“No shame, man.” My voice turns serious. “There is no shame in what two consenting adults do in the bedroom. We do not yuck another person’s yum. That’s so against bro-code.”
He nods solemnly. “So not a bro thing to do.”
He’s teasing me, and I really like it.
We stare at the ceiling for a while. And it’s…comfortable. Just sharing the space with him, lost in thought.
I finally break the silence. “So, you think this is what Coach had in mind?”
Jed bursts out laughing, and I join him.
Tonight turned out so much better than I could have ever imagined.
ANNOUNCER
PROVIDENCE CLIPPERS - APRIL 20TH
Bernie:“Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Ollz? Because either my contact prescription is off, or we’ve slipped into the Twilight Zone.”
Oliver:“Your eyes are just fine, Bern. We’ve officially entered an alternate reality. Jed Stone Junior and Shane Michaels are so in sync I’m half-tempted to start singing “Bye Bye Bye” to the Clippers’ losing streak.”
Bernie [laughs]:“From Stone’s hand to Michaels’s glove like there’s a magnet in there. And that’s a long way from the two of them colliding and dropping balls like it was a blooper reel last night.”
Oliver:“Night and day, Bern. Their chemistry tonight? Electric.”
Bernie:“Literal sparks. I don’t know what those two did to flip the switch, but whatever it was, I hope they keep doing it.”
Oliver:“We better keep the fire brigade on call, Bern. With sparks like those, this whole field might go up in flames.”
TWENTY-ONE
SHANE
We areon fucking fire tonight. Me and Stone specifically. Jed hit a grand slam in the fifth and, damn, was it sexy. He knew it was gone the moment he made contact, and the confident swagger in his step really did it for me. Like uncomfortable-wearing-a-cup did it for me.
Last night has made everything so much worse. It did nothing to get him out of my system. No, now he’s taken up residence. He’s in my bloodstream, and I need more. As the great Christopher Walken would say, I’ve got a fever…and the only prescription is more Jed Stone Jr.
This game is almost over, and we’re so close to finally bringing in a win. It’s the top of the ninth, we’re up by two, one out, and they’ve got a guy on first. So close. I’m a little nervous because Slater, our closer for the night, isn’t hitting the strike zone well. He already walked the guy who’s parked at first. We cannot lose this with walks.
He fires one in. I can tell it’s sailing outside before it even gets to the plate—but the batter goes fishing for it. God knows why. I mean, I do get it. Sometimes you can’thelp but reach for it, then feel like the biggest sucker after.
Woo. Strike one. Two more. One batter at a time. We’ve got this. Slater manages one over the plate and—fuck—contact. It’s a sharp grounder straight to short. I sprint to the bag, gaze locked on Jed charging for it. He dives, glove extended, and—shit, if he misses this, we are royally screwed. He’s fucking got it. He doesn’t waste precious seconds getting up; he shotputs it to me from his stomach. The second it hits my glove, I spring off the bag and whip it to first just as the runner comes sliding into my bag. The ball lands in Roche’s glove, and it’s not even close. Out. Double Play. Game over.
We won.
We broke our losing streak.
A grin splits my face, and Stone and I jog toward each other. He lifts his forearm.
“Fuck, we needed that,” he says.
I bump his arm with mine. “That was a pretty play.”
“Looks like we’re finally figuring out how to work together.”
“Guess all it took was some shared orgasms.” I wink and jog off to high-five Paulie, Jed’s choked surprise trailing behind me.
I piggyback ride East into the locker room. I am on cloud nine. It has been so damn depressing here lately. You’d think you just walked into a different clubhouse with how rowdy everyone is now. Paulie slaps me so hard on the ass that both East and I eat shit. We’re laughing, trying to catch our breath on the floor, when the skipper walks in.
