3. Emiliano
THREE
EMILIANO
The thing about a good start is that it stays in your body. Not just the arm, the shoulder, or the legs that carry you off the mound. It settles deeper than that, in the quiet place behind your ribs where satisfaction lives.
A clean outing.
Command.
Tempo.
The kind of night that makes postgame reporters talk about “poise” like it’s something you can measure.
I threw a hell of a game, and I should be riding that high right now. More than that, I should be asleep, letting the city hum lull me into recovery, letting my body do what it needs to do when you’re a pitcher and you’ve emptied the tank.
Instead, I’m pacing my apartment in Queens like a man who just lost something.
And it’s stupid, because I didn’t lose.
We won. I fucking dominated out there.
I made the Coyotes look small, and I made Sean O’Malley so angry he practically vibrated out in left field. He ran his mouth the entire game like it was his job to keep me entertained between pitches.
He’s good at it, too.
Loud Irish redhead, hair like a warning flare, mouth like a weapon. Pretty in a way that looks sharp, like it could cut you if you touch it wrong. A man who smiles like a dare and then pretends he doesn’t care whether you accept it.
On the field, it’s easy.
We’ve built the rivalry. We’re supposed to hate each other. I’m the Mets ace. He’s a Coyotes outfielder with a chip on his shoulder and a whole lot of attitude.
Off the field, it’s worse.
Off the field, he turns into a contradiction I can’t stop thinking about.
The chain link. His hands gripping it. His mouth fighting me while his body said something else entirely.
And then I tried to kiss him.
That’s the part that’s been living under my tongue all night, like a craving.
I don’t kiss men who don’t mean something to me.
I’ll fuck. I’ll flirt. I’ll play the game. I’ll take what’s offered and leave it where it belongs. But a kiss is… a claim.
A softness and truth all wrapped into one.
And Sean ran like I tried to light him on fire.
I stop pacing long enough to look at my phone again.
No new messages.
My thumb hovers over his name anyway.
O’MALLEY.
It makes me smile every time I see it because of course his last name sounds like trouble.
I texted him after he ran.
Then I texted again.
Then I tried calling.
No answer.
No “fuck off.”
No “I hate you.”
Nothing.
Just fucking silence.
Silence is what you use when you’re trying to pretend something didn’t happen. I throw my phone onto the couch and drag a hand down my face.
“Pinche irlandés terco,” I mutter.
I should let it go.
That’s what the smart part of me says. The part of me that cares about staying clean in the media, because headlines can ruin people.
If anyone knows that, it’s me.
The Mets don’t do small stories. New York doesn’t do small stories. If a rumor starts, it becomes a thing.
I don’t give two flying fucks if people know I like men.
I never have.
I’m Mexican as fuck and Catholic. I have a mother who prays for me and tías who light candles and a family that can argue for hours about nothing and still feed you like you didn’t just disagree over heavy shit.
I grew up with saints on the wall and music in the kitchen and faith that felt like home.
My faith never told me I was filthy.
People did.
And I decided a long time ago I wasn’t going to let anyone else write my shame.
Sean—Sean is still letting other people write his. He wears shame like it’s a second jersey, always rubbing him raw.
I can taste it in the way he talks to me, in the way he curses at me like he needs anger to justify what his body wants. The way he can say “I hate you” like it’s oxygen, but he can’t stand still when I try to kiss him.
That’s not hate.
That’s fear.
My heart hurts for him and for me, because I don’t want to be someone’s fear.
I want to be someone’s choice.
I open the fridge even though I’m not hungry. It’s full: meal-prepped containers stacked neatly because that’s the life of an athlete. Chicken. Rice. Vegetables. A container of my mom’s caldo sits in the back because she showed up last week with a pot like she was feeding a village.
I lift the lid, stare at the beef chunks, and then put it back.
My phone lights up again on the couch, and I practically run over, thinking for a second it’s him.
It’s not.
It’s my mom.
Mamá
?Comiste, mijo?
I snort and text back without thinking.
Emiliano
Sí mamá
Lie.
My mom replies instantly like she knows it’s a lie.
Mamá
No me mientas. Come. Y descansa.
I stare at the screen, warmth and annoyance mixing in my chest.
She’d hate Sean at first. Not because he’s a man, but because he’s loud and stubborn and would argue with her about nothing. Then she’d feed him and adore him and call him mijo like he belongs.
If Sean ever let himself belong. I open our text conversation, my fingers typing before I can talk myself out of it.
Emiliano
You run fast for an outfielder.
Come on, stop being pissed and talk to me. Maybe we could talk through some of your issues if you used that pretty mouth for an actual conversation instead of hurling insults at me. I laugh at the thought, shaking my head as I text him again.
Emiliano
You alive, Cobre?
I wait.
Nothing.
I try again, softer this time.
Emiliano
Look, I’m not mad. I just don’t like when you disappear.
Nothing.
My jaw tightens, and I let out a frustrated breath. This is the part where I should stop. Where I should respect his silence and let him figure himself out.
But I don’t have that kind of patience when I can feel the truth sitting between us like an unopened door.
And the truth is simple:
Sean wants me.
I want him.
And he’s going to keep punishing himself until somebody gives him a reason to stop.
I call him.
The line rings.
Once. Twice. Three times.
“Hey, you’ve reached Sean… I’m probably on the field or sleeping so leave me a message and I’ll hit ya back.”
I hang up before it beeps, not because I’m embarrassed, but because I don’t want to say everything over a fucking voicemail. Tossing my phone back onto the couch, I stand there breathing like I’m trying not to lose my mind.
The next morning, I’m up early, running on the treadmill and checking my phone every few minutes. I sent him a couple of texts when I woke up, trying to extend that olive branch.
Emiliano
You know if you would have just kissed me… you be waking up here.
With me.
Nothing.
Emiliano
Answer me.
Minutes pass with him ignoring me, and it makes me laugh.
“?En serio?” I mutter. “You’re gonna ghost me?”
I pick up my phone again and type.
Emiliano
You know what’s funny?
I pause.
If I push too hard, he’ll bolt. If I go soft, he’ll panic. Sean lives in a battle of extremes. He only knows how to fight or flee.
So I split the difference and I go back to what we do best.
Banter like a blade.
Emiliano
You ran when I tried to kiss you
But you’ve never run when I make you moan my name
I hit send and stare at the screen like I can will him into replying.
Okay.
So he’s committed to the silent treatment. I breathe out slowly through my nose and try to think like a pitcher again.
What do you do when a hitter won’t bite?
You change the approach.
You stop throwing him what he expects.
I send one more text, simple, direct, and with no jokes.
Emiliano
Cobre.
I wait a full minute and finally…
Sean
Stop.
Oh, that’s cute.
Emiliano
No.
Fine. We can play this game. I love games so much that I do it professionally.
I open my calendar and see that my next day off is in three days.
There is a window. Not a big one, but enough. I open flight apps with the same calm focus I use on the mound.
San Jose. Red-eye options. Early options. Return flight.
The price doesn’t matter, and my pride doesn’t either.
The only thing that matters is that Sean needs someone willing to reach into the guilt with him before he disappears inside it. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t want to be that someone.
I book the flight, and the confirmation email hits my inbox a second later. My stomach flips, not with fear but with anticipation.
This is insane. I know that. I know what this could look like if Sean doesn’t want me there. But I also know silence is the monastery Sean locks himself up inside for punishment.
Sean O’Malley can run because he’s scared.
Fine. I’ll go to him.