He shrugs a shoulder and shoots me a wink. “The answer’s always no if you don’t ask. Had to shoot my shot. You’re sexy as hell, man.”
I chuckle. “Thanks. For the compliment. And for lightening the mood a bit after…that.”
He gives me an upnod and starts walking backward. “You got it. Good luck today. Break all the legs and arms or whatever.”
My lips twitch, and I resume my walk to the dugout. It’s time to get in my talk with Dad before the game starts. I was blessed with a dad who loved me, every part of me. It’s a sad world we live in that that is considered lucky. But it’s an unfortunate truth. I still remember the day he found out. I was sixteen. I hadn’t realized Dad was home, and I snuck a guy up to our penthouse. Regardless of your sexuality, there are some things you really don’t want your parents walking in on.
God, the terror I’d felt that day. I take a deep breath. I had always known my father loved me, but I grew up in the world of baseball. Straight was the only sexuality that was allowed. He took me into his room and broke down in tears.
Not for the reasons one might think.
The fear on your face, JJ. I’ve failed you as a father. There is nothing in this world that could ever lessen the love I have for you. And because of who you love? Never because of who you love.
And just like that, my poorly stitched up heart rips wide open.
Something about loss? You don’t lose the person once. You lose them a million times in a million situations. They’re a part of you, your mannerisms, your routines. You turn to them at the breakfast table to find they’re not there—never going to be there again. You pick up the phone to call them after a killer game, like you always used to. But no one’s picking up on the other end of that line.
On days when the world didn’t want to accept me, I had a father who always would.
But I don’t anymore.
Fuck, I miss him.
TWELVE
SHANE
“Michaelssss!”A pair of voices cheer as two familiar faces pop up on my phone, and my chest warms.
“Hey, guys. Good game! Can’t believe it went to fifteen innings.” I’m posted up on my hotel room bed.
My roommate, Rosario, who was also in my draft class, is out with some of the other guys. We don’t go out often, but it’s a little more common during away games. I don’t need or want the distraction. Nothing exists except baseball. And these two goons.
“You too. Good day for the Jetties all around,” Paulie says. He holds the phone out farther to try to get him and Easton in the frame better.
They’re in the locker room, fresh out of the long-ass game. The sound of a team who just fought and won filters through the phone—boisterous laughter, high-fives and back-slaps, and upbeat chatter.
“Who do you have on the phone there?” a voice says, and all of a sudden, Olander’s mug is right up at thecamera. “Michaels! How’s Double-A life? Did you guys win tonight? I haven’t had a chance to check yet.”
I smile, but it’s more forced than usual. I’m not the biggest fan of Olander. And a big reason is how stiff Easton is right now. I hate not being there, but I know Paulie’s got East’s back.
I flash my all-purpose smile. “Good, man. We won too. Congrats.”
Olander lets out a cheer. “Double-A brought in a win, too!” he shouts.
The room erupts. Paulie pans the phone around as the team yells congratulations, a few tossing me air-dabs.
The camera focuses back on Paulie’s and East’s smiling faces.
“You guys have any wild plays tonight?” I ask.
Paulie snorts. “You mean besides the ridiculous move Winters made in order to keep his fucking head on?”
Winters’s mouth tightens.
My eyebrows shoot up, and I glance between my friends.
“Yeah.” Paulie’s nodding emphatically. “Morgan was pitching tonight. Still wild as ever. You should have seen the text messages East had after the game.” He snickers. “Morgan better watch out; think he might have a hitman assigned to him.”
