Bromosexual

I also don’t want to push the subject too hard, considering my little living arrangement here can end as quickly as it began.

Can he really blame me for wanting to figure him out?

“I’m gonna take you out today,” I decide.

He pokes the bacon with his spatula so firmly, you’d think he was trying to kill the pig all over again. “You’re gonna what?”

“After breakfast.”

There’s a fleeting moment where it appears like he’s about to huff in frustration. Then, just like that, it’s gone, and his posture relaxes. “Sorry, can’t. I have work that needs to get done.”

“So do we.”

As if I said nothing, he keeps poking the bacon, flipping the sausages, scrambling the eggs—methodically, controlled, and with great purpose behind his every jab and twist. The toaster dings, saving him from having to say anything, and then before I realize it, everything’s on a plate and being carried to the table. He left the toast, so I swipe that dish off the counter and join him at the table, taking my spot and going straight for the eggs.

The knowing smirk on Ryan’s face isn’t missed.

My love for his spicy sriracha eggs is no secret between us.

In another hour, we’re in my truck on a back road with the hot sun baking us through the windshield.

Yes, Ryan gave in. He always gives in when it comes to me. Maybe now I know why.

“Where the hell are we going, anyway?” he gripes from the passenger seat.

“Suck it up, Ryan. I’m back in your life now whether you want me or not,” I taunt him as I push my foot into the pedal.

“I don’t have a problem with you being back in my life, Stefan, provided you don’t speed and run us into a speed limit sign.”

“Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

“No. It’d just be plain dumb.” He slouches and glances out the window. “Damn, I haven’t been on this back road in years.”

“Triggering any memories for you yet?”

“Nope.” He squints and leans forward in his seat. “Wait a sec. Is that—?”

“You bet your sweet homo ass it is.”

He shoots me a look.

I lift a brow at him. “What? Too soon?”

“Too soon?” He scoffs. “Try: not ever. Just because you’re my friend and know I’m gay doesn’t mean you get a free license to call me a homo when you want.”

“Hey, if I recall correctly, first term of endearment you used on me was ‘faggot’. I think that gives me the right to call you what I want for life.” I throw him a look of my own. “Tell me I’m right.”

“Like hell,” he retorts, but I see the hint of a smile on his lips.

I pull into the dirt parking lot and kill the engine. After jumping out, I grab my bag of bats from the backseat and sling them over a shoulder, and then the pair of us head over to the old wooden kiosk in the front. The young messy-haired dude manning it looks like he’s running on one hour of sleep, but when he gets a look at my face, he comes to life, and then he seems to lose his ability to blink entirely. “Cage four,” he timidly tells us, handing us a couple of helmets in a daze. “Do you need any bats, sir?”

“Brought my own,” I answer, patting my bag. “Thanks, Jake.”

His eyes flash. “You know my name?”

“Nametag.”

He glances down, slaps a hand to it, then chuckles nervously. “Uh … right. Hah. Yeah.”

I give him a nod, thank him, then make my way down the dirt lane toward batting cage number four, which is near the end of the long aisle—and I’m pretty sure poor Jake’s unblinking eyes are glued to our backs the whole way.

The cages aren’t that busy, just two or three others occupying them, likely students from any one of the three high schools in the area. One of them is a girl with long dirty blonde hair with a boy outside the cage rooting her on. It reminds me of one of the two times I got to chat with Ryan’s sister back in the day. She’s a tough chick who grew up with dirt under her nails.

“You get that a lot?” asks Ryan when we arrive at our cage, yanking me from my thoughts.

“Get what?”

“The guy at the gear kiosk who clearly knew who you are. His eyes were bulging so far out of his face, he almost lost them.”

I shrug as I drop my bag by the door to our cage and pull out batting gloves for us. “Honestly, fewer people recognize me than you’d expect. Not like I played for the majors.” Ryan anxiously eyes the pitching machine at the other end of the cage. “Scared?”

He shakes his head too quickly. “Nah. Why would I be?”

“About to crap your pants?” I tease, tossing him some gloves.