9. Emiliano
NINE
EMILIANO
New York doesn’t let you breathe. It’ll turn your life into a story whether you asked for it or not.
As soon as I step off the plane in Queens, it’s like the city recognizes me by my gait.
By my shoulders. By the way, I move, always aware of my body, because pitchers are built out of routine and restraint.
Even in sweats and a plain hat, I’m still me.
And being me comes with attention.
That’s the cost of being the Mets ace.
The airport is loud with rolling suitcases, couples arguing about directions, and kids crying because they’re tired. I keep my head down, bag slung over my shoulder, and phone in hand.
Sean’s last message sits at the top of my screen like a flare.
Sean
I want to tell my family.
Soon.
Would you maybe do it with me?
Emiliano
When do we go see them?
My chest tightens in a way that’s almost painful because that’s not just a normal text. That’s a man taking a step out of his own fear and trying to live. That’s a man asking for help instead of disappearing.
Sean
Easter. I think. If I can do it then.
The word “if” sits there like a bruise, and I exhale slowly, not because I’m annoyed but because I know him. I know what he does when he starts to feel too much. He gives himself an exit.
So I respond.
Emiliano
Okay. Easter. We’ll do it together.
And then, because I’m greedy and honest and I want to anchor this before doubt can chew it up, I add:
Emiliano
I’m so proud of you.
I stare at the screen like I’m waiting for him to flinch through the phone. He doesn’t respond, which is fine. Mostly.
Leaving the terminal, the air outside hits me, cold and sharp in that New York way. The sky is gray, the streets are wet from a morning rain, and the city smells like exhaust and coffee and possibility.
This is home.
The Mets facility is waiting for me, with training schedules and practice. And somewhere in California, an Irish Catholic man with a mouth that is my absolute kryptonite is trying to figure out how to live his life out loud.
I get into my car and pull out of the airport.
My phone buzzes again, and it looks like a number from the team, so I answer because that’s what you do when you’re a professional athlete and your life is run by people who think they manage your life.
“Guerrero,” I say.
“Hi, Emiliano, it’s Marcy,” a voice says, bright and cheery. “From PR.”
My jaw tightens automatically. “What’s up?”
There’s a pause, the kind that means someone is about to make something sound casual when it’s not.
“So,” she says lightly, “um… quick question. Did you happen to travel to San Jose on your off day?”
I don’t flinch. “Yes.”
Another pause. “And it was for a personal matter?”
“Yes.”
More silence.
Then she tries again, keeping up the politeness, but I can hear the strain in her voice. “We’ve gotten a couple of inquiries,” she says. “Nothing major. Just… a few people might have seen you and have been asking questions.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “Seen where?”
Her breath hitches. “At a restaurant with someone.”
Ah.
New York doesn’t do small stories, and this isn’t even a story yet, but it’s circulating. I can practically see it: some bored fan, some staff member, or some person who recognized my face snapped a photo of us, sent it to a group chat, and now it’s a whisper.
Mets ace in SJ.
Why?
With whom?
I exhale slowly. “Okay.”
Marcy waits for me to sound nervous.
I don’t.
She continues, “It’s nothing right now, but you know how it is. People like to talk.”
That they fucking do.
“Do you want me to deny it?” I ask calmly. “Say it wasn’t me.”
“No,” she says quickly, because PR people hate a denial that becomes a headline. “No, we don’t need to do anything unless it turns into… something.”
I can hear her choosing her words carefully.
Unless it turns into something.
Meaning, unless it turns into a you story.
Unless it turns into a “Why were you there?” story.
I keep my tone even. “Then we won’t do anything.”
Marcy exhales like she’s relieved and also still worried. “Just… be mindful.”
I almost laugh. Be mindful, as if I don’t live my entire life under a microscope. As if being mindful would’ve stopped me from flying to Sean.
“Sure thing,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Thanks,” she replies, and the call ends. I drive the rest of the way to my apartment in a quiet that feels heavier now.
I’m not afraid of rumors but I know Sean will be.
Sean is going to see a tweet, or a headline, or some grainy photo, and his chest is going to seize. He’s going to think, “This is it. This is the moment my family finds out and my life explodes.”
And then he’s going to run.
Unless I remind him he doesn’t have to face it alone.
Parking in my spot, I get out and take the elevator upstairs.
As soon as my door closes, I drop my bag by the couch and take a long breath.
I should eat something. My mom would kill me if she knew it’s been six hours since I last ate.
I open the fridge, stare at the containers, and finally heat one of the meal preps up.
While the microwave runs, I check my phone.
Notifications from social media fill my screen. New York fans are like sharks; they smell anything remotely interesting and circle.
Opening the app, I see it’s not huge. We’re not even trending, so that makes me feel a little better. Just a post from some random baseball account with a blurry photo and a caption that makes my eyes narrow.
“Mets ace Emiliano Guerrero spotted in San Jose on off day ”
Comments are already doing what comments do.
“Maybe he’s training.”
“Is he injured? Fuck, we can’t lose him right now.”
“My guy is just laying some pipe. Getting ready to give us the next generation of Guerrero players.”
“Is he being poached by the Coyotes?”
“Maybe he’s—”
I close the app before I can read more because none of it matters. Except for the fact that Sean will see it and it will matter to him. My phone buzzes, like the universe agrees.
Sean
You okay?
Of course he asks me that; he’s still scared, but he’s thinking about me anyway.
Emiliano
I’m good. Just got home and heating up some food.
My question is are you okay?
Sean
I think so.
I’m just… overthinking.
I lean back against the counter, phone in my hand, typing with the same calm I use on the mound when the bases are loaded.
Emiliano
You’re allowed to overthink.
I just don’t want you doing anything irrational.
He replies almost instantly.
Sean
I saw something on Instagram.
My jaw tightens because I can only imagine the shit people are saying. While I may have seen posts that don’t really care, his algorithm might be different.
Emiliano
Send it to me.
A screenshot appears.
There’s a blurry photo of him and me. The caption: “Why tf is the Mets ace sharing a booth with the Coyotes LF?” Then the endless speculative comments.
Even seeing it makes me want to hunt down whoever posted it and ask them why they don’t have hobbies.
Sean’s next text comes fast.
Sean
Is this gonna be a big thing?
Are we gonna be a big thing?
I stare at the questions and try to decide how to answer because the honest answer is “it could be”; we could be.
It depends on what the world decides it wants. New York is hungry, and baseball is big. Not to mention, people love drama. They love a good story. They love to put men in boxes and then shake the box until something breaks.
But also I’m tired of pretending I’m supposed to be afraid of a truth that makes me happy. So I type the only thing that matters.
Emiliano
Only if we let it be. I’m not ashamed of you.
His typing bubble appears and disappears like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to accept that.
Sean
I didn’t say you were.
I can hear his voice in my head, defensive and sharp.
Emiliano
You didn’t have to.
I can feel it in the way you’re panicking.
There’s a long pause before the next message hits.
Sean
I don’t want to ruin your career.
My chest tightens because that’s love. It’s fear and devotion twisted into worry.
Emiliano
You’re not going to ruin anything.
My career is my arm and the number of wins I bring the team.
You are my life outside of that.
I sent it before I could overthink what I just wrote. There’s a pause long enough that I can imagine him staring at the words like they might explode.
Sean
Jesus.
I grin.
Emiliano
Sí. Him too.
Sean
I’m scared my mom’s gonna cry.
Like… the sad kind.
The ache hits my chest again because I’ve never known that feeling. My family has never made me feel bad about who I choose to love.
Emiliano
Maybe she cries because she loves you so much and just wants you to be happy.
And if it is the sad kind… let her cry.
You’re not responsible for her happiness.
Another pause.
Sean
I just want them to love me for me. To be happy that I feel safe enough to tell them that this is me, and this is who I am choosing to be with.
I know this is totally going to ruin there “Sean will have a bunch of baseball-playing kids” dream.
Emiliano
You can still have a bunch of baseball playing kids.
Adoption is a thing you know. And surrogacy.
Sean
Do you want kids someday?
I set the phone down and eat two bites of food before responding, and while I’m typing to Sean, my mom texts, as if she subconsciously knows I’m talking about hypothetical children.
Emiliano
Gimme a sec, my mom’s texting me. But short answer… yes I want children.
Lots of them.
Mamá
Ya llegaste?
Llámame.
Okay, guess I’m calling. I wipe my mouth and hit her contact because I’m a good son and also because I need to hear her voice before I do the thing I’m about to do.
“Hola, mamá,” I say.
“?Mijo!” Her voice brightens instantly. “?Llegaste bien?”
“Sí, mamá,” I say. “Todo bien.”
“?Comiste?” she demands immediately.
I laugh. “Sí.”
“?De verdad?”
“Yes, really,” I say, switching to English because she knows I’m lying when I get too smooth in Spanish.
She huffs. “Bueno. ?Y por qué fuiste a California?”
Here we go.
I could avoid the subject and keep my life in separate boxes like so many men do. But Sean is about to bring me into his family’s box. The least I can do is give him the same.
So I breathe.
“Mamá,” I say carefully, “I met someone.”
Silence.
Then her voice softens. “?Una muchacha?”
I smile to myself. “No,” I say. “Not a girl.”
More silence, longer this time, and my heart doesn’t race. My hands don’t shake. Because I’ve done this before, just not really with someone I care about this much.
Finally, she says, quietly, “?Un hombre?”
“Yes,” I answer.
Then, very softly, she says, “?él te trata bien?”
My throat tightens.
“Sí,” I say, my voice coming out rough. “He’s… he’s not out, so he’s nervous, but he’s good to me.”
My mom hums, a sound like a prayer.
“Entonces,” she says, “trátalo con carino.”
I close my eyes.
“Siempre,” I promise.
“And bring him,” my mother adds, like she’s deciding it right now. “Quiero conocerlo.”
I laugh, not in the least bit stunned. “Mamá—”
“?Qué?” she says, offended. “Si tú lo quieres, yo quiero verlo.”
My chest feels too full.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’ll talk with him and get it figured out.”
When we hang up, I sit there for a moment with my phone in my hand, staring at the ceiling. And I think about Sean and how his fear wants to eat him alive. About how different our families are and how similar our faith is.
How he thinks love has to hurt to be holy—and that’s when the idea hits me.
I open our text thread again.
Emiliano
Okay hear me out. You guys will be in NYC this weekend playing the Yankees.
Three dots appear immediately.
Sean
Okay…
Emiliano
Come meet my family while you’re here. I’ll fly out the next day for Texas, but we can have that evening together.
Let it be practice for telling your family the following weekend.
He doesn’t respond right away, and I can imagine him panicking.
It’s a lot, so I soften it just a little.
Emiliano
We’ll tell my mom and sisters you’re my boyfriend.
And if you freak out, I’ll feed you and “distract” you.
Sean
You want me to meet your family.
And tell them I’m you’re boyfriend.
Am I your boyfriend?
I smirk.
Emiliano
Yes I want you to meet my family.
Yes, I want to tell them you’re my boyfriend.
Why? You don’t want to be?
You’re it for me, Cobre.
The typing bubble appears.
Stops.
Starts again.
Sean
Okay, boyfriend.
I’ll come.
Emiliano
Yeah you will.
Sean
OMG. Not that kind of come, Mili.
Emiliano
Definitely that kind of come.
I love that you just called me Mili.
My breath leaves me in one slow exhale.
Emiliano
You’re going to see what it feels like when love doesn’t punish you, baby.