Chapter 16 - Brooks
Reckless Decisions and Damning Consequences
Nothing compares to playing in your home stadium. I’m one of the lucky ones who gets to play for the team in the city I was born and raised in. You can’t beat the weather, the vibes, the overall ambience San Diego gives.
We had season tickets to the Rays games growing up. My earliest memories are here in this stadium, scarfing down dollar hot dogs and a half gallon of soda while Jade wore giant headphones to protect her ears from the roar of the crowd, and Mom and Dad cheered on their favorite players.
My eyes never left the catcher, though. Watching him call the plays and hold power in his position by having a vantage point of the entire field. Like he was a maestro leading an orchestra.
Dad always said it was my calling to be a catcher.
I was meant to be low in the dirt, reading the field, seeing the whole game play out in front of me.
There’s a rhythm back there, a kind of control most people don’t notice.
Everyone watches the pitcher, but it’s the catcher who sets the tempo, who keeps the game moving.
I love the grind of it—the bruises, the sore knees, the dirt caked on my gear.
It’s not pretty, but it’s real. And I get to be the anchor, the one the team leans on without even realizing it.
Some guys chase the spotlight. I’m fine in the shadows, calling the shots from behind the plate. That’s where I belong.
Then I look out at the mound and see the man I can’t take my mind—or eyes—off of these days. The sun beats down on us, beads of sweat falling down my temple under my mask. Will stands tall in the distance, shuffling the ball between his fingers as he uses his shoulder to swipe at his forehead.
We’re up by three against Philadelphia, and Will has been playing fucking solid. Say what you want about the man, but over a decade in the league and he still plays as if he’s fresh out of high school. Will Sinclair is a goddamn machine.
Philadelphia’s Deacon Fraser steps up to the plate, tapping his cleats against the dirt with that cocky little routine he always does. On paper, he’s average. Hits the ball about two times out of every ten at-bats this season. Not terrible, but nowhere near the slugger he thinks he is.
Crouching low behind home plate, I give Will a signal. I didn’t win the all-star rookie award three years ago for nothing. I study these guys and know them like the back of my hand. If only Fraser could see the smirk from beneath my mask.
Fraser can’t resist swinging when a pitch is high and tight near his chest. The numbers don’t lie. Nearly a third of the time he’ll chase that ball even when he shouldn’t.
“You got this, Sin,” I mutter under my breath, flashing for a fastball that’ll fuck over Fraser. As Will gets into position, I flash him my own signal, biting back a grin.
Fastball, up and in. I want your dick.
Stoic as ever, Will pulls down the bill of his cap, digging his cleats into the dirt. He takes a deep breath before his lips slowly tilt into the sexiest smirk.
That one’s for me.
He winds up, and within a second, the ball hits my mitt with a loud pop.
Strike.
The noise of the crowd falls away, and it’s just me and Will on the field, eyes locked on each other like nothing else matters. I could be in the middle of a sand storm and I’d still find him. My heart flutters with these emotions, but I shake it off since I’m in the middle of a fucking game.
I flash another signal.
Pitch.
Pop.
Strike.
Rinse and repeat. Will strikes out Fraser and the crowd goes wild.
“Fuck yeah, Sin! Let’s go, baby!” I shout as I jog up to the mound.
Clapping his shoulder, he brings his mitt to cover his mouth and leans in my ear. “You’re gonna pay for that fucking signal, War,” he rasps low, my body vibrating with the gravel in his voice.
I cover my mouth and tell him, “That’s what I was hoping for, Pretty Boy.”
Post-game press sucks ass. When Coach Hunter called me for media, I seriously debated running to my car and hauling ass straight to Will’s place. But then he called for Sinclair as well, and now I’m sitting behind the press table with a mega-watt smile on my face next to Will.
We’re sitting so close I can smell the fresh scent of his soap from his shower earlier, and all the dirty images I have of him are swirling around in my mind, completely ignoring the reporters asking questions about the game.
I’m fully checked out to everyone else but him, and I’m counting down the minutes until I can get him alone.
Time drones on, and I’m close to nodding off when an incessant buzzing jolts my shoulders straight, coming from Will’s pocket.
He pulls out his phone just enough to see the name Jerry flash on the screen. He ends the call, stuffing his phone back into his pocket when it vibrates not even two seconds after. We eye each other with trepidation, curious to why his agent is blowing up his phone.
“Last question,” Coach announces, pointing at the reporter from the San Diego Tribune.
“Will,” the reporter says, grabbing Will’s attention away from his buzzing pocket.
Will clears his throat. “Yes?”
“It’s known that you’ve been a bachelor throughout your years here in the league. While most players your age are already married and have young children, your single status is something the media has always held interest in.”
Will’s body stiffens from where he sits, and I can feel the tension rolling off his shoulders at this stupid fucking question.
I’m about to cut in and ask this guy what the hell his point is when he adds on, “Is your sexuality the reason you’ve kept your dating life so private—especially now that it’s out that you’re gay?”
Audible gasps and murmurs echo throughout the small conference room, and my mouth gapes so wide at the absurdity and unprofessionalism of this asshole. I turn to Will, whose face is white as a sheet, devoid of color.
His eyes glaze over, completely frozen in time as reporters shout for his attention and bright flashes from cameras go off in waves.
“We’re getting the hell out of here,” I murmur in Will’s ear, grabbing him by the elbow and dragging him out of his seat.
Coach takes the brunt of the assault from reporters, doing his best to calm the crowd. He and I make eye contact, and he gives me a quick nod before Will and I slip through the exit door where we’re met by security.
It’s all a blur as security escorts us to the parking lot where Will’s Range Rover is parked next to my car.
“Hand me your keys,” I tell him once we’re at his passenger side door.
He doesn’t react or respond to me, body completely drained of emotion, and that has my heart stampeding like a pack of wild horses. I try again, louder this time.
“Will! Keys, baby. Please.” I soften my voice, eyes pleading for him to hear me.
Finally, a sign of life as he digs for his car keys in his pocket and hands them over to me. I unlock the car and get him in, shutting the door with force, then jog toward the driver’s side.
We’re out of the stadium lot in less than a minute, flying down the street to get him home. Home with me. Home where it’s safe.
My mind goes to overdrive, fixating on getting Will as far away from this bullshit as possible. Where the fuck did that reporter get that information? We’ve been discreet ever since we’ve gotten together. There’s no way he would’ve known anything happened between us.
Guilt rips through me like a lightning bolt, burning me at the thought that I could’ve caused this pain I feel permeating from him. The bluetooth from his phone automatically connects to his car, and his father’s name pops up on the dash like an ominous warning.
Jameson Sinclair’s name flashes on the screen again and again. I silence each call, glancing at Will every time. His head’s buried between his knees, hands clutching his skull like he can squeeze the noise out, like he wants the whole world to fall away.
I make all the familiar turns toward his beach house, hands gripping the wheel with white knuckles like my life depends on it.
Like his life depends on it.