* * *
By Saturday morning, I couldn’t wait for Saturday night. I lay back on the sofa after cleaning the kitchen and pulled out my cell, hoping to find a new message from him. There was nothing after our oatmeal thread from earlier. I scrolled through the conversation:
Oatmeal sucks
Phoenix sent a surprised-face emoji. What do you have against oatmeal? It’s the best!
No. It’s the worst. The only way I’ll eat it is in cookie form.
With raisins?
Fuck no! Chocolate chips only.
Noted
I waited a couple of minutes, then typed. What time tonight?
I’ll call you in a few minutes.
That was fifteen minutes ago. I paused World of Warcraft and glanced at my cell for the umpteenth time. 10:09. Four minutes since I’d last looked. My obsession with Phoenix was officially starting to mess with my game. Not good.
My game day routine never varied. I woke up no later than eight a.m., made a carb-and-protein-filled breakfast, and chilled until exactly three hours before show time. Sometimes that meant I had an entire day to kill, playing video games or binging on Netflix. Whatever it took to clear my head and get in my zone. I liked being as relaxed as possible before I headed to the field to stretch and practice before the game, so I avoided any activity that might stress me out. Like waiting for a phone call. Just not from Sky. Hopefully, that was a one-time freak occurrence.
I shifted on my sofa and stared at the frozen action on my flat-screen, when a wave of anxiety hit me out of the blue. I’d never spent this much time alone in my life and truthfully, some days I didn’t like myself. I had a tendency to pull apart my game, my intelligence, my integrity, and my likelihood of finding a job after I graduated next year. I was harder on myself than anyone had ever been on me. My parents, coaches, friends, and boyfriends had always been supportive. And when I occasionally failed, they didn’t berate me or make me feel like a loser. So I didn’t understand why I beat myself up.
Actually, that was a lie. I knew my problem. Not having a boyfriend or hell, a friend other than Christian who knew the real me was crushingly lonely sometimes. I was pathetically grateful for those rare occasions when Christian stopped by the apartment to pick up clothes or books he needed before heading to Rory’s. I bounced around him like a Labrador when he walked in the door. But when he left to get on with his life, I began to realize how empty mine was. Sure, I had baseball. But not much else. I couldn’t do anything about it for at least a year. Maybe longer. That had to be why I couldn’t get Phoenix out of my head. I was starving for gay conversation.
Okay, yeah…and sex.
I slipped my right hand under the elastic of my boxer briefs and cupped my balls just as my cell buzzed. I reached for it quickly, but waited a beat before answering, hoping to get my racing heart under control.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Who?” I teased as I sank into the cushions and propped my feet on the coffee table.
“You know who.”
“Ah, yes. My gigolo.”
Phoenix snickered. “Sorry I couldn’t call back sooner. My mom was on the line. So tonight? Or today? I’m heading to the farmer’s market with Sunny soon, but I can meet you for lunch or—”
“I have a game this afternoon. I can meet you after that.”
“It’s a date,” he replied cheerfully before adding, “…with yogurt.”
“Yuck.”
“Trust me. You’ll like it.”
“Hmph. So what are looking for at the farmer’s market?”
“Veggies. I found a recipe for a…”
I folded my free arm behind my head and sank into the cushion and just…listened. Fresh tomatoes, seasonal fruits, recipes for slow cookers. He didn’t mention baseball, video games, action movies, or any subject I usually gravitated to, but I liked this better. I didn’t want to get back to my pre-game headspace. I could tell myself this was all about sex, but that wasn’t true. His voice was comforting, like a soft blanket or my mom’s homemade hot chocolate. Things that made me smile and gave me a sense of peace and well-being. Whatever it was, I was hooked.
4
Saturday games were usually pretty popular, and an unseasonably warm February day brought out the sports lovers who were anxious to transition from football to baseball, as well as the diehard fans who made every home game. Like my folks. Theresa and Michael Maldonado were uberfans. They arrived early and set up camp in the middle of the bleachers, wearing homemade jerseys with my number on them and team caps. They were the kind of parents who cheered loudly for every player…but especially for me. Our team was young and scrappy. Usually we gave them a good show. Not so much today.