Scoring With Him (Men of Summer 1)

* * *

Emma: PS: See you in a couple days!

* * *

It takes a second, then the lightbulb flicks on.

* * *

Declan: Yes, the hockey game. Can’t wait to see you.

* * *

Emma: I have a thing in LA after, so it’s perfect. I’ll be in for a night then go on to California.

* * *

Declan: Excellent. Let’s grab a bite before.

* * *

Emma: As if I’d let you get away with anything less.

* * *

Declan: You let me get away with nothing.

* * *

I send the last note then drop my phone in my pocket, done with the workout. Tugging out my headphones, I tell Chance I’ll catch up with him later.

The pitcher points a finger at me. “Pool tonight? You still there?”

“I’m there.”

“Excellent.”

I ask how Natasha’s doing, and he tells me she’s keeping busy but eager for spring training to be over.

“And then you’ll be on the road,” I add.

He shrugs. “The life of the ballplayer.”

“Indeed, it is.”

Chance clears his throat, lifts his chin. “Hey, what do you think of the team? You think it’s coming together?”

I get why he’s asking. Couple of guys were traded at the end of last season—notably, our longtime catcher, traded because of Grant. But also, our former catcher was older, getting rickety in the knees, and missing more games. Rodriguez is a solid backup, but he’s thirty-two and he’s always been a backup.

“Our new catcher specifically, you mean?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I would think you know him better than I do. You throw to him. What do you think of him?”

Chance grins. “The dude is like a sunrise.”

I shoot him a what-the-hell look. “A sunrise?”

“He’s steady and calm, and he’s always there. You can count on him.”

I remember Grant’s comparison of women to sunsets, and I hold back a snicker that Chance wouldn’t understand. I guess Grant and I have a private joke now.

Actually, Grant and I have a lot of private jokes, a lot of private moments, and maybe, we’ll have a lot more in the future.

“You like him behind the dish?” I ask, stripping any laughter from my tone.

Chance nods enthusiastically. “I really do. He’s like the ocean breeze, guiding me home.”

I crack up. “You want to go for a triple metaphor? Maybe he’s a mountain too.”

“Let’s call him Mountain Man,” he says. Then, more seriously, he says, “But, no joke, he has a gift.”

“Yeah. He really does.” I tilt my head, searching his expression. “Why did you ask me, though?”

I suspect Chance gets the unspoken question. Are you asking me what I think of him because we’re the two queer dudes on the team?

He scoffs. “Because you work out with him every morning? Duh. You know the guy.”

I let out a held breath. “Right, yeah. He’s a good one. Hell of an addition to the team.”

I leave, texting my mom as I make my way through the complex. I haven’t checked in with her in a few days, so she replies quickly.

* * *

Mom: I’ve cleared my schedule for Opening Day.

* * *

Declan: As you should. I’m getting you tickets on the first-base line.

* * *

Mom: Where else? But the game seems so far away.

* * *

I look at the calendar on my phone. Three and a half weeks since I got to Phoenix, one and a half more to go. Anxiety knots in my chest—there’s so much I want to happen at spring training.

* * *

Declan: It’ll be here in the blink of an eye.

* * *

Mom: And Tyler and I will be there too. We’ll always be there.

* * *

That’s one of the truest things she’s ever said. I feel it deep in my soul, and that means the world to me. She was there when Dad left, cheering at all my games, taking me to early morning practices, and weekend tournaments all over the state. She stepped up as both parents, with Dad hardly around.

Then later, when I struggled with the aftermath of a visit from my father, she was there too. Some shit went down at the end of my senior year, and that’s when I caught a glimpse of my own self-destructive potential. Mom did, as well, and she helped me get on a better path.

* * *

Declan: Love you, Mom.

* * *

Mom: I love you too.

* * *

I reach my room, and as I open the door, I find a new text.

It’s not my mom.

Speak of the devil.

Anger lashes out of nowhere—anger I haven’t felt in years. Fury and shame and guilt wrap around each other into a treacherous ball that slams into me like a rogue pitch.

“Are you kidding me?”

I shut the door and open the text from my dad.

He hasn’t written to me in months. Not since he needed help paying his credit card.

* * *

Dad: Hey, kid!!! Miss you like crazy! How’s it going? I checked the spring training blogs. You’re killing it.