for half a second, then smooths his expression like he didn’t hear anything.
Jake’s gaze flicks to me, quick and assessing.
My face heats up, and because I was blessed with the complexion of milk, I’m sure I now look like a fucking strawberry. Jackson looks up from his phone, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s clocking everything at once. Andres doesn’t look at me, but I can feel him listening anyway.
Kai, of course, is thrilled.
“Oh?” he says, voice too loud. “O’Malley’s got a secret girlfriend or boyfriend?”
“Shut up,” I snap.
Brooks lifts his hands, all fake innocence. “I’m just asking questions. We’re a judgment-free team… whether you suck dicks or clits, it's all good.”
Mike mutters, “Stop,” and elbows Brooks under the guise of fixing his bag.
Brooks yelps. “Ow.”
I jam my hands into my pockets and stare straight ahead, like if I don’t move, no one will see my face.
My phone vibrates again, and this time I catch the notification on the screen.
Emiliano
Answer me.
I lock my phone immediately.
Fuck him.
Brooks is watching my reaction like he’s hunting.
“What?” he says in a fake sweet voice when I throw him a dirty look. “That look on your face was… interesting.”
“Drop it,” Will warns, his voice calm but edged.
Brooks grins anyway. “What? I’m bored.”
Jake steps closer to me, his voice low, his hand squeezing my shoulder. “You good?”
I nod too fast. “Yeah. Just Brooks being Brooks.”
Jake doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push. He just gives me a look that says he’s there if I need him, which makes me want to scream.
Andres’ voice drifts from beside Jackson, casual but pointed. “If you’re dealing with something, you know you can always talk to us.”
Us being him and Jackson.
I stiffen, and when I glance over, Jackson’s eyes soften for just a second.
And like a coward, I look away.
I’m not doing this. Not here. Not with all of them.
We finally board, the team spreading across rows like a controlled disaster. I’m wedged into a window seat with Will in the aisle and Jake across the row. Brooks is a few seats up, still causing trouble. Mike is near him, pretending he hates it.
Jackson sits across the aisle from Andres, their knees brushing like they can’t help it. Kai is two rows up, still on the phone with Isla, talking to their unborn child.
The plane taxis, and my phone buzzes again. I keep my eyes on the window, watching LaGuardia slowly roll by.
Buzz.
I keep breathing.
Buzz.
Emiliano
You know what I find funny?
You ran when I tried to kiss you.
But you’ve never run when I make you moan my name
Heat floods my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Will glances at me. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie. “Just a little nauseous.”
Will’s expression says he’s not buying it, and Jake’s gaze flicks over too, both of them calling me out on my shit without saying a word. I stare out the window as the plane lifts, my stomach floating for a second, my heartbeat too loud.
My phone buzzes again, and I look because I’m weak.
Emiliano
Cobre.
Just that.
I swallow hard, fingers trembling as I type one word before I can talk myself out of it.
Sean
Stop.
I hit send.
Immediate regret hits like a wave. Part of me wants to take it back but it’s out there now.
My phone buzzes almost instantly.
Emiliano
No.
A laugh escapes me, broken and panicked.
Of course it’s no.
Emiliano Guerrero doesn’t take orders from anyone, least of all me.
I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket like it’s going to ruin me.
Somewhere under the guilt, the fear and the denial, my body softens at the thought that he’s still trying.
That he cares enough to keep coming. That I’m not just a hookup in the dark. Like I’m something worth chasing.
I hate myself for wanting that.
I hate myself for wanting him and I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I don’t.
We’re back in San Jose before my body catches up to the fact that I survived another cross-country flight.
The team bus drops us at the apartments, everyone scattering with duffels and jokes and plans for naps.
I should head upstairs and take a long shower.
I should eat something that isn’t hotel eggs or toast.
Instead, I get in my car and drive.
St. Anthony’s is tucked down the road from a school, and the parking lot has a few cars in the slots, all the usual suspects for Wednesday prayer group.
The doors are open, and inside, it’s dim and cool, the air smelling like old wood, candle wax, and the faint sweetness of incense that clings to the walls like memory.
It hits my chest the second I step in.
Catholic guilt doesn’t live in your head. It lives in your bones.
I dip my fingers into the holy water and cross myself on autopilot. For a second, my grandmother’s hands are in mine, guiding the motion.
I used to think this made me safe.
Now I’m not sure what it makes me.
The pew creaks when I kneel. My knees remember this. So does my mouth shaping words I’ve said a thousand times, the ones that are supposed to scrub you clean.
I take out my rosary and silently pray while I wait my turn for the confessional, even though my heart is trying to climb out of my throat.
There’s an old couple ahead of me, then a teenage girl with mascara smudged under her eyes, then a man in work boots who looks like he came straight from a job site.
Normal sins.
Normal lives.
What the hell am I doing here?
My phone buzzes in my pocket like it knows where I am and wants to humiliate me.
I don’t check it.
I already know what it says.
When it’s finally my turn, I slide into the booth and shut the little door behind me. The darkness wraps around me, familiar and suffocating at the same time.
On the other side of the screen, Father O’Shea clears his throat.
“Bless me, Father,” I whisper, voice tight. “For I have sinned. It’s been… six weeks since my last confession.”
“It’s alright,” he says gently. “Take your time.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because what am I supposed to confess?
That I’m twenty-two years old and I can’t stop wanting a man?
That I let him push me into the chain link like it was a punishment I deserved?
That I ran when he tried to kiss me because a kiss feels like truth?
My throat burns.
“I’ve been…” I start, then swallow. “I’ve been doing things I know I shouldn’t.”
Father O’Shea is quiet and patient in all the ways a priest should be. “And how does that make you feel?”
A laugh tries to escape. It dies in my chest.
“Like I’m dirty,” I admit, voice cracking. “Like I’m breaking something in me that’s supposed to be… right.”
“Why do you believe you’re dirty?” he asks.
Because my whole life I was told there are only certain ways to be good. Certain kinds of love that count.
Because I’m Irish Catholic, and my family carries shame like heirloom silver.
And I’ve been raised to be the version of me everyone can understand, and I’m tired.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, and it’s the first honest thing I’ve said all day. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about him.”
Silence.
Here comes the fire and brimstone.
Then Father O’Shea’s voice softens.
“Sean,” he sighs, and the way he says my name makes my eyes sting. “God is not surprised by you.”
My breath catches, and I let go. Tears silently trickle down my cheeks.
“He is not disgusted by you,” Father O’Shea continues. “And love… real love… is not something that should turn you into your own enemy.”
My hands tremble in my lap.
“I ran,” I whisper, because that’s safer than saying what I ran from. “He tried to… be sweet. And I ran.”
“Why?” he asks.
Sweetness feels like a trap. Because if it’s tender, it’s real, and if it’s real, it can ruin me.
“I’m scared,” I admit, the words barely audible.
Father O’Shea exhales. “Then pray for courage,” he says. “Not punishment. Courage to be honest. Courage to be kind to yourself.”
My throat tightens until it hurts.
“And perhaps,” he adds carefully, “courage to accept that you deserve love that does not require you to suffer.”
“Yes, Father,” I whisper.
He gives me a penance that feels almost too simple. A few prayers. A moment of gratitude. An act of kindness toward myself.
Toward myself.
When I step back out into the church, the air feels lighter and heavier at the same time. Like I didn’t get absolution, exactly.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket, and I take a breath.
I check it.
Emiliano
You make it home, Cobre?
I stare at the message until my vision blurs.
Courage, not punishment.
Then I type back, fingers shaking.
Sean
Yeah, I’m home.