Chapter Five Alex
T HE NEW C ITADEL Ballpark, home of the New England Riders, dominated my view as I drove down the fresh pavement leading to it.
They repurposed the old stadium in Boston after completing the Citadel.
A colossal wall of navy blue jutted high into the air, capped by a ring of bronze-colored metal, splashed with endless repeats of the sponsor, Citadel Bank.
A wide, wide parking lot surrounded the stadium, nearly full on account of the game.
Lexington, Massachusetts was not the largest of towns, but a surplus of land at a good price caught the eye of the Riders owners.
Less than four years later, Lexington had become the hub for New England baseball, a fitting location given the mascot and theme of the team.
I hadn’t been to a ball game in years. Years .
The last game I attended was in my youth at the old stadium in Boston.
It was a charity game for sick children.
I was nine, bald-headed but excited, and had only barely begun to scratch the surface of seeing beneath the veneer of happiness my parents presented.
I remembered them quietly arguing after the opening pitch and thinking that it was odd they were arguing so much, especially when my treatment had been going so well.
Devin had come to my rescue, as always, and pulled my focus away from them and started spitting Riders facts to distract me.
That was a lifetime ago, almost like another person in another body. I had pierced my ears as a reminder that I was in control of my “new” body. That I had taken back power. Disease would never ravage me again.
I had the wherewithal, despite my baseball ignorance, to know the game with the Riders’ primary rival, the Brooklyn Brawlers, would be a full one.
Even at half-past six, I would have to hurry and find parking before first pitch at seven.
Not to mention finding my way through security and to the level for suites…
But, true to his word, Rome had taken care of me.
Earlier in the day, he shot me a series of texts with explicit instructions on where to go once I reached the stadium.
With only a half hour until the game started, I found the closest parking spot and whipped out my phone.
I had been googling things in the morning to understand the general routine of players before the game and knew that Rome had likely stowed his phone away to mentally prep. Regardless, I shot him a text anyway.
Me: Buona fortuna. Hit a homer for me, slugger.
Me: Buona fortuna. Have a great game!
Me: Buona fortuna!
The text flipped to Read the moment I hit Send but no dots appeared on his side of the thread.
I took no offense and, in fact, delighted in seeing that he read it.
He had to focus on getting ready—I didn’t expect a reply, anyway.
Not that I had one, but I didn’t need my inner diva to burst onto the scene and demand instant communication when we hadn’t even reached the level of “friends” yet.
Yet. As if that was where this were headed. I knew Rome had his sights set on beyond just friends.
I jogged through the parking lot as the minutes ticked down to the first pitch.
Despite my lack of sleep the previous evening, my well-trained feet carried me swiftly between the cars.
I had stayed on the phone with my brother for nearly two hours, rehashing old issues from two weeks ago after Ricky hit me.
Devin walked me through possible scenarios and outcomes, that regardless of what reasons Ricky came up with, intentional or not, his actions were totally inexcusable.
Our almost three-year history went down the drain the moment he aggressively put hands on me.
Not that the moment his fist connected with my skull marked the beginning of the end.
That had come six months before. The impetus stayed burned in my memory: staring at his keyring while he was out of the room, contemplating secretly taking my key back so he couldn’t get into my apartment.
I should have recognized then that the moment came from fear.
Now here I was, racing my runner’s heart out to watch yet another professional athlete who took a liking to me.
Different kind of athlete , I told myself as I entered the courtyard entry, a space anchored by an obelisk at the center capped with two, massive LED lanterns simulating candleflames.
Ricky was an athlete in that he participated in a sport, true, but that sport was MMA.
Kicking the shit out of someone rang a little different from throwing a ball to someone wearing a glove.
That’s how Devin characterized it, at least. Yes, I told him about Rome, about where I thought things could go, where they were. He helped me understand that sometimes oversimplification helped one gain clarity. Strip everything down to its base parts to see the components for what they are.
Ricky was always aggressive. I never saw it. He hit me. Goodbye, Ricky.
And yet. Our first year together was hallmarked by endless, endless physical affection with long nights and short days.
He showered me with everything he had. I watched every fight in person if I could, from home when I couldn’t.
He rose through the ranks and habitually went to Vegas.
But, like many gay professional athletes, Ricky lived his life in the closet.
When we were seen together, it was in a cluster of people so as to remain hidden under the guise of “one of the boys.” Any time I mentioned him coming out, I saw a spark of something sinister ignite in his eyes, something fueled by shame.
I should have known. Should have seen alllll the signs the universe presented me.
I took the stairs two at a time after sliding through security.
A great corridor would lead me to the varying levels of outdoor seating, but a sign grabbed my attention and told me to head down a different direction where a second set of security waited.
I presented my name and photo ID to a large man in black, who checked a tablet and waved me through.
A bank of three elevators, the middlemost ready and waiting, brought me up to a carpeted and wonderfully air-conditioned hallway.
Another security guard waited outside the elevator and personally escorted me down the hall to a double door that he pulled open for me.
I feel like a celebrity , I thought as I stepped inside a wide but shallow room brimming with food-covered surfaces and a bar (and bartender!) wedged in the corner with luxury, leather seating filling all the gaps.
One wall was entirely glass overlooking the view above first base.
A smattering of people stood around, but the majority were outside in the private seating area.
I pulled out my phone and grabbed a quick pic before anyone would notice.
This felt like a once-in-a-lifetime thing, this level of luxury.
I also checked the time on my phone—minutes to spare.
I grabbed a beer from the bartender and gave her a tip.
“You must be Alex,” someone said behind me as I finished stuffing the bill into a glass jar.
I spun around and became, for only a second, utterly confused. I thought Rome was here with me and not down in the clubhouse getting ready. But no, this man was a head shorter than Rome, with longer dark hair he kept swept back, and bright blue eyes instead of ocean deep like Rome’s.
“I’m Joe,” the man said and held out his hand. “Rome’s cousin.”
“Nice to meet you, Joe. Wow, you guys look a lot alike.”
His smile was the same as Rome’s. Cleft chin and all. “That we do. Rome told me to find you here and take care of you.”
My heart palpitated at Rome’s thoughtfulness. “Well that’s awfully nice of both of you. Do you usually come to his games?”
Joe nodded. He gestured for us to walk toward the glass wall overlooking the outside seats. “I’m a contract advisor for his agent. I try and hang around as much as possible.”
I turned out my lower lip in appreciation. “He likes to keep things in the family, I take it?”
“Rome is a Moretti treasure. We all do our part to keep him safe.”
He gave me an odd look when he said that. An assessment. A keeper-of-secrets divining potentials for a kindred spirit. I wanted to say, “You mean to keep his secret?” but the retort would serve us nothing. Instead, I said, “So I take it you can help me understand the game?”
Whatever shrewd assessment he had exacted on me vanished, replaced with a mocking joviality. “Absolutely. Now, in baseball, there’s a batter, a pitcher, a catcher…”
I laughed. “Got it. This is the one with no high-sticking, right?”
He snapped. “Bingo. All right. Here we go. Tell me if I’m overkilling it with all the details.”
He did, but I didn’t. I needed to dive into the waters of baseball if I wanted to get to know and understand Rome.
The Brawlers scored three hits during the top of the first. I watched Rome react to a sharp line to centerfield from the first batter, an angry looking fella named Perez.
Rome got a replay on the jumbotron while chasing after the ball and throwing it back.
He had to dive to retrieve it and I saw him cross himself when he popped back up.
I wanted to ask Joe what that was all about but found the question awkwardly invasive to ask.
The Riders scored no hits at the bottom of the first. I delighted in listening to Rome’s walk-up song and stepped out into the private seating area to hear everyone chant, “ Ro-mo! ” and listen to the synced clapping to the song.
Unfortunately, his first hit flew high to the center fielder, who caught it for an out.
“Does he get sick of that song?” I asked Joe when Rome finished batting.
“Never. People try and play it for him all the time outside of the game but he refuses to hear it. He says he only ever wants it played when he walks up to bat. That way, it stays special.”