The machine belts roar in my ears, our feet slamming down and ringing around us, reverberating through mychest. My lungs heave, and my muscles burn like I’ve submerged myself in a tub of acid.
More.
I match.
At this point, we’re both running for our lives. One misstep, and we’re eating shit and probably breaking our faces. Every breath I pull in is covered in shards of glass. My muscles are locking up, and that lactic acid burn is like fire.
Fuck.I pull the emergency cord and finally give in to my screaming body. The belt spits me off, and my knees slam into the padded gym floor. My body lurches as it struggles for oxygen, my stomach twisting like it’s ready to empty itself.
The whirring of the treadmill fades to silence, and when I lift my head, I’m met with a sweat-soaked Shane Michaels. His blond curls are dark and plastered to his head, cheeks crimson red, chest straining the fabric of his drenched white tank—which of course means I can see his nipples. All pink and small and…fuck me. Just fuck me. I wish I’d fallen and bashed my head in.
Teammate.He’s your teammate, Jed.
Yeah, my sexy, sexy teammate.
I glance away and stifle the growl rising in my chest. The last thing I need is him to think I’m checking him out. It doesn’t take much for straight guys to get uncomfortable once they know you’re queer.
And I am out in a quiet, low-key capacity: the Jetties organization knows, my teammates know. I don’t advertise it, but I don’t hide it. So, I’ve heard it all—from the in-your-face homophobic comments to the whispered slurs to the backhanded, “I’m totally okay with the queer thing…just don’t make it weird, ya know?”
He grins down at me. “Well, that was fun!”
I take a little satisfaction in the fact that his words came out choppy while he’s trying to regain his own breath. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even think he’s fucking fazed by our sprint. Damn it. I know it meant nothing, a pointless “game.” Even so, I can’t stop the ominous cloud from creeping in. He’s my competition, and I just lost to him.
I can’t afford to lose to Shane Michaels. When it comes to baseball or restraint.
“Fun is not the word I’d use,” I mutter, still out of breath. “Maybe sadistic.”
He barks out a laugh. He claps me on the shoulder, and it takes everything in me not to flinch. I am so on edge right now. God, I need another run. Except my legs are like Jell-O.
“Don’t feel too bad about it, Stone. I was born running. It was my main mode of transportation growing up. It’s hard to compete with a decade of conditioning.”
He throws his towel over his shoulder and strolls off, a fucking pep in his step. While I’m still dying on the floor.
It’s not until his shoulders disappear through the gym door that his words register.
I was born running. It was my main mode of transportation growing up. It’s hard to compete with a decade of conditioning.
What does that mean?
My heart poundsin my ears, my weight on the balls of my feet. Every part of me is honed in on the batter. I shift almost imperceptibly. I can’t stay still. The minute you still,your reflexes slow, and that can cost you precious milliseconds. Cost you a play. A win.
Our pitcher winds up and lets one fly. Swing and miss. Damn, that was a pretty slider. No shade on our minor league pitchers, but I love getting a few at-bats against big league arms during Spring Training. The jump from Triple-A to The Show is real. Faster velocity, tighter movement, sharper command.
I shuffle side to side, keeping loose and syncing myself with the pitcher’s motion. The next pitch fires in—crack!
My body moves on instinct, perfectly in line with my brain instantly registering the placement of the ball. It’s going to my right. I have mere seconds to make sure it doesn’t get past me, yet time somehow seems to slow when you make a play. My cleats bite into the grass, thighs on fire, and I launch into a lateral dive, body extended to the point it feels like my shoulder is about to rip from its socket. But the most glorious thing happens. Thethwackof leather swallowing a ball fills my ears.
Then the ground hits me. But the adrenaline doesn’t allow for pain. Every wild heartbeat pumps away the impact of hurling myself into hard earth. I’ll feel it later. But right now? I made the fucking out.
Every muscle in my body goes taut, and I tip my head back, barely keeping myself from letting out a roar to the heavens. Fuck, I needed that. Right now, I’m swinging a hot bat, and my defense is sharp—when I don’t need to throw the ball. But it’s fine. Everything is fine. Just rusty. Which I knew was going to happen. You can rehab as thoroughly as possible, but it’ll never replace live games. It’ll never replace the demand of playing nearly every day for six months straight.
I lob the ball back to our pitcher and reset. It’ll comeback. We’re only two weeks into Spring Training. I have plenty of time. It would help if a certain ever-smiling green shortstop wasn’t doing so fucking good. I don’t need the threat of being replaced on top of what’s going on with me—which I’m not going to admit is going on with me.
Everything. Is. Fucking. Fine.
The crack of wood hitting ball echoes through the park. A soft chopper straight my way. I sprint in, scoop it up, and whip it to our first baseman, Roche. An easy out, a routine play—except it flies over Roche’s head. He pivots and scrambles after it. My gut sinks even as he sends a missile to second. It’s not even close to in time. What should have been automatic out—the end of the fucking inning—turned into a runner in scoring position because of my error.
I glance over to our dugout, and my heart joins my stomach at my feet. Our coaches are talking behind their clipboards, faces grim.
