5. Emiliano
FIVE
EMILIANO
Packing for such a short trip is an art, really, and I like my shit to be organized.
I lay everything out on my bed in neat lines like I’m building a bullpen routine: joggers, a hoodie, two shirts, a toiletries bag, a charger, and AirPods.
I toss in my Kindle in case I get bored on the flight.
I add a Mets cap, then pause and swap it for a plain black one.
Not because I’m ashamed.
Far from it. I’m just not stupid.
New York loves juicy chisme, and I’m not giving anyone a reason to ask why the Mets ace is flying to San Jose on an off day.
My phone buzzes on the dresser, but I already know it’s not Sean. No matter how much I want it to be. The silence from him has weight now, like he’s making himself heavier on purpose. Like if he stays quiet, the feelings can’t reach him.
The text is from my mom.
Mamá
?A qué hora vienes hoy?
I smile despite myself while I type back.
Emiliano
No voy, mamá. Voy a salir.
Mamá
?Salir a dónde?
I hesitate for a second, because my mother is a woman who treats information like a living thing she can hold in her hands and examine from every angle.
If I tell her the truth, she’ll ask a hundred questions.
If I lie, she’ll know.
So I go with the cleanest version.
Emiliano
A California. Un par de días.
Her response is immediate.
Mamá
?California? ?Por qué?
?Estás bien?
There it is, the real question she wanted to ask.
I wish I could say I’m fine. That I’m also not. That I’m going to fight for something that might not want to be fought for.
Emiliano
Estoy bien. Es un… asunto.
My mom doesn’t like vague answers. She raised me. I know her moves. She’s going to press.
Mamá
Te vas a cuidar.
Y vas a comer.
?Me oíste, mijo?
I exhale a laugh under my breath.
She knows, maybe not the details, but mi mamá knows this is something important. She knows I don’t cross the country unless something matters.
Emiliano
Sí, mamá. Te lo juro.
Mamá
Reza antes de dormir.
Y llámame cuando llegues.
I stare at that line longer than I mean to.
My faith isn’t something I’m at war with. It never was. My family taught me about God with warmth. With food, candles, and prayers said over scraped knees. But I know what faith is to Sean. I know what it can become when it’s used to make people live within certain expectations.
Emiliano
Sí. Te llamo cuando llegue.
Then, because I’m a good son and also because I need grounding, I do it. I pick up the rosary on my nightstand and wrap it around my fingers once, not praying for forgiveness, not praying for punishment.
Just… steadiness. Courage and maybe a little patience.
Because I’m going to need it.
I sent a quick email to our staff contact, the one who handles travel and availability even on off days.
Nothing dramatic, just personal travel on an off day. Available by phone.
I’m professional. The team expects you to be polished, even when you’re human.
Then I stare at Sean’s contact again.
O’MALLEY.
My thumb hovers over the message icon.
I could give him a heads-up, a quick, “Hey, I’m coming to SJ.”
But he’d bolt. He’d lock every door. He’d tell himself I’m crazy and that he should hate me for it.
So I don’t.
I know it’s a risk. I know he might hate me for showing up instead of asking. But if I ask, I know he’ll choose fear before he ever gets a chance to choose me.
My phone buzzes again, but it’s a different notification.
The flight.
My boarding pass and gate number.
Alright, let’s do this. Let’s go convince a man who’s worried a kiss is gonna get him Sparta-kicked into the fires of Mordor that he is, in fact, allowed to love whoever the fuck he wants.
The airport is all fluorescent lights and people pretending they aren’t stressed.
I move through it like I move through a stadium: focused, aware, scanning.
I keep my head down with my hat low. I sit at my gate with my legs stretched out and my bag at my feet, and I finally let myself think.
Not about sex or how the chain link felt between our fingers.
Not about the way Sean moaned my name like it hurt.
I think about the attempted kiss and his recoil and the panic that flashed in his eyes, like tenderness is a trap. He’ll let me do everything but love him softly.
That’s the line, and I understand it more than he thinks I do.
People assume because I don’t care who knows I’m bi, it means I’ve never been scared.
To me, that just means they don’t understand fear. Fear isn’t always about the world. Sometimes it’s about your own family’s eyes. Sometimes it’s about the version of yourself you were taught to be.
Sometimes it’s about the idea that if you choose wrong, God will turn His face away.
The thing is, I don’t believe God turns His face away from anyone.
Sean does.
Or he thinks he has to, and I’m not going to let him drown in that alone if I can help it.
I take out my phone and open our thread again. His last message sits there like a bruise.
Sean
The next time I talk to you will be at the game.
My mouth tilts.
Stubborn.
I type something and delete it.
He wants to talk at the game. How about we talk in his apartment, in his city, in the place where he can’t hide behind rivalry?
I’m done letting us only exist where it’s convenient.
On the flight, I don’t sleep. Not for lack of effort. I close my eyes and try, but my brain keeps running scenarios like it’s studying hitters.
What if he yells?
Fine. I can take yelling.
What if he tries to deflect with sex?
That’s the one that makes my pulse race, because sex with Sean is easy. It’s violent and feeds the part of us that’s hungry for each other.
But I don’t want easy anymore.
I want real.
If he tries to pull me into bed to avoid the conversation, I need to be strong enough to stop him and say, “Let’s talk first.”
What do I want out of this?
That answer is obvious: I want him.
Not only when one of us loses, not in secret corners.
Not in a dugout with his face pressed to chain-link like he’s being punished.
I want him standing in front of me, eyes open, mouth honest. I want him to let me kiss him without flinching and to stop treating me like regret.
But I also know I can’t force someone out of fear.
I can only show him there’s another way.
That love doesn’t have to hurt and that faith doesn’t have to mean suffering.
That being wanted isn’t something you have to earn with pain.
My phone buzzes.
A text from my mom.
Mamá
Ya comiste?
I huff a laugh quietly, draw a few looks from the woman across the aisle.
Emiliano
Voy a comer cuando llegue.
She sends a prayer hands emoji and a heart, like she’s blessing me through the screen. I pocket my phone and stare out the window. The clouds look like something holy.
Or maybe I’m just tired.
San Jose is hotter than the devil's ass crack. Different air with no humidity, just dry, melt-your-face-off heat. I grab my bag and walk through the terminal like I’ve been here before.
I have, just never for this purpose. It doesn’t matter, though; cities are all the same when you’re doing something that terrifies you.
I Uber to the team housing complex that looks too clean, too perfect, like the kind of place built for athletes who aren’t supposed to have problems. I get out, tip the driver, and look up at the building.
Okay.
This is the part where a normal person would hesitate and ask himself, “Hey, are we maybe crossing a line and considering that breaking into someone’s apartment is a misdemeanor…?"
I’m already across the line, so fuck it.
I walk in like I belong because confidence is half the battle. If you move like you have permission, most people assume you do. I flash the front desk attendant a polite smile and lean against the counter.
“Afternoon, so I don’t know why I’m spacing so bad, but Sean O’Malley is on floor three, right?”
She smiles back and looks over at the computer screen. “Close. He’s on four. 5-B.”
“Damn, the flight really got me good. Guess almost seven hours traveling back in time will do that to you.” I smirk, and she laughs.
“Oh, for sure!”
I knock my fist against the granite, give her a nod, and head toward the elevator. Once the doors close, I hit “4.” The ride is short and too loud in my head.
My heart is steady, but my hands are warm, fingers flexing on the strap of my bag. When the doors open, I step into the hall and find Sean’s door.
I stand there for a second because I’m imagining him behind it.
Imagining his face when he sees me.
Anger first.
Panic second.
Then that thing in his eyes when he wants something he doesn’t think he’s allowed to want.
I pull my phone out and check the time. His practice should be ending soon.
Good.
I take a breath, reach into my pocket, pull out the lockpick set, and slide it into the lock.
After a few careful turns, the knob gives. I twist it, and the door swings open.
“Dammit, Sean.” I step inside and close it behind me quietly. “Fucking get a better lock and lock the damn deadbolt.”
Something we’ll have to talk about later.
Sean’s apartment smells of laundry detergent and the faintest trace of something citrusy.
It’s clean enough to be functional, but not decorated with care.
It’s a place a man lives when he’s always somewhere else.
I set my bag down by the couch and look around.
There’s a baseball glove on the counter like it was dropped there without thought.
A hoodie is thrown over a chair, and there’s a bowl of keys and a rosary on the coffee table.
That stops me because seeing it here, in his space, makes it feel real.
His faith isn’t a concept.
It’s a weight he carries into every room.
I sit on the couch, elbows on my knees, and wait as the calm part of me settles in. The pitcher part, the part that knows timing matters. Sean will come home full of adrenaline, sweat, and defensiveness.
He’ll try to bark first, trying to push me back across the line I crossed.
I’ll let him.
Then I’ll tell him the truth.
No more disappearing.
No more shame.
No more running from kisses like they’re eternal damnation.
The doorknob rattles, and the sound of him shifting his weight has me leaning back in the chair. Then the lock turns, and I straighten slightly, my heartbeat finally kicking once, hard.
The door swings open, and my six-foot sweaty rival steps inside.
“Took you long enough, Cobre. Now we can really talk.”