5. JACKSON
FIVE
JACKSON
I push through the players’ entrance of the clubhouse. I come in early when we have night games to get in a quick strength training workout, then head home and rest before I head back to the complex for pre-game practice and meetings.
It’s not easy to balance strength training when the season’s in full swing. I have to make sure I don’t overtax my muscles and end up with fatigue during a game—but I also can’t afford to have any muscle loss. I can’t scale walls like Spider-Man if my muscles atrophy.
I bite back my smile, and my heart vibrates in my chest.
Last night was…huge. It was both the best night of my life and the worst. The guy I haven’t been able to get out of my head for over a year bought me a drink and then spent the entire night with his leg pressed against mine.
That’s the closest I’ve ever been to a guy.
I finally felt like I fit in my skin. That small contact—I can still feel it.
But now I don’t know how I keep doing this.
How do I stay away, stay alone, until my baseball career is over?
It’s barely even started; I haven’t even made it to the big leagues yet.
I thought I could do it: achieve my major league dreams, then when that part of my life is over, the other part can start.
My shoulders sag as I walk into the weight room. I’m so fucking tired of being alone. I’m tired of my only human contact being women dancing on me and kissing me so that no one guesses who I really am. Fake. Disingenuous. Is it too much to ask to just want someone to hold me?
My gut seizes. Men don’t get held. Men do the holding.
I avert my gaze. From what? My upbringing. The thoughts in my head. Sometimes I feel like I’m two people. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I am both the bigot and the gay man.
I settle on one of the black mats and start my stretches.
I could probably find a discreet guy, no names, no faces kind of deal, but that’s not me.
I’m not down for random hookups. I’ve put everything off for so long that now…
I don’t want it to be just one night. I can’t.
I want someone who would be willing to go slow while I gained my footing.
I’ve never even kissed a man. I don’t know what I like and don’t like.
What if I freak out and bolt? I snort. What if I freak?
There’s no if there. I’ve built that moment up so much in my mind, there’s no way I don’t have a panic attack when the day comes.
I’ve had sex once—once—and it was that awful night when I was fifteen and couldn’t handle my dad’s comments any longer.
I got through it, and I think I hid it well from Hannah, but it was one of the most painful nights of my life.
Fortunately, she had no qualms about it being a one-and-done deal.
Probably because it was pretty fucking horrible for all involved.
Since then, nothing. Just kissing random women at a bar if I have to.
I’m a twenty-six-year-old virgin in pretty much every way that counts when it comes to being a gay man. I honestly think I’d be happy if I could just have last night for the next fifteen years. Just a foot pressed against mine, the heat of a leg burning into me. A subtle reminder of connection.
It’s dangerous to want this. If word got out…
My skin prickles with sweat, and I have to force my lungs to keep pulling in air.
All those things Dev says, all the things so many of our teammates agree with him on, would be directed at me.
I don’t know how Stone does it. Maybe because the guys keep quiet when he’s around, but I know what they say about him when he’s not within hearing distance.
I wanted this: to be one of them so they wouldn’t learn who I really am. There’s a steep price for that, though. I’m constantly subject to their hate. A continuous, slow drip of venom bleeding into my soul.
It’s ironic. Baseball was my escape growing up, my outlet where I poured all of myself so I could get through discovering I was a gay kid in a family and a town where that was not a possibility.
Now the game I love is a cage all on its own.
It’s one I’ve been happy in for a long, long time, and when I step out on that field every game, I’m reminded of why.
I pick up a pair of dumbbells.
Thrill.
I squat, then push into an overhead press.
Adrenaline.
Again.
Pushing myself to my limits.
Sweat builds on my forehead.
Winning.
Another rep.
Recognition of my talent, talent I work fucking hard for. Talent that I have regardless of my sexual orientation but would be overshadowed if the truth ever came out.
I love the game. And baseball loves me back. When I step out into center field, spotlights beaming down on me, everything else melts away. No anxiety. No fear. Just me and my trusty, worn leather glove, partners in crime. Robbing runs. Stealing wins.
I belong.
After my third set, I drop my weights to the mat and bend over, chest heaving.
My phone rings, and the screen lights up, Dad staring back at me from the floor.
I swipe it and press answer. “Hey, Dad.”
“Jackson. You working out? Good man. Don’t lose those gains we worked so hard for over the winter.”
My father is also my trainer. Sports are his life, and once he had sons interested in them, it was like he got to relive his time as an athlete through us. And now that Jacob isn’t playing any longer, I’m blessed with all of Dad’s attention. It’s not…horrible, I guess. He is a good trainer.
“Yeah. Getting in my quick morning session.”
“Don’t go too heavy on the weights. Can’t have you risking injury.”
“I know, Dad. I’m following your program to a T.” I focus on high intensity, lower weight sessions in-season.
“You’re an Olander, though. We’re overachievers, and I know how addicting it is to lift heavy. But right now is about maintenance.”
“I’m keeping the weights light. Speaking of, I need to do my burpees.”
“You just do squats with overheads?”
“Yup.”
“Put me on the floor. I’ll wait the ninety seconds.” No surprise, he has my routines memorized. He could list out my entire workout by heart, but ask him my favorite food? What I like to do outside of baseball? Guarantee he’d come up blank.
I switch over to my timer and then place my phone on the ground. My lungs are straining and my quads are burning when the timer dings. I grab my phone and slowly pace as I catch my breath.
“Mom, Jacob, and I are planning a visit,” Dad says before I can say a word. “After your next round of away games. We’ll make sure we’re there for a Monday so we can grab lunch on your off day too.”
“Sounds good.” Sounds a little bit like torture, but I’ll get through it. At least Jake will be there. Keeps a little of the attention off me.
“Will you be…bringing anyone?”
I heave a sigh. “You think I have time to date? Where do you think I’d pull all this extra time out of to find a girlfriend, Dad?”
He chuckles. “You’re a Triple-A player on his way to The Show; you don’t find a girlfriend, Jackson, they find you.
Trust me, I understand the allure of taking home anyone you want.
I’m sure the cleat chasers are all over you.
But there’s something to be said for having a woman to come home to.
I don’t want you distracted by things like cooking and laundry.
She can handle the housekeeping so you can let all your focus be on baseball.
Plus, the regular relief any time you need it would be beneficial to your game. ”
I somehow hold back my groan. “I need to do more burpees.”
I don’t wait for a response, place my phone on the mat, and reset the timer.
I would literally do burpees for ten minutes straight if that meant I could end this phone call.
My dad is old school. Marriage means stability, a man of “good standing”, and of course a model of heterosexual masculinity.
Nothing makes a man more than proof of virility.
I push hard, frustration burning through my veins and fueling every explosion upward.
I don’t know if it’s paranoia or if my dad has always suspected something, but it’s always a fucking interrogation with him.
It’s why I like dragging Dev along when they visit.
Dev always regales Dad with our nights out and the girls “we” hook up with.
I’m not good at making it up and bragging when Dev’s not around.
The timer dings, and I snatch up the phone. “Still. There?” I manage to struggle out between pants.
“Yeah. I won’t bother you much longer, though. Great game last night. That catch was fantastic and a product of what you’re doing right now. I knew this training program would be exactly what you needed. Pops always knows best.”
Bile coats my tongue.
“Keep it up. I watched your at bats back and there are some things I think you should tweak, so I sent you over my notes. Take a look at them before tonight’s game.”
“Will do, Dad.”
“Keep your eye on the prize, Jackson. You’re the real deal. I couldn’t be more proud of you.”
I swallow hard. Hearing that used to be everything to me growing up. But I learned pretty early on that the praise was conditional.
“Thanks, Dad.”
So is the love.