Chapter 17
Behind Closed Doors
What was once hot water has turned freezing cold, causing goosebumps to unleash over my skin. Drops of ice pelt the back of my head as I sit on my shower bench with my head in my hands. The need to cry presses behind my eyes, but the tears won’t fall. I’m numb from the inside out.
What was I thinking being so careless—so reckless—when it came to hooking up with Brooks?
The truth is I wasn’t thinking at all. At least not with my head—the correct one, that is.
Over the past decade I’ve been in the league, I’ve been meticulous when it comes to having women sign NDAs. If they weren’t willing to sign one, I wasn’t willing to touch them. End of story.
But when it comes to Brooks, I have a tendency to lose sight of my obligations, throwing caution to the wind.
And look where that got me.
I can’t believe the woman we decided not to share in Milwaukee sold my story to the press.
Stupid. I’m so fucking stupid.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been in here, but I don’t fight Brooks when he opens the glass door to my shower and turns off the water. He grabs a towel off the hook and wraps it around my shoulders, and I can’t find it in me to be anything but despondent.
By the time I’ve dried off and thrown on a pair of boxer briefs, Brooks is nowhere to be found.
Left to my own devices, I sulk in my bed and do the one thing Brooks and Jerry, my agent, told me not to do.
I turn on my phone.
I’m immediately overwhelmed with the flood of notifications for tags in news articles, missed texts, and voicemails.
This was a bad idea. I should turn it back off, but I double down instead, clicking on a link I’ve been tagged in on social media that leads me to a well-known trashy gossip site that claims to be the one to break the story of my sexuality.
The headline reads: “MLB All-Star outed after being seen with a mystery partner.”
Below the headline is a blurry photo of me kissing Brooks in the hallway of our hotel pressed up against the door of our room in Milwaukee.
The photo is grainy, yet it very clearly shows my face with my head thrown back as Brooks sucks on my neck, only showing the back of his head in the frame.
It’s damning.
My reputation—my legacy on the game—will all go to shit because of this scandal. It will forever hang over my head; there’s no doubt in my mind.
I drop my phone and pull at my damp hair.
Why the hell is this happening to me?
So what if I’m into Brooks? Hooking up with one man doesn’t make me gay. I’ve been with dozens of women. I like women. I’m pretty sure that makes me bi-sexual. And even that isn’t something I’m comfortable with being thrown around by the media.
My sex life is just that—mine. My sexuality is still something I’m coming to terms with; I didn’t need some fucking reporter to blow up my entire world before I even knew what was going on.
This is such bullshit.
These vultures can’t get away with this. I won’t let them.
Shock is replaced by adrenaline, and suddenly I need to do something—anything—to combat the fury being outed has awakened within me. Before I can find an outlet, Brooks nudges my bedroom door open with a tray of food in his hands.
“What are you doing?” I question, noticing the steam rising from a bowl on the tray.
He shrugs nonchalantly, setting the tray on my bedside table and sitting on the edge of the bed. “I made my mom’s avgolemono soup. You gotta eat something.”
I look at Brooks with a mix of apprehension and unbridled anger that I know I have no right directing at him right now, though I can’t help it.
When he blows on a spoonful of soup before bringing it to my lips, something snaps inside of me.
Swatting the spoon away from my lips, I hiss, “I don’t want to fucking eat right now.”
Brooks sets the bowl down and turns to face me with far more patience than I deserve. “I understand you’re angry right now, but I’m just trying to help.”
“Well stop trying to help. Because you helping is what got me here.”
He takes a deep, resigned breath. “Look, I understand—”
“You understand?!” I cut him off, shaking my head. “No, you don’t understand. You didn’t just get outed in front of the whole world!” I shout, my chest heaving.
Brooks stays quiet, silently urging me to keep going—to get it all off my chest.
My chin trembles, and I hate the vulnerability written all over my face. “I’m not like you. I can’t just go around and flaunt my relationships with men and women. I have a reputation to uphold, and now it’s ruined.”
His jaw feathers in frustration. “Since when did you ever care about that?”
My brows draw together from his question.
So he continues, “You of all people should know that your reputation doesn’t mean shit. Your own father traded you.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I grit out.
Brooks’ eyes soften just a bit. “It means you made a name for yourself outside of being St. Louis’ star pitcher. We’re your family now. We’re here to protect you. I’m here to take care of you if you’d just let me.”
“Take care of me? Can’t you see this is your fault!” I shout, sitting up so I’m right in his face. “If it wasn’t for you messing with my head, I would’ve had that woman sign an NDA like I have for every fucking hookup I’ve had over the last decade.”
Brooks edges closer. “It’s not just my fault.
Sure, I didn’t have my head about me either, but look where that night got us.
It brought us here,” he rasps, his tone full of pleading.
“This will pass. I know right now it doesn’t feel like it, but it will.
And you have me and your teammates to lean on—we’re all here for you. ”
Shaking my head, I lower my voice in resignation. “You can’t speak for them. They probably all think I’m a dick for the way I treated them when I first got here.”
“I’m not speaking for them. If you’d open the team group chat, you’d know they’re all blowing up your phone with messages of support.”
“I’ll look later. I’ve had enough of my phone for the time being,” I grumble, sitting back against my headboard with my arms across my chest.
Brooks sits up and nudges me with his knee. “Scoot over. If you’re gonna sit here and sulk, I might as well commiserate with you.”
I hesitate a moment before moving over to make room.
We sit in silence, but the weight of his stare is heavy.
“You can go home—you don’t need to sit here and babysit me.”
That earns me a scoff. “I’m not babysitting you. I care about you, and this is me showing up for you.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t,” I tell him before I can think better of it.
He tenses beside me. “Why?”
“Because it’s bad enough what they’re all saying about me. But if they find out you’re my ‘mystery man,’ it’ll only fan the flames until our whole season goes up in smoke.”
“Fuck everyone else,” he’s quick to retort.
“God, Warren. That’s not how life works. We can’t just live our lives holding up a big metaphorical middle finger to the world, especially not when we’re in the public eye,” I admonish.
“Then we’ll keep it a secret, keep everything behind closed doors.”
“Yeah? And how do you suggest we do that?”
“Here. At your place. Away from the press and all the bullshit. We can still do this on your terms. My only condition: I’m not going anywhere. So you can push me away, yell at me, call me every name in the book, but I’m. Not. Fucking. Leaving.”
I dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, shaking my head back and forth with a mix of frustration and gratitude at his willingness to stay. But I’m too fucked in my head to see the light at the end of the tunnel right now.
All I see is a damning headline. A ruined reputation. A mockery with my name all over it.
“I can’t do this with you right now, War.”
“Will, please—”
“Just give me some space.” I blow out a tired breath. “Alright?”
Brooks’ eyes bore into mine, pleading with a flash of hurt. A small part of me hates that I put that look on his face, but I need him to leave before I make things worse.
He gives me a small nod, leaning in to press a gentle kiss on the corner of my mouth. Without a word, he slips out of my bed.
With the soft click of my door shutting behind him, I let myself break.