“We’ve got a wild one tonight,” Olander says. “Everyone better be on their toes when they step into the box.” He pretends to do a Matrix move.
“Wild thangggg,” Devereux sings.
The opposing pitcher tonight, Lucas Morgan, was known for not having the best accuracy last year. His velocity is impressive, but the command—yikes. He’s on anew team this year. He’s already been traded twice since he got drafted. Not sure what’s going on there.
There haven’t been enough starts this season to know if we should still be expecting to duck out of the way. Let’s just say, I had four starts last season before I pulled my groin and was out again—and I got hit by one of this guy’s pitches.
“I think he does it on purpose,” Olander says, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “Guy’s got a fucking shit attitude.”
Like some others I know. “Maybe the new team will have done him some good,” I murmur. Not all organizations are the right fit for a player.
“Let’s hope,” Roche, our veteran first baseman, says. “I can’t move like you young guys. I’ll just have to stand there and take it.”
“That’s what she said,” Devereux calls out.
I grimace. What a lovely thing to say.
“You’re not any younger, Devereux,” Olander taunts. “You going to be bending over for Wild Thing tonight?”
“Fuck you, man.” His gaze skates over to me. He doesn’t say anything more, but the disgust burns hot in his eyes. My and Nebs’s setdown back in Spring Training may be keeping him in check for now, but the kind of hate he has isn’t something a few words can eradicate.
He glances away and mutters under his breath. But I heard it. I saw his lips curve around the slur.
My jaw locks tight, and I jump to my feet. “Want to say that loud enough for the entire locker room to hear, Dev?”
The room goes silent.
He sends me a smile that’s thick with contempt. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
We stare each other down, a wordless battle raging between us. He breaks first. Good. Fuck. Him.
My gaze slides to the clubby who’s stopped dead a few feet away from Dev. The glare he’s directing at Dev is sharp enough to be lethal. Aiden Turner, Dominguez’s nephew. He’s got long, shaggy dark hair, dark eyes highlighted with black eyeliner, and two full sleeves of ink covering his arms. Let’s just say it adds to his murderous vibe right now. Apparently, I’m not alone in my fury at the bigotry some of these guys spew.
I turn away. I’m not a people person to begin with, but Devereux and Olander are at the bottom of the list of people I can tolerate. Not only because they’re both clearly homophobic fuckfaces, but they’re both really fucking annoying.
My attention catches on Winters, who’s looking at me owl-eyed. Clearly, he caught Dev’s remark too. His gaze darts away, and he turns toward his cubby. It’s weird seeing him without Michaels by his side. And right now, he doesn’t have Nebiolo either, since Nebs already left for the field. His fingers shake lightly as he taps out a message on his phone. Probably taken aback by other people’s hatred. It can be shocking to see it firsthand. You’d think he’d be used to it by now. All locker rooms are the same.
I chew on my lip. Or maybe I’m not the only queer man on the Clippers.
Which only fuels me more to give guys like Dev a piece of my mind. People don’t understand how deeply words cut. You can’t understand. Not until every day you’re told you shouldn’t exist simply because of who you love. Every. Day. You’re the butt of their jokes. You’re the insult they throw around. Sideways glances, avoidance, aggression. It starts with words. But it doesn’t always end there.
I try to swallow past my dry throat and walk stiffly to my cubby to finish suiting up. My muscles are unsteady, like I haven’t eaten enough, and my stomach has lodged itself up in a baseball-sized knot. The comedown from the adrenaline spike of going up against someone. This is the last thing I need before a game. I focus on breathing, emptying my mind. I know exactly what will help.
I exit the locker room and head down the hall toward the field.
“Hey, Stone. Wait up!”
I halt and look over my shoulder. Aiden is hurrying my way. He stops in front of me and brushes back his chin-length hair. “I just wanted to say I appreciate you standing up to pieces of shit like Dev.”
My eyes widen. You don’t normally hear clubbies talking about players like that—even if the players deserve it. I sweep a gaze over Aiden; I suppose he does give off the air he doesn’t give a fuck.
“It starts with one person. Shutting that shit down. Making change.” He grins. “I have no problem doing it, but I don’t carry the weight you do.” He bites his lip, his black lip ring wiggling with the movement. His dark eyes rake over me. “Pretty cool, you being an out bi man playing professional baseball.”
Amusement bubbles in my chest. Bold as fuck. Not gonna happen, kid.
He arches a brow. “If you ever need to…de-stress, I know a storage closet.”
I shake my head. “I don’t do clubbies, Aiden. That’s not a line I’m crossing.”
