“Are you still upset about what I said when you came out? I don’t want you to be upset.”
Gale-force winds swirl, ripping past me.
I try to breathe. Just breathe. I turn to the sky. Searching for a bird. A sparrow, a falcon, a woodpecker. Anything. I’ll take anything. Any form of escape.
I breathe out hard as metal. “No.”
“Then why can’t I meet him?”
I grit my teeth and explode. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Sheesh. I just thought so. He’s cute, okay? You can’t blame me for thinking he’s cute for you.”
I shift gears. “What’s going on, Dad?”
He sighs heavily. “Things have just been kind of rough around here. Kara isn’t happy with me.”
It’s coming, I can feel it. The ask. The favor.
“Did she kick you out, Dad?”
“Eh, women. Am I right? Wait. Nope. That was not cool of me to say.” He clears his throat. “I’ll find another place. Honestly, it’s not a big deal. I’m working some angles. Listen, I’m sorry I called and laid this all on you,” he says, then shifts to contrition mode. “This was total bullshit of me. I’m trying not to do it. I told the guys at the meeting that I would do a better job. I wouldn’t lay this at your feet.”
With the word meeting, I let go of a smidge of tension. All I ever wanted was for him to recover. “I’m glad you’re going to meetings.”
“In fact, I’ve got to get to one soon. And honestly, I was just calling to make amends. There’s a lot of shit I want to make amends for, son. And I want to make amends for how I handled it when you came out.”
Now? He wants to do it motherfucking now?
“Dad, I think that’s great, but I just can’t do it this second. I have a game soon. Can we talk about it another time?”
“Yes, of course. You go knock in some homers,” he says, sounding as awkwardly uncomfortable as a duck wearing a three-piece suit.
I turn off my phone, breathe fumes of fire, then march into the complex. In the locker room I stuff the device into my locker, avoiding Grant, avoiding everyone, needing to get into the zone.
I put on my uniform, head out to the field, and stretch as I recite The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
And would it have been worth it after all.
I look at Grant once.
And I know the answer.
I know the answer because it hurts so much to see him struggle in the game.
But I have to put my blinders on. I know how to wear them. I know how to use them. My blinders are my special skill. Better than hitting a fastball over the fences. Stronger than fielding a hot rocket up the center of the diamond.
With my tunnel vision, I have an excellent game, clobbering in a two-run homer.
When the game ends with a win, the guys clap me on the back. After I take a shower and get dressed, I grab my phone and turn it back on. There’s a text from my father.
* * *
Dad: I watched your game online. Tell your boyfriend his weight is too far back on his knees. I doubt he’s even aware of it, but he needs to shift his weight a millimeter forward and he’ll be golden.
* * *
I leave in a trail of fire, walking through the complex staring daggers at my phone. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”
I am not passing that on to Grant. I’m not giving hitting tips to Grant from my father.
Even though it skewers my heart that my guy didn’t play well two games in a row. I flash back to Kyle, my rookie year. To how that relationship messed me up. To how close I came to being sent down.
Love is dangerous. So dangerous.
So are fastballs.
When I reach the corridor, my phone rings.
It’s my agent. I answer right away. “What’s up, Vaughn?”
“Dude, are you sitting down?”
I duck into an empty weight room, sink onto a bench.
Vaughn talks quickly. But precisely. “You’ve heard of this team called the New York Comets?”
“No, I was too busy to watch the World Series last year,” I play dumb and Vaughn laughs.
“If you’d had your eyes on the prize, you’d have seen they were lacking a slugger.” He pauses, takes a breath. “And have you heard of something called fuck-off money?”
I crack up. “Who hasn’t?”
“The Comets just traded for you, and they threw in some fuck-off money too.”
I blink. My body hums, alive with possibility. A strange, wild sensation rushes through my body.
Surprise.
But for the first time in my life, I don’t hate the unknown.
I think . . . I like it.
“The New York Comets just traded for me?” I make sure I’m hearing him right. That I’m not imagining my wishes coming true.
“They did. And they want you in their next spring training game in Florida tomorrow. They’re going for another World Series run, and they’re shoring up on players. They think you’re the missing piece.”