24. CHAPTER 24
And me? I played the best baseball of my life. A weight had been lifted off my shoulders, and my swing felt effortless. I was locked in.
That success continued through the first two games of the state playoffs and most of the third.
It was the top of the seventh, and we were up by four in the semifinals. I bounced on my toes at second base, beating the pocket of my glove, my heart thudding like a drumline. We were three outs from the biggest game of our lives.
We went through the pre-inning motions—infield throwing crisp, ball zipping back to Maddux. He snapped at the ball with his glove and gave me a quick wave, calling me to the mound.
I jogged over, scanning the field. We didn’t need to talk. What was this?
“What’s up?” I said into my glove. I couldn’t risk the opposing team reading my lips.
“Check out the blonde behind the first-base dugout.”
I looked at who he was talking about and saw a boy our age with a hat on, staring at me and Maddux.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Would you bang him?”
“Dude. Not the time.” I took a step back, already turning toward second. “Three outs left.”
I jogged back to my position, shaking my head. Silas and Maddux hadn’t kept their word about not making gay jokes. Instead, they’d embraced them, continuously asking me if I thought certain guys were hot. They had tried to set me up with no less than a dozen guys since I’d written my article.
Honestly, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. This was their way of showing they didn’t care at all.
Maddux breezed through the inning, striking out two and getting a lazy fly ball to our center fielder.
We were on to the state finals with a 5-1 win.
After we celebrated, Coach pulled me aside and told me a reporter wanted to talk to me.
Having gone three for four with three doubles, I wasn’t completely surprised.
I followed him behind the third-base dugout, where players for the next game streamed by us.
In the distance, my teammates loaded onto the bus.
My family stood a couple of feet away in the stands; I flashed a quick smile and turned to the man sticking out his hand.
“Great game today, Tanner,” he said. He had salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that looked like they noticed everything. Pepper Carr—I’d read his stuff since I was old enough to know what batting averages meant.
“Thanks, sir,” I said.
“Your coach tells me you set a goal as a fourteen-year-old to win a state title with this team. Can we elaborate?”
I smiled, knowing there wasn’t a question I could answer more easily.
“Well, the four seniors decided we wanted to prove we were capable of being the best our town has ever seen. We decided we were going to work out together every morning, and then more and more people came. That’s all it was—we showed up every morning ready to work. ”
“That’s a high level of dedication to keep up for four years.”
“That’s what it takes at this level. That’s why Maddux and Silas were so dominant today. They’ve worked for this seven-game stretch for years.”
Pepper nodded thoughtfully, then shifted his notepad, and I felt a twitch in my stomach. “Now, if I could, I’d like to get more personal.”
“Okay,” I said slowly.
“Some fans were telling me about an article you wrote for the school paper. About yourself. Can we elaborate on that?” He had avoided mentioning the topic of my article outright, but I could tell he knew what it was about.
“I’d prefer not to talk about that,” I said. My jaw tightened. My hands curled into fists. I swayed in place, eager to leave but not wanting to be rude.
“Our paper would love to run your story, if you were open—”
“That’s enough, Pepper.” Coach Berrios’s voice cut clean through the air as he stepped between us. “Get on the bus, Tanner.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I couldn’t hear what was said, but, from the volume of Coach’s voice, I was glad I wasn’t Pepper. I nearly sprinted to the bus, happy to let the chirping of a victorious team hide my turmoil.
We got home before the sun went down. My parents had invited Ricky and Easton to dinner and were making spaghetti for all of us.
While it cooked, we wandered down to the cage.
Gavin was already there, cracking balls off the tee with the quick, coiled swing of his.
Easton took his spot at the bucket, feeding Gavin balls one by one.
Zach and I stretched out in the grass, the sun still warm on our backs.
Ricky sprawled out nearby with a book in his face, the same one he’d been reading on the bus ride.
I stared up at the sky, my fingers fidgeting with a rough patch on my chin. I pressed into a zit just for something to do as Easton gave Gavin a pointer on his swing.
“Why would he ask me that?” I muttered, picking at the zit. “I don’t get it.”
“He was out of line for sure,” Zach said.
“I just want to play baseball. We’re one win away from a state title, and all that asshole wants to know is if he can print my story.”
“Definitely bullshit,” Zach said.
There was a soft thwap as Ricky bent the corner of a page and closed his book. “I think you should let them print it,” he said.
“Shut it, Ricky,” I said.
“I’m serious.” He didn’t flinch. “It’s important.”
“It’s not. I wrote it for me, okay? Just…to get the weight off.”
Ricky sat up, hugging his knees, his eyes steady. “That’s exactly why the story matters. How long did it take you to come out?”
“Not relevant.”
“It is.” He waved a hand at the yard—my family, the cage, the house. “You said it in the article. Not everybody has this.”
I let his words consume me. “So what? That doesn’t mean it’ll help anyone.”
“You don’t know that.” Ricky leaned forward, voice low but sure.
“Some kid—twelve, thirteen, whatever—reading the paper before school. Maybe he’s stuck in the middle of nowhere with no one to talk to.
Then he sees someone like him hit three doubles in a state semifinal and didn’t hide from being gay. That could change something.”
I looked over at Easton. He wasn’t facing us, but his hands had stilled in the bucket. The silence was its own signal.
“I wrote that just for me.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t be for someone else, too,” Ricky said, opening his book again like the conversation was done.
“I’ll think about it after the game on Monday,” I said. “Not before.”
Ricky gave a little nod without looking up.
I caught the title on the front of his book, printed in bold white letters: Going the Other Way.
“What are you reading, Ricky?”
He held it up. “It’s about the first former MLB player to come out. Billy Bean. Not the one you’re thinking about who works for the A’s. He’s gone now, but he worked for the league for years. Figured it might help me understand what you’re dealing with.”
I picked up a bunch of grass and threw it at his face. “Thanks, Ricky.”
He smiled, brushing it off like it was nothing. He was wrong.