Double Header (Hardball 2)

Because Javier was likable, damn him. As they walked silently into the outfield, Zach tugging on his glove, his chest ached a little. In Portland, things had been damn near perfect. He and Javier hadn’t just been lovers, they’d been best friends. When they’d split up, Zach had found himself wanting to turn to someone for comfort, and realizing that the only person he wanted comfort from was the one who’d hurt him.

Of course, they’d both done their fair share of hurting. Hadn’t he been the one who’d acted like their relationship had been casual? Like it hadn’t bothered him at all that they would be thousands of miles apart? Strangely, it didn’t bother him when Domenic was on location like he was now.

In fact, he hadn’t really been missing Domenic at all, lately.

He pushed that discomfiting thought aside to focus on drills. If Javier was anything, it was professional, and he wasn’t going to let some petty romantic feuding ruin the entire team’s chances.

“How’s the arm feeling?” he asked, after a couple of gentle throws.

Zach flexed his elbow. “It’s not clicking anymore. That has to be a good sign, right?”

“I hope so. You don’t want to be the guy they strategically drop from the roster.” Javier took a breath. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t nice.”

“It wasn’t mean. It’s reality. If I’m still banged up and they’ve got a chance to bring up a better shortstop, they’re going to.” He peered across the field to where Braydon Bells stood against the fence while another player fungo hit ball after ball at him. “You think Braydon is going to be pissed that I’m back?”

Javier shrugged. “He wants to play shortstop, but he’s better in the outfield. Don’t worry about him, he’s not the guy calling the shots.”

As the day wore on, the tension between them eased. After they broke from practice for a light dinner in the clubhouse—Zach hadn’t gotten his grocery order in with the clubhouse manager on time, but Taylor gladly shared some of the bagged mixed greens and pre-cooked chicken breasts he kept in the huge industrial refrigerator—it was time to get suited up for the game. It wasn’t a momentous night for the rest of the team. In fact, most of the guys were already counting down to the long weekend that the mid-season exhibition game provided for those not voted onto the team. For Zach, tonight’s game was just as exciting as opening day. His fingers itched to get inside a glove, and riding the bench would be torture, but at least he felt like he was getting closer to actually playing.

The nice weather had brought out the fans, as had the team’s long-standing rivalry with the New York Patriots, and the cheering crowd packed the seats all the way to the back of the upper deck. Even from the dugout, Zach could feel the good spirits of the crowd, who would get a little drunker and lot louder as the sun set and the lights came on.

The game was a good one, too. The Patriots weren’t going to go home without putting up a fight, and the Bengals were more than willing to give them one. Zach studied Braydon Bells’s moves as an SS. There was a reason the kid wasn’t going to keep the position. He couldn’t turn quick enough, his release was sluggish, and an eighty-year-old could cover second better. It wasn’t that he was a bad player, he just wasn’t a great shortstop.

They clinched the win gaining a two-run lead in the eighth, ending the game 5-3. Walking out of the dugout without having played, though, felt like a huge loss.

Zach wound down in the clubhouse for a little while, not really wanting to go back to his empty suite. Eventually, though, he had to head home. The drive seemed to take forever, on streets that weren’t nearly as crowded as L.A.’s would be at the same hour. Sleepy didn’t even cover it when it came to describing Grand Rapids.

He dropped his bag at the door and headed straight for his laptop. The video chat popped up with a bubbling noise, and Zach combed his fingers through his hair. He clicked the call icon and waited while it mimicked a dial tone and ringing. He always felt weird contacting Domenic when he was on location. The long hours took their toll and Domenic often complained about interruptions breaking his concentration.

When he answered, though, it was with a smile. “Hey, baby, how was the game?”

Zach didn’t feel his usual annoyance at the endearment. Just seeing Domenic—albeit from miles away and over a stuttering internet connection—was enough to let something that usually irked him slide. “We won. Do you care?”

They both laughed. Zach never took offense to Domenic’s lack of interest. Not everyone was into baseball. At least he cared enough to ask. “How’s filming?”