Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
Brayden
“Where’s Asher?” The first thing I say when I storm into Coach’s office just before our game. Asher isn’t at the ballpark—hasn’t been for the past four games. He also isn’t answering his texts. I told him not to come after me and maybe he’d taken that to mean that we were—
I don’t want to even think the word done.
Coach looks up from a pile of scouting reports. “I believe you mean, Good afternoon, sir.”
No, I really don’t. “Where is he?” I’m shouting, possibly loud enough to be heard in the clubhouse.
Everyone will know there’s a problem. That’s fine—I’m done pretending when there isn’t.
How many times did I come in hungover and no one cared until I made the team look bad?
I won’t let them sweep what they’re doing to Asher under a similar rug.
“Adler made a decision he’s living with the consequences of.” Coach raises an eyebrow. “I suggest you not do the same.”
“So you benched him?”
“I advised him that the team comes first—a conversation I believe you and I had earlier this season. Besides, I would think you would know that, given that you seem…closer in recent days.”
So Coach knows about Asher and me. Of course he knows. Someone snitched or a photo leaked or… Now he’s looking at me, lip curled in distaste that someone queer has the audacity to stand before him.
Queer. That part of me I’d avoided for so long: that I spent years drowning in whiskey and whatever else. The part of me that wanted to be loved and didn’t know what that meant until Savannah and Asher showed me.
I square my shoulders, stare Coach directly in the eye. “You wanna bench Asher?” I say. “Then you can bench me too, sir.”
“Don’t make threats you can’t carry through.” He says it evenly, but his voice is hard.
“Watch me.” And I march out of his office, back to the dressing area.
Don’t think. Just peel off my jersey, toss it on the laundry pile.
My uniform socks and pants go next. I pull on my street clothes.
In them, I’m someone else, not the son Brad and Barb trained me to be, the perfect ballplayer—at least on the field.
Not the little brother who Blake had to bail out of trouble so many times he left.
I thought it was because he was sick of dealing with me.
Now I know it’s because he couldn’t stand the thought of watching me destroy myself.
I’m still those men, but that’s not only who I am anymore.
Maybe I could be someone else, someone worthy of Asher and Savannah.
I pull off the black silicone ring I usually wear during games.
Put on the metal one—platinum—that used to be heavy on my hand.
Today, it feels like something else. A promise. A vow.
LeBlanc spots that I’m out of uniform and does a double-take. “Where’re you going, Forsyth? Game’s about to start.”
I shove my wallet and my keys in my pocket, pick up my phone and hope that the plan I’m formulating has any chance of working. “You’re gonna have to play this one without me.”
“We’re already a man down—no idea what’s up with Adler.”
I could shrug or deny I know anything about it.
I don’t care what Adler does. What I would have said when he first got here, and I just wanted to keep him away from Savannah.
What I would have done a month ago as a way of denying that there was anything between him and me beyond what happened on the field.
“That’s what I’m going to find out.” Part one of it, anyway. I wait to make sure I have LeBlanc’s full attention, then add, “We’re kind of a package deal.”
“Huh.” LeBlanc seems entirely unsurprised. Catchers really do know everything that happens in a clubhouse. I brace myself for a flinch or a sneering remark or whatever else is coming my way.
“Well,” LeBlanc says, after a minute, “what’re you waiting for?”
That’s all the encouragement I need. I walk out of the clubhouse, not as a ballplayer or Brad and Barb’s son or even Blake’s brother. Just a man who’s got his priorities in order for once. Because I know what I’m walking away from is far less important than what I’m running toward.