43. JACKSON #2
“Dominguez is a great skipper, all-around great guy. He’ll be behind you every step of the way if you come out. He was not happy I waited so long to tell him about the shit going on in the locker room.”
I wince. That I was a part of.
“You know…” Stone says thoughtfully. “Maybe this is kinda perfect. You already know there are two queer guys on the team. And Paulie’s a staunch ally—”
“Three,” I murmur.
Stone pauses. “Three?” I see the moment it clicks, and he grins. “Ah, fuck. I forgot about Trent. Still can’t believe he’s messing around with a clubby.”
“A part of me doubts Turner gave him a choice. That dude has rebel written all over him.” Probably in ink somewhere amongst one of his many tattoos.
Stone snorts. “Yeah, that one’s forward as fuck. But there you go. Another queer man in the clubhouse. Is everyone going to be okay with it? No. But you have a support system right there with you in the locker room. Plus, the skipper shutting shit down.”
“I’m well aware of which guys won’t be okay with it.”
Stone lifts his brows in question.
“Being undercover as a bigot, uh, has its advantages.”
Stone’s eyes narrow. “I’d ask, but I think I’m better off not knowing. Will any cause you issues?”
“One is my current roommate.” I grimace.
“All three…?”
I shake my head. “No. The one I share a room with.”
“Woof. Henderson. Fuck.”
Yeah. He’s so not going to be okay sharing a room with me anymore.
Stone’s clearly on the same wavelength. “You should just move in with Frankie.”
I squeak. I fucking squeak. I clear my throat and say gruffly, “A bit soon. Don’t you think?”
A shit-eating grin flashes at me, but he otherwise ignores my embarrassing slip.
“You practically live together already. You’re there more than you’re at your place.
Some people might think it’s moving fast, but in our line of work, time is so limited that even living together doesn’t mean the same thing that it does for most people.
We’re still working with fragments of time.
You’re away weeks at a time. Games almost every day, stealing your dinners and nights.
So, my advice? Stop thinking about what’s fast or what’s expected.
Think about what you want. And do that.”
I nod slowly. “You’re right. That definitely makes things a lot easier. Then it’s really just dealing with any locker room shit.”
“Exactly. This allows you to ease into it. It’s the perfect plan, really.
You come out to the team. You can easily go out on dates with Frankie and not worry.
Providence Clippers’ fans are the only ones you need to worry about recognizing you, but unless you’re fondling each other in public, I doubt you’d make headlines. ”
I chew on my cheek. It’s a good point. It would be pretty easy for us to exist freely without creating any waves. Even living together wouldn’t raise questions, considering three of my teammates already live there. But…
“Probably couldn’t hold his hand in public,” I say quietly. It’s still not what Frankie deserves.
“It adds risk,” Stone says matter-of-factly.
“It’s something Shane and I avoid right now.
More so for his benefit, and that was my decision.
We’d like to wait to officially come out until after he gets the call-up.
I’m honestly not sure how the team is going to handle teammates dating.
Inter-office relationships are always frowned upon.
But you better believe I have my family lawyers at the ready. ”
Something flashes across Stone’s eyes, something dark. He’s always been authoritative, a man who’s got his shit together, a born leader. We’re the same age, but it’s never felt that way.
This is the first time I’ve ever been a little afraid of the guy—and he’s looked like he’s wanted to punch me on more than one occasion.
But the look that just crossed his face? I forget how much power he holds as Jed Stone’s son. He’s so down to earth, but I have a feeling if anyone in this world threatens Shane, the man across from me would rip them apart piece by piece until nothing but a bloody mass was left.
Have you ever seen those police German Shepherds in work mode, where the decoy needs a full-on bite-suit to protect them? That’s what’s staring back at me right now.
“Is that not enough?” Stone asks. “I would think Frankie would be understanding.”
I think he would be. But it’s a slippery slope. For how long would we be discreet? When does discreet blur into hiding? Frankie’s a big personality. He’s loud and bright and colorful. I don’t want to do anything to dim that. It feels like I’m trying to dilute him so that we don’t draw attention.
“It’s not what I want.”
Stone sends me a disbelieving look.
I lift my hands. “I know, I know. I mean it, though. I’ve seen Maddox and Easton now that I know—I’ve seen them reach for each other and jerk back.
I don’t want that for Frankie.” I drop my head into my hands.
“And I don’t want the damn paranoia. The overanalyzing every move and touch.
I’m so fucking tired of it. I just want to live.
Other people do it. Walk down the street holding their boyfriend’s hand, kiss them in public, an arm around the waist, a hand at the back.
Those small touches, I want them. For Frankie and for me. ”
He takes out his phone and taps some keys.
“I’m sending you my agent’s number. I want you to call him.
I’ll give him a heads up. You’re going to need an agent and a plan.
You can have everything you listed, Olander.
You just need to be ready for it to come out.
And you need to be ready for the backlash.
The kind of person you pretended to be before this?
That type is a loud group and will make their thoughts on”—his jaw clenches, anger lighting up his dark eyes—“your lifestyle very clear. That will include fans.”
I nod unsteadily. I know there will be a lot of ugliness. Sports fans are diehard. If you’re not playing well, they’re not afraid to let you know. And opposing team fans? Forget about it. They strike with anything and everything they can.
As an outfielder, I’ve heard it all from the fans sitting in the bleachers—including things hurled at me about being queer.
They had no idea their words held any truth; it was just an insult, part of the sport’s cultural jargon.
They try to get into your head by threatening your masculinity.
Everyone knows the famous “you throw like a girl” line that was the absolute worst insult to get growing up. Our culture is toxic.
Fuck that.
Something steels over me. That feeling I get when I’m up to bat, staring down the barrel at the pitcher. Looking him dead in the eye, sending him a silent warning that I’m going to crush whatever he sends my way. I’ve got this. I can do this. I open my mouth to reaffirm it—
“Some people get violent,” Stone says quietly. “You’re a big guy. And Frankie’s not small himself…but we’ve already seen what can happen.”
My heart falls. And keeps falling.