Chapter Twenty-Five
Batting cages. The “big, gay date” Gannett planned for us is taking a trip to the batting cages on the outskirts of town.
The gesture really is thoughtful, I’ll give him that.
Coaching Terra’s t-ball team has re-awakened the love I used to have for baseball.
More than just an extra-curricular, the time I spent on the field was freedom.
Freedom from Marlin. Liberation from the ever-present feeling like I needed to protect my mother. Autonomy from feeling like I was forced to shed my childhood way too early.
The time I spent upon the pitcher’s mound was the closest I ever felt to having control of my life. I don’t know if Gannett truly knows just how much I appreciate him bringing this back to me today, but I’m touched that he took the day off to do it all the same.
The place is packed, I note, when he steers his truck into one of the parking spaces. “Huh,” he hums, “I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t be so fuckin’ busy here today.” He spins in his seat to face me. “Sorry…”
“For what? It’s fine,” I reassure him, hopping out. “I don’t mind the wait, and we’ve got all day off together.”
He smiles, and we find a place to sit. It takes a bit, but we finally get a turn. Surprisingly, for a former footballer, Gannett doesn’t do too shabby. I still outshine him, though, the swing of the bat too well-engrained into my muscle memory.
We’re having a helluva first official date.
Sure, we’ve gotten more than a few looks here.
I came here fully expecting that Gannett would act like an excited puppy, and I wasn’t wrong.
I’m not sure if it’s just me being spotted out in public in general, or me being spotted out in public laughing and hopelessly in love with Gannett Waters that’s catching more attention here, but whatever it is, I could give a shit less.
I don’t owe anyone here an explanation, after all.
Love is love, and I feel like I’m truly getting it for the first time.
“That was fun! We should go again,” Gannett chirps, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Sure.” I shrug. “We can grab an ice cream or something while we wait for another turn.”
He chuckles. “Sure. You and your damn treats. What do you want? I’ll go grab it while you find us a spot at one of those picnic tables.”
Despite just having breakfast not too long ago, I’ve still got room for a brownie sundae, so I place my order with him and go find us a place to sit.
All the cages are filled with batters trying to hit the balls being hurled at them by pitching machines.
There’s a din permeated with sounds of everything from tinging of metal bats, to the crack of wooden bats, and the whoops and cheers of onlookers.
At the end of the row, there’s an empty netted-off area, presumably there so someone could practice actual pitching.
In it is a teenaged boy who is there by himself, just taking practice swings.
I keep an eye on him, waiting to see if he has anyone to practice with him while Gannett and I finish our ice creams. No one comes.
The boy just practices swinging at nothing but air.
“Nice slice,” I call out to him, sauntering over to the netted barrier. My compliment takes him by surprise, jolting him out of whatever focus he had on the next upcoming imaginary pitch.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” he grunts, scratching at the nape of his neck nervously.
“Want someone to pitch for you?” I ask.
“Umm, sure?” the kid replies skeptically.
I toss a catcher's mitt over to Gannett and nod towards the plate. Gannett huffs, heading towards it, muttering something to himself about how he wasn’t meant to crouch behind the plate like Evan used to. I smirk and stuff another glove under my arm and grab a bucket of balls.
“You play for Ternbay High?” I ask the boy, swirling my arm around to limber up.
He nods. “Yeah. First baseman. Same position my dad used to play. Coach says I gotta work on my batting a little, though.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, well, you’ll be waiting forever if you want to get at one of those pitching machines, by the looks of it.”
“Been here all morning,” he mumbles, taking a step into the box and twirling the bat around, letting it come to rest on his shoulder. “I’m Easton, by the way. You any good at pitching?”
I shrug. “Might be a little rusty. Haven’t played since college.” I wind up and throw my first pitch. Before he has time to react, the ball hits its mark with a thump in Gannett’s glove. I grin. Just like riding a bike.
The kid rears back, narrowing his eyes at me. “Are you—Marlin Masterson Jr.?”
“Gordy,” I correct him. “That’s me.” I pluck another ball, tossing it into my glove.
His jaw drops. “Dude, I thought you looked familiar! Didn’t you almost get into the MLB?” He digs his cleats into the dirt and retakes his stance.
“Almost,” I agree, winding up and throwing the next ball with a little more power.
The ball cracks off the bat, sailing up and outwards.
Were it not for the net, that would have easily gone out of the park.
I barely have enough time to grab another ball out of the bucket before he’s back in a batter’s stance.
I toss four more pitches, even adding a curveball into the mix, and he connects with all of them.
Gannett’s eyes are wide with both relief and astonishment, likely thankful that his catching skills—or rather, lack thereof—are not being needed.
“Shit,” Easton hums, chuckling, “my dad is not going to believe this. He followed your career hardcore after high school. You’re like a hometown idol, man!”
“Thanks, but… I didn’t make it.” I throw a changeup, but it doesn’t deceive the kid. He slams the baseball well into the net behind me.
“Still,” he muses, a huge grin on his face. “I’m swinging against the friggin’ legend I looked up to most of my life.”
My chest puffs with pride. Despite getting cut short, I never thought my career was anything trackable—much less admired—by others. Gannett winks at me and offers me a thumbs up from behind the plate, a giant grin splitting his face. Damn, I love that man—goofiness and all.
Best. Dude date. Ever.
Another solid fastball from me, another stellar hit from Easton.
Christ, this kid is good, and he’s got the reflexes of a cat.
Not sure why his coach thought he needed to work on his batting.
I may not be pitching at the same caliber as what I used to, but this sure as hell tops anything he’s seeing on the field at the high school level.
I’d offer him tips on how to correct his swing, but honestly?
Easton doesn’t appear to need my help at all…
“Who’s your dad?” I ask the kid.
“Me,” a voice says from behind, and I spin. “Sorry I’m late,” the man says to Easton.
“Oh, shit,” I hiss, my jaw dropping. Weston Dunphy.
The guy I convinced to hit on Evan so I could get blackmail material on him.
Seriously, of all the fuckin’ people to run into out here today, it had to be Weston?
I’ve done my absolute best, over the years, to actively avoid any of my former classmates, because the last thing I need are reminders of the vile shit I pulled back then.
“Well, well,” Weston hums. “Never thought I’d run into you again. Got the other Waters behind the plate now too, I see. Need me to try to kiss that one for you as well? Hold up, hold up. Let me get my camera out,” he adds, digging into his back pocket.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean, kissing the other Waters?” Gannett snarls, standing and stomping over to us.
He tosses the glove away and sidesteps me, getting right in Weston’s face.
“Shit, aren’t you that guy that played first base on my brother’s team back in high school?
What the fuck do you mean, ‘let me get my camera out’? ”
Fuuuuck, no. This can’t be happening right now. Anxiety ripples within me, seizing my lungs. I back away, nearly tripping over my own feet, blackness tunnelling my vision.
Weston snorts. “Gordy paid me to hit on your brother. Wanted me to play kiss-cam with him for blackmail material so he’d stop playing ball,” he tells Gannett. “Can’t believe he’s all chummy here with you.” Weston faces me. “I thought you didn’t friggin’ like Evan ‘cuz he was a fa—”
“Don’t you fuckin’ say it,” Gannett growls. “Finish that word, call my brother that, and I’ll deck you right here in front of your son.”
Weston raises his hands defensively. “Whoa, hey, guess someone is a little protective…”
“Well, fuck yeah, I’m protective! Evan’s my brother! He’s gay; I’m bi; other members of my family are on the rainbow. I don’t take kindly to you throwing that word out there like that. It’s fuckin’ offensive, man. Set a better example for your kid!”
Gannett’s head whips around to look for Easton, but lands on me instead.
“Gordy!” he gasps, reaching for me just before my ass hits the ground.
I can’t breathe. I can’t—fuck, I just… can’t anything.
I’m locked, frozen as pure panic—like ice cold water—laps its way up my body.
He kneels before me, cupping my cheeks. “Look at me. Look at me! Breathe, babe…”
“Babe?!” Weston yelps, his voice cutting through the din of my pulse hammering my ear drums. “What the actual fuck, Gordy?! You—you… but all that shit you said about Evan!”
Gannett spins on his heels, levelling Weston with a glare. “He had his fuckin’ reasons, Weston! He feels guilty enough about it, and you’re not helping, goddamn it!”
Gannett’s fury is catching everyone’s attention now, adding to the mix of anxiety flooding me—suffocating me—and making me feel as if I’m drowning on dry land. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t stay afloat.
“I can’t believe this shit. What a fuckin’ hypocrite. Come on, Easton,” Weston spits, before coaxing his son out of the cage. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
“But Dad,” Easton huffs. “I want his autograph or something…”
“Why?” Weston practically whines.