4. Sean
FOUR
SEAN
San Jose sunlight is different from New York’s. New York clings to you, humidity making it hard to breathe. Like the air itself wants to be involved in your business. San Jose is clean about it. Bright. Casual. Like the sky doesn’t care what you did in a dugout three thousand miles away.
Which is annoying, because I care.
I’m back in team housing with a duffel in one hand and my phone in the other, staring at my screen like it’s going to confess for me.
Emiliano
You make it home, Cobre?
Sean
Yeah, I’m home.
Emiliano
Stop ignoring me then.
The man throws fastballs for a living. He doesn’t do soft landings. I shove my phone in my pocket like that’ll help and head upstairs, keys jangling, my heart doing that too-fast thing it does when my brain is trying to sprint away from itself.
My apartment door clicks behind me, and the silence punches.
Home should feel safe.
It does, technically.
This city would throw a parade for a man holding another man’s hand.
San Jose is rainbow flags and pride stickers on coffee shop windows and baristas who use your pronouns without blinking.
Half our damn team has kissed another man at some point, whether they call it bisexuality, “don’t label me,” or “it was college.”
Here, it’s not a big thing.
Here, I’m not afraid of the world.
I’m afraid of my family.
That’s the part nobody sees when they make jokes.
They see the loud Irish redhead with the temper and the mouth.
What they don’t see is the youngest boy of nine kids in a Catholic family, raised on rules, ritual, and the kind of love that comes with conditions you don’t recognize until you fail them.
My parents are good people.
That’s what makes it worse.
Good people can still hurt you.
Good people can still say, “We love you,” but not like that.
I drop my duffel by the couch and pace once, then twice, like the walls are too close. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and my body reacts like a flinch. I pull it out, and it’s nothing new. Just the last message staring back at me like a dare.
I should block him, delete his number, and only shoot the shit with him on the field.
Normal rival athlete shit.
Instead, I throw my phone on the counter and go straight to the kitchen, like food might fix me. There’s nothing in my fridge except a bottle of ketchup, two sad eggs, and a four-pack of protein drinks I bought last month and never touched.
Awesome. Way to be an adult, Sean.
I grab one of the protein drinks, twist the cap off, take a sip, and immediately regret it because it tastes like chalk and disappointment.
My phone buzzes again.
Don’t look. Definitely don’t look.
I look.
Emiliano
Can I call you and you actually pick up the phone?
My throat tightens, and I stare at the message until the screen dims. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, contemplating what to say.
Sean
Depends… are you gonna bring it up?
Emiliano
Yes, Sean… because we’re fucking grown men that need to talk about it.
And not via text message.
Mmm… don’t wanna do that.
Sean
Yeah no… can’t we just leave it be?
This time he doesn’t respond.
Practice the next day is exactly what I need and exactly what I don’t. The field is familiar; the dirt feels right under my cleats. The smell of grass, sunscreen, and sweat is normal enough to calm the shaking parts of me.
Baseball doesn’t ask me to explain myself.
Baseball doesn’t look me in the eye and say, Tell me the truth.
Baseball is clean.
I can be clean here.
Jogging out with the guys, tossing a ball with Will, I let the familiar rhythm carry me. Will is steady, always. Center field calm. Married-to-a-nutritionist calm. The kind of man who has already decided who he is and sleeps fine at night.
“So… Camila says you look like you didn’t eat,” Will says, because of course she would notice. I swear the woman is a food witch.
I scoff. “Camila doesn’t know me.”
“Camila knows everyone. It’s actually kind of terrifying.” Will catches my throw and smirks.
I shrug like it’s nothing. “I ate.”
Will’s brows lift. “What’d you eat?”
I open my mouth and nothing comes out. So I just send the ball rocketing back.
Will catches it and stares at me for a beat longer, then nods like he already has his answer.
“Come over later,” he says. “She’ll send you home with leftovers. She always makes extra.”
“I’m not—”
“Shut up,” Will interrupts, but it’s not mean. It’s firm. “Just take the food. You’ll make her happy… and maybe you won’t be so sad.”
My chest tightens, and I hate it. I hate being cared for when I don’t know what to do with it. We move into drills. Running routes. Timing steps. Reading the ball off the bat. Coach is yelling about effort like he can yell feelings out of your bloodstream.
It helps.
For an hour, I’m just an outfielder again. I’m just #27. I’m just legs, lungs, and reflex.
When we head into the dugout for a break, my phone buzzes in my bag and my entire body goes rigid. I pretend it didn’t happen. Brooks notices, because Brooks notices everything.
“Damn, O’Malley,” he says. “Your phone get a restraining order or something? That thing’s been vibrating nonstop since New York.”
I glare at him. “Bro… why are you so obsessed with my phone?”
“Because I think you’re hiding something.” He boops the tip of my nose, and I lunge forward to tackle him. Pinning him against the fence just makes him laugh.
“Definitely hiding something.”
Mike is nearby, adjusting his chest protector straps even though we’re not in full gear, because he’s always doing something with his hands when he’s listening. His eyes flick to Brooks like, “Don't.”
Brooks ignores him, obviously.
Jake strolls over too, calm like a threat. “Leave him alone,” he says mildly.
“Y’all are no fun.”
Jake’s mouth twitches. “Good.”
Kai comes roaring into the conversation like he heard the word “fun” and took it personally. “What are we talking about?”
“Sean’s mystery lover,” Brooks says immediately.
I flip him off so hard my arm should dislocate.
Kai’s eyes light up like fireworks. “OH.”
Gael appears behind Kai, shaking his head like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion. Jackson and Andres aren’t far behind, walking together, Andres’ hand briefly brushing Jackson’s hand.
Love is simple when it comes to them. Best friends that somehow went from fucking women together to, “You’re my person.”
My stomach twists.
Kai points at me. “Is it the Mets guy?”
My blood turns ice cold. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Gael’s head snaps up. “Kai.”
Jackson’s brows lift, and Andres’ gaze turns sharp. Brooks is delighted.
“What Mets guy?” Brooks asks, like he’s inhaling gossip through a straw.
I force a laugh that comes out wrong. “You all are fucking insane.”
“That’s not an answer.” Kai grins, leaning against the opening.
“I’m not answering that bullshit question,” I snap.
Andres steps in then, with a calm voice and serious eyes. “You don’t have to answer. But you do have to eat.”
“What?” I blink like I can’t believe what he just said. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
Andres’ gaze flicks down to my hands, to the way I’ve been clenching my glove like it’s a weapon. “You’re running on fumes.”
Jackson nods once, like he agrees without saying it. “You look like shit, Sean.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I guess.”
“That’s love,” Jackson says.
Brooks snorts. “We’re all very loving.”
Mike finally speaks, quiet but firm. “Brooks.”
“Fine. I’ll be good.” Brooks sighs like he’s being oppressed.
He isn’t. He never is.
Coach blows the whistle and we scatter back to our positions. I move to the outfield and try to shake off the way Kai’s question hit too close.
Is it the Mets guy?
Even saying it out loud makes it real, and that’s a big problem.
Because if it’s real, it has to exist outside of dugouts and hotel rooms and dark corners.
It has to exist out in the world where my family can see.
I see my mom’s face in my head like a flash. The way she smiles when she’s proud. The way she looks when she’s disappointed. My dad’s voice, quiet but heavy. The man who taught me to be tough. To be a good son. To be a good Catholic.
My sisters, three younger ones who adore me in that chaotic, feral way sisters do. My older brothers too, always watching, always assessing, always ready to protect me and also roast me.
If I tell them—
I don’t even know what happens.
And that terrifies me more than anything Emiliano could ever do to me.
My phone buzzes again.
I don’t check it because I know it’s him.
He’s not going away and I don’t want him to.
Practice ends and the guys peel off toward the locker room like a herd breaking formation. I’m halfway to my car when my phone buzzes again.
Fuck me.
I stop walking and pull it out.
Emiliano
Come on, Cobre.
Okay, so you’re probably at practice right now… And I’m just going to say this. You fucking frustrate me, but I get it… trust me, I do. But you can’t be scared forever. Now I don’t know if it’s a faith thing or maybe a family thing, but whatever it is. We can talk about it.
Please.
My jaw clenches, and I type before I can think better of it.
Sean
Stop texting me. The next time I talk to you will be at the game.
I hit send, and I’m filled with instant regret. His reply comes so fast it’s like he was holding his phone waiting.
Emiliano
You’re fucking cute. How about no.
I stare at it, heat flooding my face.
Of course it’s no.
Emiliano doesn’t take orders. He doesn’t take hints. He doesn’t take silence.
He takes control, and he wants me to stop hiding behind my guilt like it’s holy.
Sean
I can’t do this.
Three dots appear immediately.
Then disappear.
Then appear again.
My heart pounds.
Emiliano
Yes you can. You’re just afraid, and it’s okay to be afraid.
Let’s talk after you eat okay?
I swallow hard because he’s right.
The thing I’m scared of isn’t him; it’s what loving him would make me.
I lock my phone and shove it back into my pocket like the truth is too hot to hold. I get in my car and drive home with my hands at ten and two, like I’m a teenager again, trying to be good.
Trying not to want what I want. Knowing damn well it’s not going to work. Emiliano Guerrero doesn’t accept half-measures, and it’s looking like my heart doesn’t either.