2. CHAPTER 2
Before changing for practice, we hit for a few more rounds—ball after ball off the screen, with only my favorite sound of aluminum on cowhide.
Easton hardly spoke—just stepped in, launched line drives, and adjusted his grip like he was editing a masterpiece. His eyes never left the ball.
And, yeah…the fact he wore nothing but a pair of swim trunks as he swung didn’t exactly help me stay focused.
He stopped swinging when he saw us. He’d been the baseball coach for over a decade, had a build like mine—a little too skinny—and might’ve been Mexican or Puerto Rican. You could guess all you wanted, but he’d say the opposite and call you an idiot. I quit asking a while ago.
“You must be Easton,” he said, extending his hand to introduce himself. “I’m Coach Berrios. Nice to put a face to a voice.”
“You guys usually get here early?” Easton asked.
Silas and Maddux were at first base, talking between themselves.
While their baseball skills were similar, their builds couldn’t be more different.
Silas stood a head taller than Maddux and, somehow, already had a receding hairline at eighteen, in contrast to Maddux, who had a full head of ginger hair.
They looked as sturdy as brick houses, however, and I’d never seen either of them back down from a fight.
“Sometimes. Silas let a ground ball between his legs in the state playoffs a week ago, so he’s been begging me for more reps.”
“My kind of team,” Easton said.
It was the same thing as at the house—he acted like he was already a part of us. Way too fast for me, but, apparently, he was like Gavin: full steam ahead at all times, no brakes, like a runner ignoring a stop sign and trying to score from second base to tie a game.
“Do you guys need to get loose? What position do you play?” Coach asked.
“No, we’ve been hitting,” I said, “and he seems to think that he’s taking my spot next year.” I glanced at Easton. He looked as embarrassed to hear his words out loud as I felt saying them.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, then. Easton, go to short; Tanner, head to second with Zach.” Baptism by fire. Classic Coach Berrios.
Practice ran as usual. Except I kept getting distracted, trying to watch how Easton performed.
He was nearly as good as he thought—the way he talked to himself after every ground ball; the way he shook out his glove before every ball in play; how smooth he was at fielding everything, the glove an extension of his hand.
At one point, I threw a ball to the wrong base, a mistake I hadn’t made in years. Silas called me out for not paying attention. He was the only player who could (or would) do that, but he was right. I needed to focus.
Somehow, I managed to get through practice—though just barely. I had my rule for a reason.
But afterward, I still offered to give Easton a ride home.
It was the least a teammate could do, right?
When we got into the car, Zach told him I’d pick him up in the morning so he wouldn’t have to walk.
Then the two of them decided it made no sense to add an extra stop at 7 a.m. and that Easton should spend the night.
Not that I was complaining, even if I felt like I should.
We swung by Easton’s house to pick up a change of clothes before we got back to the house. Zach and Easton debated engines and horsepower or whatever. I stared out the window and counted how many cars had Cardinals bumper stickers, trying to distract myself.
I had a pretty good idea of how it would go if I came out to my friends. I’d be a distraction. No matter how well I played, that’s all they’d see. I’d no longer be Tanner—I’d be relegated to the gay teammate.
By the time we pulled into our driveway, splashing sounds were already coming from the backyard, meaning Gavin was home. We followed Gavin’s laugh to the pool. It was a sound that never failed to make me smile—not that I’d tell him that.
Mom flipped through an insurance magazine, still obsessed after fifteen years in the business.
Dad had the Cardinals game on the radio, like always.
He worked in engineering and made good money.
He’d coached us through Little League before handing us off once travel ball started.
He said that was when the real coaches took over.
They grew up just outside Columbia, Missouri, and wanted us to as well. They loved the area, and I agreed with their choice.
When we got to the porch, Dad turned down the radio and stood from his chair, wincing slightly as his knees straightened. “You must be Easton,” he said, extending a hand.
“Yes, sir,” Easton said, shaking Dad’s hand.
“Gavin told us there was a new baseball player hanging around here today. Where did you move from?”
“Originally from Ashland. My grandparents are from here, though, and I’m staying with them right now,” Easton said. He smiled, but it flickered as he glanced away.
Mom piped in, “You made quite an impression on Gavin this afternoon.”
“He’s a cool little dude,” Easton said.
“Well, as long as Gavin likes you,” she said, “you’re invited here anytime.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Quinn.”
“I told him he could spend the night,” Zach said.
“We’re on summer rules now. As long as you guys are asleep by one, we don’t care who spends the night.” She turned away, signaling she was done with the conversation.
“What position do you play?” Dad asked, turning to his favorite topic.
“He says he’s playing shortstop next year,” I said.
Easton blushed, popping his dimples. “You’re never letting that go, huh?”
“I’m making sure you know I’m up for the challenge,” I said.
“Competition is always good,” Dad said. “Loser can play second base.”
“That’s the only open spot for me,” Zach whined.
“Beat one of these two out,” Dad said.
Footsteps pounded the deck; I looked over at Gavin’s dripping wet body. “Easton, are you coming in again?” he said, his teeth chattering.
“Hi, Gavin, nice to see you, too,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I know I’m only your brother and everything.”
“Gonna shower first, if that’s okay,” Easton said. “Zach, can you show me where it’s at?”
Zach led him into the house, and I stayed on the porch, wishing I could switch places with Zach.
Dad and I talked baseball until Zach and Easton came back twenty minutes later. Easton wore a pair of American flag swimming trunks that looked a year (or two) old. I glanced away when I realized how long I’d been staring at the red, white, and blue.
Zach coughed out a laugh before jumping into the pool.
I cleaned myself up and joined the other three. The sun set in the distance beyond the row of pine trees behind our property, the heat less brutal than it had been during the afternoon. The smell of chlorine was now mixed with that of the coffee sitting next to Mom.
After an hour of swimming, my parents went to sleep, reminding everyone when to go to bed for the seventeenth time.
We headed to the basement, and I glanced around. Dad and my uncle had redone the entire bottom level last year—we had a pool table, an unstocked island bar, and it was the best place in the world for movies every Sunday with the family.
“This is awesome,” Easton said, eyes wide.
I nudged his shoulder. “You like it?”
“I love it.”
Gavin turned the TV on to a West Coast baseball game and hopped onto the couch. Easton walked over to the pool table and picked up a stick as Zach and I joined him. With a mock scowl, I snatched the stick from Easton. “Hands off Billy.”
“You named your pool stick Billy?” Easton said.
“You have an issue with my affection for an inanimate object?” The SAT prep work was affecting my vocabulary.
Easton raised an eyebrow. “I’m actually deeply disturbed. Not sure I can be around you anymore.”
“I bet you two don’t leave each other’s side for the next year,” Zach said. “Let’s play cutthroat.”
“What’s cutthroat?” Easton asked.
I brushed Zach’s comment aside as I explained to Easton how to play a three-player version of pool. Easton struck the cue ball first. Even at pool, his motions were smooth. That described him best—smooth. Every movement was fluid; there was no hesitation in anything he did.
By the time Zach checked out to go watch baseball, Gavin snored on the couch.
“Want to keep playing?” Easton asked.
Did I want to spend time alone with him? “Sure. Rack them.”
While we finished our seventh game (Easton won four, that asshole), Zach had woken up Gavin, and the two of them had gone upstairs to bed. Zach had given Easton the option to crash in his room or on the couch whenever we were done.
“Want to play again?” Finishing the series down a game drove me crazy; I had every intention of beating him in the next two games.
“I’m done for tonight,” Easton said.
“We could play something else?” I asked. I wanted as much time as possible to get to know everything about Easton. He was new and exciting, and every movement he made teased me differently.
“Do you have any video games?” Easton asked.
“We have a PS4. My favorite system, though, is my N64.” I’d bought it at a yard sale when I was ten, and I enjoyed playing it more than any of the newer systems.
“You have an N64? Please tell me you’ve got Mario Kart.”
I grinned, powering it on. The opening screen bloomed across the projector. “Only game worth playing.”
“Dibs on Mario,” Easton said. Mario had always been my go-to, but I kept my mouth shut and picked Luigi.
Silence lingered as we started the first race. I felt Easton next to me as I moved my fingers on the controller, fighting the impulse to look at him or say something dumb. The air conditioner kicked on, humming like it knew we needed more noise.
“You thinking about college yet?” Easton asked.
“A little,” I said. “I want to play baseball somewhere, but I haven’t gotten any offers yet.”
“I’m sure somebody will want you. You’ve got a nice arm for a second baseman,” Easton said.
“Too bad I’ll have to use it at shortstop next year,” I said, shooting a red shell at the back of Easton’s kart.
“No way,” Easton said.