52. FRANKIE #3
“That’s great, Jackson. It’s a huge start that your captain is an ally. The team will look up to him, so hopefully he can shut any hate and negativity down if needed. I do want to note: you don’t have to tell your teammates. If they see you with Frankie, they can find out that way.”
Jackson’s blue gaze meets mine. “All right. I’ll think on that.”
“Sounds good. If you want any advice on that end, I’m happy to give you my professional opinion. Just holler or shoot me a text or email. I’ll see you both after the game. I’d like for the three of us to chat briefly before we meet with PR.”
Jackson nods—which is extremely unhelpful.
I lean over. “Yes, we’ll see you then.”
A chuckle rings through the speakers, then cuts off.
“Oh! I almost forgot—Jackson, you obviously get comped tickets. There’s a reserved family section behind the dugout, and they also have a private suite.
I can’t make the game because I need to catch up on some of my other clients.
But if Frankie wants to attend, I made sure his name is already on your list.”
Jackson turns to me, eyes wide. My heart wilts at the panic flashing in his eyes.
“Can we get back to you on that one?” I say, eyes staying locked on Jackson.
“Of course. Your comps will be at will-call like always.”
“Thanks so much, Chuck,” I murmur.
“Anytime.”
I give Jackson a minute, but when he doesn’t go to say anything, I end the call.
Silence blankets the room.
“I want you to use my comped tickets, Frank,” he finally says quietly.
I stare at the ceiling. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah. And if anyone asks who you are, you introduce yourself as my boyfriend.”
I nod stiffly.
“I’m sorry I panicked.” His whisper coasts over my cheek.
His fingers graze my chin, and I accept the gentle request and look at him. I send him a sad shrug. I get it. I hate it. But I get it.
“I just feel out of sorts. I wish we had a concrete plan for how to handle this. Like if I told everyone first so it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. Any assholes would be warned to keep their mouths shut. I don’t want anyone to be rude to you.”
“Assholes will be assholes no matter what, Jackson. Regardless of who you love, regardless of the color of your skin, regardless of your gender. Those close to me have hurt me a million times worse than any foul words a stranger throws at me ever could. Don’t worry about me. I’m far from a fragile flower.”
He chuckles but it’s strained. “I’m worrying too much, aren’t I?”
“Mmhmm.” I chuck him under the chin. “I know it’s easier said than done, but you need to tune out the noise. The haters don’t matter. Your energy is precious. They don’t deserve even the smallest part of it. Now I, on the other hand, deserve all of it.”
That gets me a genuine smile. “Yeah, you definitely do. And you have it.”
I study him. There’s still a stiffness to his smile, a rigidness to his brow that doesn’t feel quite right. “Are you sure you’re all right, dolcezza?”
“I think so,” he says softly. “It’s just a lot to process. I know this is really good news. I think I got really lucky with Berkeley being a young, progressive team.”
“Definitely,” I murmur. I start trailing kisses down his jaw. “But it’s a lot. Being traded is stressful as it is, without these ridiculous hoops you have to jump through because you might be seen with”—I gasp theatrically—“a man.”
He slides a hand through my hair and tilts my head back, forcing me to look at him. He stares at me for a long time, his eyes skating over my features, trailing down my nose, tracing my cheeks and down my jaw.
“It is a lot,” he says roughly. His fingers are gentle and start circling lightly on my scalp.
“I know it’s important to have all this figured out with the team.
But I don’t think my heart will get out of my throat until we can figure us out.
You’re all the way across the country. When… when do you have to fly back?”
There’s so much dejection in the word, his voice so small. I hate to give him the answer I’m about to. “I fly back tomorrow. 8 a.m. flight.”
His features twist, and he drops his forehead to my chest. I press a hard kiss to the top of his head.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I wish I could have stayed longer. But I have an in-person client meeting on Wednesday, and I lose an entire day because of travel and time change.” I ruffle his soft hair.
“Come on. Let’s go brush our teeth and shower.
We have a little time before you need to leave for the clubhouse.
I think a nice, long, hot shower is exactly what we both need. ”
He nods with a sigh. I lead him into the bathroom and get the shower going.
We brush our teeth, putz around, and take care of business as the room fills with steam.
Then I slowly back into the shower, finger crooking for him to follow.
He steps up to me, chest to chest, arms wrapping around my back, mine around his shoulders as we maneuver until we’re under the shower stream.
And then we stand like that, water pouring over us, warmth soaking into our skin, and hold on.
To each other, to each second, to each breath.
Like if we’re both still, we can still time.
If only it worked that way.