“Do you mean Rachel?” I clarify the confusion over her name, assuming that she must be talking about Conner’s sister. Since they were pretty much starting from scratch, Conner and Rachel decided to share an apartment until the gym took off. He explained that much to me over the phone, not wanting things to be weird for any reason should I find out on my own.
“That’s right.” Mrs. Keating snaps her fingers, and then taps the side of her head. “This old thing don’t work like it used to.”
Shaking my head, as I laugh with her, I say, “No, ma’am, but I am here to see Conner, her brother.” It’s been a long time since I’ve been afraid of or even ashamed of openly saying I’m gay; it’s not something I’ll ever hide. And it’s not that I’m either of those things right now, but it’s odd to feel like I’m waiting for some kind of reaction. Having only known this seemingly kind old lady for less than two minutes, I don’t know what’s going through her head as she scans me from head to toe.
“Oh.” Astonishment, but not an ounce of disdain rings alongside her single-word response. “You boys have a good day then.” Her cheeks turn rosy pink and she waves goodbye before strolling slowly down the street.
Just as I turn to walk back toward the building, I catch the sight of Conner bending down and tossing the phone book back into the foyer. He turns and sees me standing on the sidewalk. A warm, but surprised smile spreads across his face. I take in the sight of him as he casually strolls toward me. The Michelson’s MMA t-shirt he’s wearing pulls tightly across the hard planes of his chest, the sleeves stopping just above the edge of his tattoos. His black, mesh athletic shorts hang low on his narrow waist, stopping in the middle of his thick, muscular thighs. I’ve never in my life been more jealous of a pair of shorts, but the way they hug his body sends my mind in a craze. As he gets closer, his full lips pull into a lopsided grin. His face looks calm and relaxed, and even though it’s not the first time I’m looking at him, it’s almost like this is the first time I’m seeing him. His chestnut hair is messily spiked, as if he just ran his hands through it after waking up. The golden flecks in his deep, brown eyes shimmer in the morning sunlight.
“Hi,” I greet, taking the full view of him in as he stands before me. His eyes scan over me from head to toe, and I wonder if he is thinking about me the way I just thought about him. When he croaks, “Hey,” I know that he is. His voice exudes a calm sexiness, fogging my brain for a second.
“You ready?” I wink and he wordlessly nods as we walk back to my car.
The five-minute drive is filled with casual pleasantries – how is work going? What have you been up to? It’s relaxed and easy, a mood which I’ve come to expect when I’m around Conner.
The gravel of the parking lot crunches under my tires and a cloud of dust trails behind us as we park at the local little league field. Conner shoots me a wry look from the passenger’s seat. “Baseball is more of a team sport. Not really sure what we can do with just the two of us.”
Leaning over, I unclasp my seatbelt. Pitching my voice low, I say, “Oh, there’s plenty just the two of us can do, but not today. We still have another date left. Don’t you remember?” I add the last part facetiously, reminding him that this was his plan in the first place.
When we both get out of the car, I fold my arms together, and lean on the doorframe. Looking at Conner over the hood, I try as best as I can to explain our date. “You said you wanted to know me, to do something that was more than just a meal.” As if on cue, the bus from Hamilton Home for Boys – a local group home for orphaned boys - pulls into the parking lot. “This is how I spend my free time.” I swipe my hand to the side, just as the bus pulls to a complete stop.
Like clowns out of a small car, the fifteen twelve-year-old boys who make up the Elmira Tigers file out of the bus. Excitement rushes off them in waves as their voices smash together in a loud cacophony.
“Coach Hopkins! Coach Hopkins!” They jump and clamor around me.
“Hey, guys.” Immediately, they fall in line, waiting for instructions. “Before we get started today, I want you to meet my friend Coach Michelson.” A twinge of quiet nervousness descends on us. “If it’s okay with you, he’d like to help out today.” As soon as they realize I’m not being replaced, they loosen up and greet Conner with open arms.
Kieran, a kid who I’d consider a natural-born leader, calls out above the group. “Hey Coach, can I pitch today? Last week you said you’d show me how to throw a slider.” His big, blue eyes are begging me with more enthusiasm than usual.
“You got it, Kieran.” A proud look washes over his face as I pat my hand on his shoulder. “Kieran and Brett, you two lead warm-ups today. Three laps, short toss and then long toss. After that, we’ll do some drills and then batting.”
“Yes, Coach,” they all call out at the same time. Eager to please and thrilled to be at practice, the boys race out to the field as Conner and I get the rest of the equipment from the trunk.
As I sling a bag over my shoulder and Conner tucks a few bases under his arm, I worry that maybe this isn’t what he had in mind. “I hope this is okay?” The trunk slamming closed is the only sound for second.
“It’s more than okay.” A proud smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. Warmth blooms in my chest as his mouth pulls into an appreciative smile – not just because I’ve chosen to include him in this part of my life, but that it even exists at all.
The two-hour practice passes by quickly. Kieran almost nails me in the head during pitching practice because I was too busy staring at Conner. The way the muscles of his strong arms bunched and pulled as he easily hit fly balls into the outfield served as a somewhat mild distraction. At one point, I almost choked on my own tongue as I watched the lean, cut muscles of his calves shift under his weight. Kieran had to repeat his question because I was so busy thinking about those legs wrapped around my waist.
We finish practice with some sprints. “Wanna race, Coach Michelson?” The boys have become more and more comfortable with Conner over the course of the morning and they think nothing of his size as they throw down their challenge.
Life is simple when you’re twelve. You’re invincible and pitting yourself against an athlete like Conner poses no trouble whatsoever. Sometimes I wonder if life will be that simple ever again.
After the last sprint, the boys fall into a heap on the ground, wheezing and catching their breath. “Might want to think twice before you challenge me next time,” Conner brags, laughing as he tosses them each a water bottle. They exchange a few more good-natured ribs before the bus pulls back in to pick the boys up.
We grab all of our gear and walk the boys back. Before Brett gets on the bus, he turns back to Conner. “You’re gonna be back next week, right, Coach Michelson?” The two developed a bond quickly, spending most of the practice together.
Conner quickly glances over at me, silently checking that it’s okay to say yes. I nod and he turns back to Brett who’s watched the brief exchange, hoping for Conner’s return.
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything, Brett.” Brett launches himself onto the bus, excitedly calling out that Conner will be back next week. From the small windows, the boys wave back at us as they pull away, their voices fading as the bus drifts further and further away.
We toss our stuff in the trunk and slide back onto our seats. “So how about lunch?” Despite his “no meal” requirement, I ask anyway.
“Yeah, I’m starved.” We pull out of the lot, the cloud of dust returning as we drive away. We decide on a diner since neither one of us are really dressed for anything that’s more than casual. After the waitress seats us and takes our orders, Conner asks, “So where are their parents?”
I shrug and roll the straw wrapper into a ball. “Don’t know. Some of them are dead, some in jail, some never had any – not that they remember anyway.”
“How’d you get involved?” Genuine interest accentuates his question.
