26. CHAPTER 26
Iwoke to the weight of Easton beside me, his arm slung across my chest, his breath warm and steady against my shoulder.
When we’d gotten back to the hotel, he’d followed me to my room and climbed into my bed, not wanting to wake the other players in his room.
We’d shared a bed before, but last night hadn’t meant what it used to mean.
The room remained dark except for the thin stripe of light sneaking through the curtains. I listened to the slow breathing of the others—Gavin’s mouth slightly open, Zach curled toward the wall. We had an hour before breakfast.
Easton shifted, exhaling a little sigh as his hips pressed gently against mine. I stared at the ceiling, not daring to move.
I thought about him. Last night was the closest he’d come to saying he was gay, even if he hadn’t said the words. I felt worse and worse about what he was going through. My coming out had been easy, with supportive parents and friends who joked about it as their way of saying they were cool.
But Easton didn’t have that. He had a dad who hit his wife and tore his kid down—who expected him to be a certain way.
I’d never understood the gay pride movement before, but maybe it was about this: not trying to change people like Easton’s dad but showing people like Easton that they were loved, no matter what.
Maybe that was my role in his life. I wasn't the person he ended up with, and that had to be okay. But I could still be someone who made sure he knew he was cared about, just as he was.
A sudden creak broke the stillness. Gavin shot up like a firework, blinking, and then—chaos.
“I knew it, I knew it,” he yelled. His hands shot above his head, and I was scared that he was going to put a hole in the ceiling. If he was a year older, he would have.
I sat up, heart racing, trying to calm him down. “Gavin, sit. Easton and Zach are still—”
Too late. Zach hit Gavin with a pillow and sat up. Easton blinked at the noise, then groaned and flopped against me, face buried in my arm like the world was too loud.
“Easton’s here?” Zach grinned. “You were right!”
“If you two don’t shut up,” Easton’s voice was low and frayed, muffled against my bicep, “you’re not making it to the game.”
Gavin, unfazed, jumped and dove onto the bed between us. I rolled out of the way before he landed on my ribs.
“You love us,” Gavin said.
I walked to the bathroom to relieve myself. When I came back, Easton had pinned down Gavin, who was now lying spread-eagle on my bed.
“I told you to settle the hell down,” Easton said, tickling Gavin’s side. He laughed and tried to kick himself free, but Easton had him completely restrained.
“I’m too happy to settle down,” Gavin giggled. “You slept in the same bed as Tanner.”
“That means nothing, Gav, and if you say anything to anyone, I’ll hurt you.” Easton lightly slapped him on his cheek twice before rolling onto Gavin’s right arm.
“Can I tweet it?” Gavin said between fits of laughter.
Easton rolled off of Gavin completely and lay next to him. “Maybe after the game.”
“REALLY?!”
“No, you turd. Nothing happened.”
“So, you two aren’t together?”
“No, Gavin,” I said, exasperated. “Easton’s not gay. Let it go, alright?”
“Go get dressed,” Easton said, moving off of Gavin completely. “We can play catch before breakfast.”
I pushed through the hotel restaurant doors just as the other three seniors strolled in behind me. Without a word, we slid into the booth farthest from the entrance. The rest of the team filed in with untucked shirts and excited eyes.
This sport never had fans. Not like this. But today, our town had shown up—it seemed like the entire restaurant was packed with people I had grown up seeing walking around the streets.
I scanned the room, trying to trap every detail—how the silverware glinted, the way the chairs scraped the tile, the faint murmur of conversation floating under it all. I didn’t want to miss a second.
“I hope you’re ready for this shit, Captain Quinn,” Ricky said, tugging a menu off the stack like he was challenging it to a fight.
I rapped my knuckles against the wood. “I’ve been ready since freshman year.”
“We weren’t ready back then,” Silas said. “We just thought we were. We earned this.”
“Helps when you turn three double plays in the semis,” Maddux added. He wouldn’t pitch today—he’d thrown too many pitches the game before—so Silas was getting the start.
I glanced across the booth. “How’s the arm?”
“Doesn’t matter how bad it hurts, I’ll be good to go,” Silas said.
“You know what hits weird?” Ricky said after a beat. “This is it. Last time the four of us share the field. Win or lose, we're done being teammates.”
I’d thought that same thing a dozen times but always in the shadow of a loss. Not now. Win or lose, today was it.
“Dumbass, we’ll always be teammates,” said Maddux. “Just because we don’t put on the same uniform anymore doesn’t mean we aren’t teammates.”
“We’ve played over five hundred games together,” I said. “Today’s five hundred and four.”
“No way.”
“My dad still has the score books to prove it.”
We fell quiet again, letting that number sit between us. Five hundred and four games. And today, the last.
We traded favorite games, the dumbest practice fights, and inside jokes about Coach Berrios making each other cry. Plates came and went. But none of us moved. This was the part I’d miss most—not the crack of a bat or the roar of a crowd. This.
“Shit, Quinn is starting to cry, and we haven’t even laced up our cleats,” Ricky said.
“Shut it, Ricky,” I said, wiping the wetness out of my eyes. “I’m just going to miss you guys.”
“You fag,” Maddux said, but his voice was warm. A smile tugged at his mouth.
I snorted. “Tomorrow we’re having a talk about what words you’re not allowed to say anymore.”
He raised his apple juice like a toast. “Looking forward to it.”
Coach stepped into the middle of the room, clapping his hands once.
He wore that ratty red-and-black pullover, the same one he’d worn all season, rain or shine—even today, despite the forecast of ninety degrees.
He locked his hands behind his body as he always did before a big speech and started talking.
“I wanted to thank every single one of you who made the trip down here for these games. I know it means the world to the boys to see so many fans here. This is a very special group of young men that I’ve been given the opportunity to coach over the past four years, and today is something that they’ve strived for since day one.
The four seniors made a state title their goal since before I met them, and they’ve put themselves in a position to accomplish that goal.
I hope that the standard they’ve set will be followed by the underclassmen and that the morning workouts they’ve run every summer are a tradition that sticks around for years to come.
No matter what happens today, be proud. I know I am. ”
The non-players in the room clapped. I wiped my eyes, but Ricky just grinned across the table.
“If we don’t get Quinn out of here, he’s not going to be able to play today. I can’t stand how emotional this bum is.”
“Just focus on catching, Ricky,” I said, punching him lightly in the shoulder. He fell out of the booth as if I had knocked him out and started rolling on the ground in mock pain.
“Pretty sure you’re the catcher, man,” Maddux said, ignoring Ricky.
“We don’t know, though,” Silas said. “He still won’t tell us.”
The banter kept going while Coach paid the bill. We split up at the elevators—I went left while the other three went right.
Zach had beaten me to our room, and he was pacing when I entered.
“You ready for this?” I asked.
“Not at all. You remember this is our last game, too, right? Me and you?”
I winced. I hadn’t thought of that. My mind had been stuck on the seniors, the finality of that. I hadn’t let myself think about the end of this new chapter with Zach. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve played more with those guys. Let’s just end on a good note.”
“Going to try,” I said, jumping on the bed. “Still, pretty damn cool getting one year together before I’m out.”
He disappeared into the bathroom, and the room went still. This was the last bit of calm we’d have before getting to the field.
I sat on the bed for two hours, looking over the scouting report that Coach had handed me last night.
The words were scribbled almost illegibly, but I remembered the field work I’d received to obtain my Coach Berrios PhD.
I did my best to stick it all in my brain because I knew there’d be too much going on once we got to the field for me to think.
We loaded the bus in silence—not tense, just focused.
It was a kind of quiet where every breath felt counted, every movement deliberate.
We were headed to face St. Ed’s, the reigning state champs.
They’d had three losses all season, each one to schools twice our size.
Word was their catcher, third baseman, and entire outfield were committed to D1 schools. But none of that mattered now.
The bus rumbled forward.
Once we were fifteen minutes out, no one was on their phone. No music played. There was just the hum of the tires and the occasional squeak of cleats shifting in bags. I watched cornfields flicker past the windows like they were being flipped in a book I didn’t want to finish.
When we stopped, Coach stood. He never spoke on the bus, not once in four years. But today he turned, one hand gripping the seat beside him, eyes scanning the aisle.
“I’ve seen St. Ed’s three times this season,” he said, his voice low but certain. “They’re good. Big, fast, and confident. But we’re better.”
A few heads lifted.
“We have the better pitcher. We’ve got the better defense. That makes us the favorite. I don’t care how many of them are headed to Florida or Georgia Tech. It does not matter. When you’ve got the pitching and defense, you don’t need to be flashy. You just need to execute.”
His eyes paused on mine. Only for a second. But long enough.
“When you walk onto that field, walk like you own it. Don’t get caught up in the crowd or the title or who they’re going to play for next year. Today, this is just another game. Play it that way, and we’ll walk off as champions.”
Coach marched off the bus, and the team erupted in noise. I made my way off quickly, leading the charge to the field.
We went through our pre-game motions, then somehow it was an hour and a half later, and we were being introduced to the crowd for the last game of my high school career.
The sound vibrated off of the stadium as the announcer began listing the starting lineups.
“Leading off, playing second base, Tanner Quinn.”
A thunder of noise. I jogged out to the line, cleats sinking just slightly into the dirt near the batter’s box. I turned, scanning the stands.
“Batting second, playing shortstop, Easton Chase.”
His name echoed across the stadium, louder than I expected, sharper than the others. I didn’t look at him. But I felt the weight of him standing next to me.
One by one, the rest of the lineup followed. We formed our line, caps tucked under arms, eyes on the flag ready for the national anthem.
While the announcer read off the St. Ed’s roster, I let my gaze wander.
The third-base side was a wall of red and black. It looked like the entire town had migrated south overnight. Kids on shoulders, dads in old letterman jackets, moms with face paint. There were more people here than there’d been at any game before. More than I’d thought would come.
The smell hit me next. Cut grass. Fresh dirt. Sunflower seeds. A faint trace of chew. It wrapped around me like home. This was everything I’d dreamed it would be.
The sky stretched blue and perfect overhead—no clouds, no wind, no chance of anything but sunshine. Someone had watered down the infield just right; the dirt was dark and even. The bases gleamed white.
This was baseball.
Now, the coin toss. As I walked next to Coach, Ricky screamed, “Tails never fails, Captain Quinn!” It was the same thing he’d yelled before each game since we’d turned twelve.
I thought back to the first time he’d called me Captain Quinn. When we were twelve, my dad had made me team captain. Ricky hadn’t been happy—he’d said it was because I was the coach’s kid. He’d heckled me for two weeks.
When he’d said it on the way to the plate in our first game, I’d snapped mid-field. “Don’t FUCKING call me that, Ricky.”
I had been benched for the next three games and had no longer been captain. It was the shortest captaincy in sports history—I hadn’t made it a single pitch.
Ricky found it hilarious. Later that summer, he recruited Maddux and Silas into the joke. It never died. The other three seniors were so into the gag that they had refused Coach Berrios’s attempts to make them captains. They said I was their true captain and that they were not worthy of the title.
That was why I walked to the plate alone with Coach.
The coin flipped, and Ricky was right. We were going to be the home team.
I jogged out to my position at second, ready to get this started. We went through our pre-inning routine, the air crisp.
I tossed the ball back to Silas, and, finally, I heard my favorite words.
“PLAY BALL!”
Time to fucking do this.