Chapter 61
Chapter Sixty-One
Asher
The conversation stops the second we get into the clubhouse. This time there’s no mistaking that for anything other than what it is. By the time we were done with the on-camera proposal yesterday, most of the team had cleared out of the locker room. Maybe they missed the whole thing.
Not likely, judging from the stares that greet us. No one says anything.
I glance at Brayden. His shoulders have crept somewhere near his ears. He seemed lighter after he escorted his parents from the house, demanding their set of keys and telling them not to come back without an express invitation.
If he got that, I can get him here. Guys aren’t even bothering to pretend they’re not focused on us. No one’s playing cards or shooting the shit or blasting terrible club music at eleven a.m. Fine, they want us to start the conversation, we’ll start the conversation.
“Last night gonna be a problem?” I ask the room.
Brayden makes a noise in his throat as if he expected me to say something that wouldn’t start a fight.
Everyone else is muttering. I listen for whatever words they’re gonna fling at us. No one gets up. Easy to be brave when it’s not to someone’s face, I guess.
And I’m about to just dump my stuff at my stall, change, and go remind the team I can pick up and put down heavier weights than they can, when Coach comes in.
He’s in a pristine team-branded polo, a set of shorts so ironed they have a crease down the front.
Braided belt, boat shoes. Maybe he’s trying to be an image on the Wikipedia entry for straight guy.
“Gentlemen,” he says to us. His nostril curls the tiniest amount, like he can’t quite hide his distaste. “Are you here to collect your belongings?”
“No,” I say, “we’re here to play some baseball.” I tack on a belated sir.
“We indulged your shenanigans last night.”
“Is that what you call letting your two best hitters play?” Yesterday, Brayden and I went into Coach’s office before the game, not quite apologizing but contrite enough for him to let us play.
We’d swapped in our altered jerseys at the last minute.
By the time Coach noticed, we were already in the game and the damage had been done.
“But,” Coach continues as if he didn’t hear me, “the team has to make some difficult decisions about our playoff roster, son.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets as if he’s not the one making those decisions.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, ignoring how someone behind me snorts. “The front office supports you tanking the team’s chances in the postseason to prove a point?”
Next to me, Brayden’s face has gone thunderous, not the wild-eyed way he’d argue with me—arguing that I now know was flirting—but something sharp and pointed.
Around us, various team members are murmuring again.
I can barely hear them over the rush of blood in my ears.
This isn’t rage. It feels different, less like my body doesn’t belong to me and more like I’m preparing to stand my ground.
We promised Savannah we’d provide for her, so that’s what I’m going to make sure we can do.
Coach also doesn’t move. “The front office supports whatever decisions I need to make to ensure team cohesion.” But there’s something in his expression—some flicker, some twitch—that makes me think he hasn’t even thought that far.
“Bullshit.”
“Adler—”
“Yeah, so the names on our jerseys were pretty clear last night.”
“I’m not calling you by three names,” Coach says. He doesn’t say the word depravity, but I can hear it in his tone. How many other players in the room agree?
Someone clears their throat in the ensuing silence. Crawford, seated between McDonald and LeBlanc. “If Adler and Forsyth aren’t available, I’d be happy to play the outfield, sir,” he says.
It clicks. Crawford’s been stewing on this all season, waiting for his chance, not to fuck me over to just to fuck me over, but to get back his role starting in centerfield. “So it was you,” I spit, walking toward him.
Brayden’s hand clamps on my shoulder. “What did he do?”
“Ever wonder how the team found out about us?” I ask. “He was trying to get his old centerfield job back without, you know, actually putting in the time. Turns out some people will do anything but work hard.”
Brayden’s hand is still on my shoulder, restraining me from going over and showing Crawford exactly what I think of him. Slowly, he removes his hand, finger by finger.
I step toward Crawford, who flinches and actually attempts to hide. “Too cowardly to own screwing over your own teammate?”
“At least I’m not screwing my own teammate,” Crawford says with a sneer. He glances around if he expects the clubhouse to rally to his defense, then finally looks at Coach.
“Right,” Coach says, “Adler, Forsyth, whatever names you’re calling yourselves. You’re off the postseason roster. Now—”
“Hold on.” McDonald rises slowly from his chair.
“Don’t know about you gentlemen, but I play baseball because I want to win.
Forsyth and Adler give us the best chance to do that.
I don’t pretend to know the details of whatever the fuck they’re doing at home—” He holds out a hand.
“Nor do I want to know, really. But we’re a better team when they’re playing well, and if this is what makes them happy enough to play well, then who fucking cares about the rest of it? ”
“Now, Isaiah—” Coach begins.
“Maybe I was being unclear,” McDonald says, “but if you bench them, take me off the roster too.”
“Yeah,” LeBlanc says, “I don’t really care if they’re gay for their wife or whatever. They couldn’t be gayer than Adler’s tiny-ass shorts, anyway. So bench me too.”
A few more guys pipe up—the entire infield, our left fielder who was mostly content to let me catch all the difficult fly balls. A handful of pitchers. Not everyone. But enough. Enough.
Coach’s polo shirt develops a wrinkle. His entire body seems to deflate. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t a mutiny. “Gentlemen, this is supposed to be family-friendly entertainment—"
“And we’re a family,” Brayden says. “Maybe not one you recognize, but that doesn’t stop us from being one.
You told me to find a good woman. I did.
The best one. You said that it would give me a sense of normalcy.
I don’t really give a shit about normal anymore.
Now if we’re done here, can we play some fucking baseball? ”