I get it, though—where Frankie is coming from. It’s hard to let it go. The impulse to put assholes like Dev in their place is strong. They don’t deserve to win. To get the last word.
The bartender slides Dev over his whiskey. Dev grabs it and turns a scathing look on Frankie. “I’d back off if this one could go five seconds without making someone uncomfortable with his creepy remarks.”
“You mean, like you do with the women here?” I sweep a look over him, and I don’t hide my disgust.
Dev’s jaw tightens, but he turns and stalks off.
“It’s okay,” Frankie calls loudly. “He’s just jealous because he’s the only man here I wouldn’t be caught dead flirting with.” He takes a sip of his drink. “I’m not picky, but I wouldn’t touchthatwith a fucking ten-foot pole.”
Olander clears his throat awkwardly. “Sorry about him.”
I eye the guy. I really don’t get why he’s friends with Devereux. Sometimes I think he might be all right, but then it’s like he absorbs some of Dev’s bigotry.
Olander steps up to the bar and places an order for shots, then quickly greets Maddox. Oddly enough, those two have developed somewhat of a friendship. I’m not sure if it’s because Maddox has blended in with the Clippers seamlessly and feels like one of us. He knows his baseballand was a great college ballplayer. They talk a lot of PT, because Olander has been having issues with his rotator cuff.
No one has blinked twice at Maddy’s and Easton’s best-friend story. It’s one of the advantages of being a straight-presenting queer person. My hand balls into a fist.Advantage. I hate the word. Hate that it’s true. They can accept us because they can’t see our queerness.
Not everyone can hide. And that means the world isn’t always safe for them. It’s a hard thing to accept: in this world, I’m safer simply because I can step into a room and disappear. We shouldn’t have to hide. We shouldn’t have to worry about our safety at all.
I finally glance over at the table of my teammates again. In our world—in professional sports—it’s really hard to survive if you can’t hide. If players come out at all, it’s usually after they’ve retired. Things are barely changing for the better, but there are a few minor league players who have come out publicly—no major leaguers. Yet.
Shane throws back what looks like a fresh pint of beer. He’s laughing with Thompson and O’Neil. The tension dissolves from my shoulders. Thank God. Maybe tonight will help him.
The tray of shots appears, and Olander snatches it up. “Let’s go!”
“I feel like this is a horrible idea,” I mutter.
“We don’t have a game tomorrow,” Olander sings.
“I’m pretty sure I’m too old for this,” Paulie says. “Is that bad? I’m twenty-five, and I think I’m too old to do shots.”
Olander places the shots on the table, and our teammates don’t hesitate to grab them.
“Clearly, you’re not cool,” Frankie says to his brother.He reaches forward and snatches one straight from Olander, who blinks slowly up at Frankie. He throws it back. “Ohhhh,” he says with a shiver and a grimace. “Terrible. You ball fondlers have no taste.”
Shane stiffens and throws back a shot.
“Ballplayers,” Paulie says in exasperation.
“Oh, puh-leaze. I’ve seen how pitchers massage their balls. And didn’t you tell me the team literally has someone who massages all new balls to get them ready for use? You are professional ball fondlers. I won’t believe otherwise.”
That’s…actually true. Fresh out the box, they’re too slick, can mess with a pitcher’s control. You need to rub the balls up real good before use. Okay, I hear it. Frankie’s right.
Glass clinking snags my attention just in time to see Olander and Shane down a shot. Shane reaches for another one.
Woof.
“Looks like we’re playing clean-up crew,” Maddox says, settling in a chair. “It’s about to get messy. Time to just sit back and watch the shit-show.”
“Now, that’s something I can drink to.” I tip my beer with his and take the seat next to him. And if Shane throwing back three shots in a row is any indication, clean-up will be needed. I’ll be ready.
Or I won’t be.At least not me, personally. The pretty brunette with the large doe-eyes looks like she’s vying for the job. We’ve been here going on three hours now, andShane has gotten progressively more and more plastered. I didn’t realize there were levels of plastered until tonight, but each time I thought he’d reached the top, he found a new level of drunkenness.
Shane’s leaning against the wall—a wall I’m positive is keeping him standing upright—whispering with the woman who barnacled herself to him as soon as he stumbled away from our table with Olander.
They’ve slowly meandered closer and closer to the hall that leads to the bathrooms and the back exit of the bar. She lifts on tiptoe and says something in Shane’s ear. I fist my glass of water. He shoots her a dopey smile.
“Down, boy,” Maddox mutters for my ears only.
