10. JACKSON
TEN
JACKSON
The building is eerily quiet as I walk down the hall that leads to the skipper’s office. Dominguez is almost always here. He lives and breathes this team. I almost called him yesterday, but since he barely gives himself a break as it is, I didn’t want to disturb him.
I wasn’t in a state to speak with anyone then, anyway. My suitemates thought I just drank too much with how many times I ran to the bathroom to throw up. I wasn’t hungover. That was just my insides punishing me.
This is all my fault. I know I can’t make it better, but I can’t sit here and do nothing. I want to see Frankie, to apologize. I doubt I’ll be allowed anywhere near him after two nights ago. Nebiolo and his crew had murder in their eyes.
God, I shouldn’t have shoved him away. I should have shoved him behind me.
I know what kind of man Dev is. His type is the reason kids have to change schools.
I guarantee Dev is the guy who shoved kids into lockers, who made targets of kids who couldn’t do anything to protect themselves.
I know because I stood silently while the Devs of the world surrounded me and did those things.
Coward.
Complicit.
I didn’t speak up then.
I’m not making that mistake again.
I halt outside Coach’s door. Sure enough, he’s sitting behind his desk. He’s sifting through paperwork, phone held to his ear by his shoulder, nodding. He scribbles something down.
“No, we’re not waiting until after tonight’s game.
I want this handled immediately. Life is full of distractions.
If they can’t handle this and playing ball they don’t deserve to be on my fucking team.
Tell Holly to start her interviews as soon as is convenient for her.
We’ll accommodate HR.” He slams the phone down and blows out a breath. “Cono.”
I clear my throat, and his attention snaps to me.
His eyes narrow.
I swallow. “Got a minute, Skip?”
“Yes… Take a seat, Olander.”
I close the door behind me and sit in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. And stare at the mess of papers on his desk. Silence blankets us. I drum my fingers on my thighs. “Busy morning?” My eyes slide shut at how croaky my voice came out.
“Cut the shit, Olander. Out with it.”
I suck in a deep breath and meet him head on. “I’d like to file a complaint about a teammate.”
He plants his elbows on his desk, completely uncaring of the papers, and clasps his hands. “I’m listening.”
“Um. So, Devereux has created a…hostile…environment in the locker room. He has said hateful things directly to Stone about his sexual orientation. And, um, he and I have made insensitive remarks on more than one occasion.”
“Are you telling me your complaint includes yourself?”
“I haven’t actually reached what I’d like to report. But I haven’t conducted myself the way I should and want that noted.”
“Okay…” He studies me over his hands. “Why don’t we get to what you want to report, and we can come back to that part?”
I draw in a steadying breath. “The night after our game on Sunday, the team went out. There was an incident…Devereux attacked Nebiolo’s brother.”
His expression doesn’t change. No surprise. No anger. No reaction. “You witnessed this?”
I shift. “Yes. I had to physically restrain Dev. Otherwise—” My voice cracks, and I look away, a wave of emotion swallowing me. I breathe slowly, try to bring myself back under control.
“Do you know what caused Devereux to attack Nebiolo’s brother?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Jackson?” Dominguez’s voice is soft.
I lift my gaze to his, throat closing over. “It’s all my fault, Coach.”
My fingers dig into my thighs, and my eyes slam shut, breath trapped in my traitorous lungs. They won’t let me have it.
“Easy, mijo. Mírame.”
I force my eyes open. I’ve heard Skip say that enough times to know it means I’m supposed to look at him.
“Respira,” he instructs, his dark eyes soft. “One step at a time.”
My shirt sticks to my back, sweat clinging like a moist breath to my skin. But I somehow draw in a shaky breath.
“Eso es. Good, Jackson.” He waits patiently for me to gather myself. “Now, take your time. When you’re ready, I’m here.”
His assurance does nothing to unclog my throat.
There’s too much understanding, too much…
care? Is that what’s reflecting back at me?
But instead of fear and shame, something else is restricting my airflow.
What does it mean when my coach looks at me with more affection than my parents ever have? The crack in my chest fractures wider.
I swallow hard and do my best to push past it.
“I was in the back hall of the bar.” My words are so thick they’re barely intelligible.
“I went back there with Nebiolo’s brother.
W-willingly. There was no coercion. I-I was the one who—” My voice breaks, the panic roaring back, coating my insides, expanding and strengthening to the point I’m sure it’ll be the end of me.
I drop my head into my hands as I desperately try to bring myself back under control.
My heart thunders in my chest, like someone’s taking a bat to my sternum over and over.
When I finally feel like I can breathe again, I look back at Dominguez.
“?Está bien?”
I nod. “Yeah. Sorry.”
He shakes his head. “No need to apologize. Now, I need you to clarify something for me. You said you went with Nebiolo’s brother willingly. You were the one who…what?”
I freeze. I-I can’t say it.
Dominguez rubs his chin, those dark eyes assessing. “You and Devereux are close.”
I shake my head violently.
He arches a brow. “Were close.”
My attention falls. We weren’t, though. But I’m not sure how to explain that. That I’m so good at playing this part that I can appear to be best friends with someone I loathe.
“Did he know you were taking Frankie back there?” The question is soft, but what’s implied in it has my pulse spiking. “I need to know how you were going to end that sentence. You were the one who…”
He’s asking me if I arranged for this. Set the whole thing up.
I shake my head, my breaths coming short and choppy. “No. No. Dev had no idea. I went down that hall, hoping to God no one would find us.” I brace myself, but I can’t stop the tremors jolting through my frame. “I-I was the one who kissed Frankie.”
Skip leans forward, eyes locked on mine. “Keep breathing, mijo. You’re safe here, okay? That was exactly what I needed to know.”
He gives me some time to collect myself, then quietly speaks again. “Do you think you can tell me what happened with Devereux?”
I draw in a shuddering breath. “He-he caught us. And I panicked.” My chest tightens, and it all comes rushing back.
Frankie’s laughter. Dev’s glare. The crack.
Then silence. Deafening silence. “I shoved Frankie away,” I whisper.
“And I knew…I knew what it made Dev think. I know what kind of man Dev is. It was all the ammunition he needed.”
Skip watched me for a moment, eyes searching. “What happened next?”
“He swung at Frankie, dropping him to the floor.” I wipe my shaking, clammy hands on my jeans.
“Out c-cold. And Dev tried to go after him even then. I-I finally got to Dev at that point and held him back. That was when Nebiolo, Stone, and Winters showed up.” A bead of sweat drips down my temple. “I was able to drag Dev from the bar.”
Dominguez’s gaze flicks to my cheek. “And how did you get that? That’s fresh.”
My fingers tighten on my leg to avoid touching the scrape on my face. “I might have gotten into it with Dev on the sidewalk after.”
Skip’s jaw sets, and he curses under his breath. “I can’t have my players brawling with each other, Olander. No matter how warranted it may seem. Violence is not the answer. If that fight hadn’t been minor, it could have made all this a hell of a lot more complicated.”
He pauses, his scowl melting away. “You did the right thing coming to me, though. Telling me what you did. I know that wasn’t easy.
” His voice gentles. “And thank you. All these details are incredibly important for us to have. They stay between us and HR.” His eyebrows lift meaningfully. “We will handle Devereaux.”
“Okay.” I mouth it, but the word doesn’t actually surface.
“Now to the locker room… You mentioned both you and Devereux. What’s been going on there?”
“Um.” I clear my throat and lick my dry lips.
I think at this point I’ve sweated out every bit of moisture in my body.
“Both Dev and I have made homophobic jokes. On multiple occasions. Or said insensitive and hateful things. And Dev has openly dropped slurs. He’s directed them toward Nebiolo’s brother and Stone. ”
And I guess at me too, but I don’t have the courage to list that one. Nor do I think I deserve any sympathy after how I’ve conducted myself.
Dominguez blows out a breath, and the disappointment in his gaze has me shrinking in my chair.
“That’s not acceptable. Not here. Not from anyone on my team or in my clubhouse.
” He studies me. “If I hear you’re contributing to that kind of environment again, there will be consequences. Suspension. You understand me?”
I nod jerkily. “Yes, I understand.”
“Now, I’ve already been made aware of the situation. The locker room and the assault that left Nebiolo’s brother in the hospital with a concussion and broken cheek—”
My sharp gasp slices through the room, my body curling over at the gut punch that information just left me with. Concussion. Broken cheek. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. My stomach revolts; his words fist it, squeeze. Twist. I think I’m going to be sick. What have I done?
“Respira,” Dominguez barks out.
I snap straight, immediately taking a breath, my body automatically responding to the tone he uses when we’re doing drills.
“He is going to be all right, Jackson.” There’s an unwavering confidence in Skip’s voice, and I latch onto it. I desperately need someone to tell me this is all going to be okay.
“Interestingly enough, you’re the only person to report you. Therefore, I don’t think any further action needs to be taken on your behalf. At least not punitive.”
I blink slowly. At least not punitive…?
“We have a great mental health clinician, Jackson. We have these resources for a reason. This was an extremely traumatic event. They’re here if you need them.” He watches me, those eyes seeing every part of me I’ve kept hidden my entire life. “For any reason.”
A sting, sharp and immediate, hits me behind the eyes, and I blink rapidly. My brain’s first reaction is to shout, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Deny, deny, deny. Even though the elephant has been in the room during this entire conversation and thoroughly discussed.
“I’m here too,” he says quietly. “Baseball has a long way to go. A very long fucking way. But the Jetties and all their farm teams aren’t waiting for the rest of the league to catch up.”
I bite my cheek until a metallic tang hits my tongue.
“My door is always open. You are always welcome here, mijo.” The emphasis he put on here makes me pretty certain he means more than just his office.
I glare at my hands, knuckles white from how hard I’m clutching my thighs, desperately trying to keep my tears at bay.
You are always welcome here.
The words repeat on a loop in my brain, like it can’t seem to make sense of them. Skip spoke them in English, but my mind keeps tripping over them anyway—like he said them in Spanish instead and I missed half the meaning.
You are always welcome here.
Not in my house. Not in my hometown.
Not anywhere
Those words have never belonged to me.