He plops down heavily in the beach chair next to me. “You should try it. The water. Volleyball. I don’t know—fun.”
I drop my sunglasses back over my eyes and stare out at the revelry. This area of the beach has a volleyball court set up. Our coolers are all stashed on the sidelines. We have tables with all the grub. A few guys are throwing a football, some are playing cards, and—I squint—yup, Araujo and Thompson, two of our Triple-A pitchers, are building a giant sandcastle.
“I am having fun.”
“You are quite literally the old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn right now—just the beach version. Except you’re like, early twenties?”
“Twenty-five,” I murmur as I glance around.
So, maybe Sanders has a point. I’m the only one sitting by myself in a lounge chair. But I did have an empty chair next to me, which Sanders happily took. The offer to be social was there; I just wasn’t being loud about it.
A new group of guys joins our crew at the coolers—must have just gotten done with afternoon training. My eyes find him instantly. It’s impossible not to when you can see that grin from outer space. He’s dragging two guys I’ve seen him hang around with toward the water—Paulie Nebiolo,who I spent a little time playing with last year before re-injuring myself, and Easton Winters, another hot prospect who, based on whispers, will be joining Triple-A this year.
The three kick off their shoes, shed their shirts, and then Michaels is bounding into the water. He full-on belly-flops into the ocean, and I wince. His friends are hot on his heels, their laughter drifting back to us. Michaels bursts out of the water, slicking back his blond curls with his hands. Bursts of sunlight reflect off the water, washing down his chest and abs. My gut squirms, and I look away from what could have easily been a scene fromBaywatch.
My nails bite into my palms. Can’t risk looking for too long. I hate it. Everyone notices people. Walking down the street, you might see someone who you think has a pretty face, a body-type that’s your jam. It doesn’t mean you’re about to drag them back to your sex dungeon. You’ll probably forget them a minute later. It’s not a crime to notice beauty. Unless you’re queer. Dial that up to a thousand if you’re queer in sports.
“Like those guys,” Sanders says, snapping me back. He points exactly where I don’t want to look.
I glance back just in time to see Nebiolo charge Michaels and take him down in the water.
“We do these team-bonding days for a reason, Pebs.”
Pebs or Pebbles is a nickname I earned early on with the Jetties organization. I don’t remember who came up with it, but my father was always known as Stone, so when I joined the league, I wasLittle Stone,hence Pebbles. Maybe some guys would have taken offense to being called Pebbles—like it’s emasculating or something. I don’t buy into that shit. I also know Dad would have loved it, so the nickname has a bit of a soft spot in my heart.
“We spend an inordinate amount of time together,Stone. February through October. One-hundred-and-sixty-two regular season games. Those twenty-six guys become your family. Chemistry counts for something. And the support.”
My attention slides back to him and collides with his meaningful stare.
“Everyone goes through hard times, slumps. You have us to lean on when that happens. It’ll be really fucking lonely and dark if you don’t.”
He's right. I just…don’t know if I can be that person anymore. Go out there and have fun, be easy-going and carefree? I’ve improved a lot since I started therapy, and I’ve moved past the darkest point in my life, but I’m not sure the muscles in my face even remember how to curl upward. I’m content like this.
My gaze drifts back to Michaels for a heartbeat, Nebs’s arm around him, both bent over laughing. The thing is, when you have important people in your life—friends, partners—you’re giving the universe a chance to take something from you. I know that pain. I live it every day. To open myself up to that again…in any capacity…I don’t want that risk.
“You’ll get past it,” he says quietly.
He’s talking about baseball. Has no idea those words fit more than what he means them for. At least with baseball, there’s hope. I take a breath and let his words sink in. Let myself believe them.
“You’re right.” Force myself to believe them.
“And I know you’re freaking out behind your resting-grump face, but no one has lost confidence in you, Pebs. This is my last year. I don’t have a single doubt about that fact.”
I roll my eyes at his dig—even though I do always havea death-glare in place. I spent so many years hating the world, my face got stuck like that. Sanders is a great guy. He took me under his wing when I came up to Triple-A, knowing I was his next-in-line.
“You’re ready?” I change the subject. Because even though deep down, I’m pretty sure he’s right; there is one person who has lost confidence: Me.
He shrugs. “The R-word has been looming for me for a while now. You know I’m on a year-to-year contract with the Jetties. When they say it’s time, it’s time. I’ve been with them since day one, and I refuse to play for another team. I’ve had an amazing career, and I’m grateful. I think we all thought two years ago was going to be my last season, but then…”
His gaze darts to my elbow. I got injured.
“So, I guess in a very unfortunate turn of events, I have to say thank you for giving me a couple more years.”
I snort.
He gasps theatrically. “Was that almost a laugh? You are human after all and not a robot?”
“Fuck off, Sanders,” I say, but there’s no heat in my words. “If I were a robot, I wouldn’t be struggling with my throws.”
