“The course of true love never did run smooth.” —William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
The rain came out of nowhere. Blue skies turned an ominous gunmetal gray as a strong wind whistled through the campus. The normally bustling quad was a ghost town. Most students kept to the perimeters of the grassy areas under the eaves as they made their way to class. The smarter ones wore thick hoodies or at least carried an umbrella, while others held books or a backpack over their heads as they raced between buildings. Me? I was about to get soaked.
I tucked my American Studies notebook and my iPad under my long-sleeved T-shirt as I eyed the distance to the parking lot. There was no way I’d make it to my car without getting wet. I didn’t care about my clothes or my hair, but I’d be screwed if anything happened to my stuff. I heaved a frustrated sigh before ducking my head and making a run for it. Halfway to my destination, someone bumped into me, accidentally dislodging my notebook. I headed for cover to adjust my burden, shaking my head and swiping at my eyes before glancing around the archway connecting the math lab and Granding Theater.
I could safely say I’d never had an occasion to go inside either building. I’d made an effort to steer clear of subjects that confused me, and math and drama were near the top of that list. Math, for obvious reasons, and drama because theater people intimidated the hell out of me. Maybe that sounded silly, but I couldn’t decide if I was in awe of their bravery or if I thought they were flat-out crazy to want to perform in front of a crowd for fun. What did I know? I was a psych major. But first and foremost, I was a baseball player.
At a private college like Chilton, athletics usually took a back seat to scholastics. But our baseball team rocked. We’d won our conference championship title for the past three years straight. And though our season had just begun last week, our chances of a four-peat were looking good. Not great, but good.
I cast my gaze to the dark sky and grumbled unhappily. We couldn’t practice in these conditions. No doubt Coach Glenn would have us meet at the gym on campus instead of on the field today. I’d check my messages when I got to my car. I had forty-five minutes to head home, grab a bite to eat, and pick up my workout bag. Plenty of time, I mused as I stepped away from the wall and—froze at the sight of fairies dancing in the rain.
For real. I couldn’t make it up if I tried. The three young women and one guy wore tights and some kind of weird costume involving glittering leaves sewn over green leotards. They held hands as they pranced around the grassy area in front of the theater, with their faces turned to the heavens. Very strange. Any other day of the week, I would have rolled my eyes and walked the other way…fast, because like I said, theater people freaked me out. And the diehard ones who were so dedicated to their craft, they were willing to risk pneumonia on a day like today had to be slightly imbalanced. But the guy looked kinda familiar.
He had short platinum-blond hair and the physique of a dancer or a gymnast. His calf muscles looked like sculpted marble in those skin-colored tights. He was hot too…high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and a stunning smile. Theater geeks aren’t my type, I reminded myself as I straightened from the wall.
I was about to head to the parking lot when the platinum cutie broke away from his friends and skipped to a nearby tree. Yes…skipped. He brushed his palms against his thighs and called out “Ready?” before doing a series of cartwheels and landing two feet away from me. He bowed dramatically and lifted his arms above his head, circling his hands as if encouraging applause. I tucked my iPad under my arm and clapped along with his friends ’cause let’s be honest, sticking a perfect cartwheel in the rain couldn’t be easy. He flashed a flirty grin over his shoulder, then stepped forward and fell flat on his face.
I raced to his side unthinking and crouched low. ““Hey, you okay? Let me help you up.”
“Thanks.”
I tucked my belongings to my chest, then reached for his elbow and pulled him upright. I led him to shelter under the eaves before attempting to see if he’d hurt himself. Not the correct procedure, I know. But I couldn’t afford to have my iPad crap out on me because of exposure to the elements. And he seemed all right. In fact, he was more concerned about the rip in his tights than the scratch along his forearm.
“It’s slippery out there. You must have lost your footing,” I commented.
“And my self-respect. That’s what I get for showing off,” he griped.
I chuckled. “Who were you showing off for?”
“You, of course.” He signaled to his friends that he was okay, then turned to me with his hand outstretched. His winning smile immediately faded as he widened his eyes in disbelief. “Max?”
Oh. Wow.
I opened my mouth and shut it like a fish out of water as a flood of memories hit me like a rogue wave: dancing close to sexy music in a dark club in LA, his sweat-slicked torso pressed to my chest, his fingers in my hair as he sucked on my bottom lip, twisting his tongue alongside mine. Over and over. All night long.
“Phoenix,” I whispered.
The corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “You remember.”
“Of course, I remember. Um…what are you doing here? It’s been a while, but I thought you lived in West Hollywood or something.”
“I did, but I was accepted to Chilton’s film and television program. I started last month and I’m loving it,” he gushed.
“Uh, that’s cool. Did you tell me you were transferring here?” I asked in confusion.
“I don’t know. Do you go here too?”
“Yeah…I thought I mentioned it, but—”
“You didn’t. But don’t beat yourself up. It was months ago. I have a hard time remembering what I ate for breakfast, let alone what I told a stranger I met at a club.” In spite of his cheerful intonation, his smile dimmed.
“No. It’s not like that. I remember everything,” I blurted. “Your name is Phoenix Bell. You like Lady Gaga and Pink. The artist and the color. You talked about your family too.”
“Well, that’s embarrassing,” he said with a laugh. “Did I really?”
“Just a little. You have a twin sister and a brother. You love french fries and you’re a great dancer. And an even better kisser. Oh…and you’re twenty-one. Did I forget anything?”
Phoenix smiled. “No. But I’m twenty-two now. My birthday was last month.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thank you. I remember you too. You’re a sports guy, right?”
I chuckled. “Yeah. A baseball sports guy.”
“That’s right. The one with the sexy pants.”
“I guess,” I agreed with a half laugh.
His mischievous grin was really fuckin’ cute. Hell, he was really fuckin’ cute. Phoenix was maybe five nine, lean and toned in all the right places. He had twinkling blue eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. And though he wasn’t classically attractive, there was something magnetic about him. He exuded a joyful yet sophisticated vibe I’d found seriously appealing the night we met. And now.
He shivered when a gust of wind whistled along the wide corridor. “Fuck, it’s cold.”
“Yeah, it is. You should go inside, and I should get to practice. What were you doing out in the rain anyway?”
“I’m a fairy,” he said as though that explained everything.
“O-kay.”
“Not that kind of fairy. Actually, I am that kind of fairy too,” he assured me with a sassy wink before continuing, “I’m Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. We finished rehearsal just when it started raining and I couldn’t resist.”
“Even though you’re freezing?” I touched his elbow to point out the goose bumps on his forearm.
Fine. It was just an excuse to touch him again. Memory morphed into déjà vu, like my body remembered him on a whole other level. We hadn’t done anything crazy that night. We’d just danced and made out. It was hot as fuck, but I’d wanted so much more.
Unfortunately, I still had a boyfriend back then. And no, that’s not as douchey as it sounds. Sky and I had been exclusive, but we gave each other permission to play if we weren’t together. The main rule was honesty. I was allowed to make out with another guy if Sky wasn’t with me and vice versa, but nothing more. Our “You can look and maybe touch as long as the other party knows every detail” rule had been Sky’s idea to keep things interesting and give us a dose of freedom within a committed relationship. It worked for a while, and then it just felt…cold. We were at the finish line the night I’d met Phoenix, but not quite done. Walking away that night with nothing but the scent of Phoenix’s cologne on my shirt and a phone number I couldn’t call had been pure torture. I’d thought about him nonstop for weeks after. Running into him now felt surreal.
If we weren’t on school property, I might have thought the universe was giving me a cool do-over. But the timing was almost worse than it had been when I was trying to salvage my rocky relationship. Between Christian’s public coming-out and Sky’s abrupt departure from the baseball team after our private but volatile breakup, I had more eyes on me now than ever. And let’s face it, a hot make out session a few months ago didn’t necessarily translate to something special…like a second chance.
Phoenix seemingly agreed. He stepped aside and gestured toward the building behind him.
“I have a jacket in the theater. I should head back anyway,” Phoenix said. “It was nice to see you again, Max.”
We shared an awkward smile. And just as he was about to turn away, I panicked and launched into verbal vomit mode.
“Wait. I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I wanted to. I had a boyfriend at the time. We weren’t in a good place. In fact, we broke up pretty soon after that night. I wanted to reach out then, but things got weird when my roommate came out, and I’ve been trying to lay low and—”
“You’re not out?” he asked with a frown.
I bit my bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. I felt like a fucking idiot, telling a guy dressed like a fairy that I was so far in the closet I was practically in another zip code. I shook my head and sighed. “No.”
“Oh. Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me,” he said gently. He started to turn again, then paused. “Thanks for telling me. I kind of hoped you’d call, but I think we agreed that night that our timing was off. I’m seeing someone now anyway, so…take care of yourself, and good luck with the touchdowns!”
“Home runs,” I corrected with a laugh. “I play baseball.”
“That’s right. I love baseball costumes!”
“You mean uniforms.”
“If you say so,” he said a little too cheerily.
I scratched the back of my neck and gestured toward the parking lot. “Hey, um…do you want to get coffee or something? Just as friends. I mean…you said you’re with someone and that’s cool. But maybe we could just…catch up or whatever. Sometime in the future.”
Wow. Talk about lame.
When Phoenix didn’t reply right away, I figured he thought so too. He stared at me for a long moment before inclining his head. “Sure…a future coffee date sounds good. Do you still have my number?”
“Yeah.”
Phoenix smiled. “Cool See ya, Max.”
I watched him walk toward the theater, noting the sway of his hips and the proud tilt of his chin as he disappeared through the glass door. Coffee? What the fuck was I thinking? I couldn’t have coffee with him. I liked him too much. Scratch that. I was ridiculously physically attracted to him. The zing of awareness was as strong now as it had been three months ago when I couldn’t act on it. I couldn’t sit across a table from him, asking stupid questions about his major, when what I really wanted to know was if he still tasted like strawberries.
Like he said, our timing was off. I had been miserably attached to Sky three months ago, and now Phoenix had a boyfriend. Or a significant other. Geez, just the thought of him “seeing someone” made me sick to my stomach. I felt like going after him and asking him what the hell that meant—like I had the right or something. I didn’t. Phoenix wasn’t mine. And even if he was free, we didn’t stand a chance. He was fabulous and I wasn’t…at all. A couple of stolen hours spent dancing in the dark was one thing, but everything was different in the light of day. Especially here where no one knew the real me. And they most likely never would.
* * *
The drastic change in the weather the following week was very welcome. Mild winter temperatures were one of the major perks of living in Southern California. We’d had our fair share of rain lately, but today it was seventy degrees with blue skies. Not bad for mid-January. I grabbed a handful of french fries and popped a few in my mouth before twisting in my seat to look for Christian among the students hanging around the outdoor food court. I nodded a greeting to a girl from my psych class just as someone squeezed my shoulder from behind.
Christian laughed when I started in surprise. “Hey, there.”
“Geez, quit sneaking up on me,” I griped, sliding a paper bag across the green metal table.
“Sorry. Class ran late. Did you get me a salad?”
“Yes, and fries. I couldn’t let you eat rabbit food without a few carbs. And I’m not sharing mine.”
Christian adjusted his sunglasses, then pulled the container from the bag. He made a production of shaking the dressing before finally pouring it over the Cobb salad and tucking into his lunch.
“Thank you. Fuck, I’m hungry,” he said around a mouthful of lettuce. “I worked out with Rory this morning and didn’t have time for a real breakfast. The granola bar and apple I snuck in statistics didn’t cut it.”
“Mmm. And how’s statistics going?” I asked, waggling my brows lasciviously.
“The class sucks but—”
“But so does your tutor?” I intercepted, holding my hand out for a high five.
“Yeah, but I like the way he sucks,” Christian said with a chuckle, primly ignoring my outstretched hand. His laughter bubbled over when I slapped my own palm and raised my arms triumphantly.
I shoved another few fries in my mouth and studied my best friend when I noticed admiring gazes and shy smiles from a few passersby. Christian was six four with broad shoulders, a lean, muscular body and a killer arm. He had short brown hair, pretty blue eyes, and even features. I was only three inches shorter, but I had a slightly thicker build, short dark hair, and hazel eyes. We were both considered handsome, I guessed, but Christian rocked an all-American-kid look while my olive skin and last name gave away my Latino heritage.
Happiness looked good on Christian. His eyes twinkled and his face lit with an inner contentment that seemed to be part of his new persona. Christian had always been a chill guy. As Chilton’s star quarterback, he had to be cool under pressure. But facing the public ordeal of coming out at a small college had changed him. He’d already been a well-respected athlete before he was outed, and now he was a fucking celebrity.
Christian was a big fish in a tiny pond. I supposed we both were. We were fourth-year seniors, popular athletes, lifelong best friends, and roommates. Almost no one knew we’d been secret boyfriends for five years too. Most people probably figured we were a couple of jocks who happened to have a lot in common.
I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t know Christian. We grew up in the same small Southern California town, went to the same schools, and attended the same church. We didn’t hang out much until we were teenagers. Christian was more reserved and a little uptight. I was the class clown with the loud mouth who always got in trouble. He told me he steered clear of me in grade school to avoid getting pulled into the principal’s office for doing stupid stuff like setting off fire alarms…just because.
Everything changed when puberty hit. I thought something was wrong with me at first. I didn’t get excited about girls’ boobs the way the guys on my Little League team did. I remembered telling my parents how frustrated I was that our pitcher couldn’t get the ball across the plate when our junior high cheerleading squad came to our games. My dad ruffled my hair and grinned. “Someday you’ll understand, mijo. Then maybe baseball won’t seem so important.” He’d laughed when I looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. Yeah, right.
Baseball was my life. Hell, it still was. I was pretty sure I could never love anything or anyone the way I loved baseball. From the time I was old enough to grip a Louisville Slugger, it was my reason to wake up in the morning and my incentive to make it through a boring day at school. A game, practice, or even a trip to the batting cages got me a hell of a lot more excited than the prospect of hanging out with a cute girl. And honestly, the idea of touching female parts made me queasy. But Christian? Yeah, I’d wanted to touch his ass. Or at least look at it.
I’d caught myself staring at him for no particular reason in biology. I noticed strange things, like the way he held his pencil and the way his hair fell in his eyes when he looked down at his textbook. But it got even weirder. One day, I wanted to know what his hair felt like, I wanted to study his eyes to see how blue they were up close, and I wanted to make him laugh, because it was a beautiful sound. For a while, I didn’t understand my compulsion to know him better. It was a gut feeling. And any decent ballplayer knew you had to trust your gut.
We became good friends when we were thirteen. By the time we were sixteen, we were inseparable. And we weren’t just friends anymore. We were lovers. He was my first kiss, hand job, blowjob, anal. Christian was my everything…after baseball, of course. We were as committed to each other as we were to our sports. And we liked that no one knew. But then I met Sky, and everything changed.
Thankfully, our friendship survived our breakup. Christian had Rory now, and he was happier than I’d seen him in a long time.
“What’s up with you?” he asked, setting his fork down and reaching for a water bottle.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“You wanted to meet in the most crowded place on campus at the busiest time of day. That’s not like you. You’re obviously up to something. Spill it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lied, taking a bite of my sandwich before clandestinely casting my gaze toward the table next to us.
“You’re full of shit, Max.” When I didn’t respond, he kicked my shin and prodded, “Who are you looking for?”
“I’m not—okay, fine.” I glanced around once more before leaning across the table. “Remember when we went to that club in LA last October? You met up with Rory and—”
“I remember it well,” he intercepted with a sappy smile.
“Well, do you remember the twink we met in line? The cute guy in pink.”
Christian cocked his head. “Sort of. He’s the one you talked about when you finally crawled home in the middle of the night.”
“Phoenix.”
“Huh? Is he from Phoenix?”
“Yeah. And it’s also his name.” I stole a fry from him, snatching my hand away before he smacked me. “And Phoenix, who used to live in LA, now lives in Orange and attends…wait for it…Chilton College. He transferred.”
“Really?” Christian smiled. “That’s cool. You should ask him out.”
“He has a boyfriend.”
“Oh.”
“So I asked him if he wanted to get coffee.”
“But?”
I sighed. “It’s been a week and I haven’t called him yet.”
“Why not? Coffee is harmless.”
“Yeah, except I’m a terrible actor. I don’t want to be his friend. I’d want to back him against the counter at the Starbucks on campus and stick my tongue down his throat in front of the whole damn school. The last thing I need is to get ostracized from my team just as my season starts, Chrissy,” I snarked.
“Ostracize,” he repeated, drawing out every syllable. “You’re having a drama queen moment, aren’t you? You always flex your vocab muscles when you’re stressed.”
“Ha. I’m not having a moment. I don’t know why I told you about it. It’s not even really interesting, but it was funny seeing him here. Out of context, you know?” I tilted my chin in greeting and fist-bumped one of my teammates passing our table before scanning the area once more for the cute blond. I refocused on Christian when I saw his lips moving.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if he turned out to be your new shortstop?” he snickered. “It would be pretty ironic for you to have a crush on the guy who took over your ex’s position.”
“Yeah…hilarious,” I huffed sarcastically. “Phoenix doesn’t play baseball. Micah is our new shortstop, and I definitely don’t have a crush on him. He’s an asshole. The subtle kind who says five things to you…four are fine and the fifth makes you want to accidentally slather his glove with whipped cream and ask him why he jacks off so much.”
Christian snorted. “That’s disgusting. Have you ever done that?”
“No, but it’s a great prank. Remind me to do it before the season’s up. Anyway, get this…the other day we were standing next to each other playing catch with a coupla other guys before practice and having a perfectly normal “get to know you” conversation. Micah tells me he’s from NorCal, he’s tired of the rain, his roommate drives him crazy…that kinda stuff. I was barely paying attention to him, honestly. Then just as Coach changes up the drill and everyone comes toward us, he makes a comment about his ex. He tells me he liked being single for a while but he’s looking forward to meeting some new chicks. And yeah…he said chicks. Like I said, I’m zoning out until he says, ‘I’d ask you to introduce me to someone, but it seems like most of your friends are gay.’ ”
Christian set his fork down. “What’d you say?”
“I said, ‘I don’t know about that, but my best friend is.’ Then I got in his face and asked him if he had something to say about it.” I let out a disgusted huff. “Fucker.”
“Don’t get into a fight over me, Max. It’s not worth it.”
“Of course it’s worth it. I’m not gonna lie…I was a little nervous when the season started.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? Sky quit, you came out, and Moreno got expelled for a hate crime. That’s a lot of drama. I thought I’d have to deal with a few stupid pricks making queer jokes in the locker room. But it’s been the opposite. Everyone thinks it’s awesome that my best friend is a gay crusader. It’s like you’re Chilton’s version of Ellen. I get serious street cred points for knowing you, so thanks.” I waited for Christian to stop laughing before I continued. “Nobody cares if I have a gay friend or a gay relative. They just don’t want me to be gay.”
“I bet they wouldn’t care,” Christian said softly.
“Hmph. I don’t know. I’ve been playing ball with most of these guys for years. We talk about the same shit we always do and I like it that way. Leave it to the new guy to stir things up.”
“Maybe he’s feeling you out because he’s gay and he’s looking for an ally.” He quirked his brow mischievously and added, “Or maybe he thinks you’re cute.”
“Yeah, that must be it,” I commented with an eye roll.
“Is he cute?”
I gave Christian the “What the fuck?” look he deserved. “Even if Micah looked like Chris Pine, I wouldn’t touch him. I made a serious vow to myself to never, ever, ever have a clandestine relationship with a teammate again.”
“Ooh…clandestine. Another big word,” he teased.
“Fuck off.” I let out an amused half laugh before taking a swig of water.
“Okay, but what if he was Chris Pine?”
I waggled my brows lasciviously. “Then I’d totally do him.”
We busted up laughing and segued into a semi-heated conversation about which Star Trek movie was best.
“Into the Darkness,” Christian insisted stubbornly.
“Okay, first of all, there’s no ‘the’ in the title. It’s just ‘Into Darkness.’ And since you didn’t know that, you forfeit your right to an opinion. Besides, the first one was the best. End of discussion, Chrissy.”
He gritted his teeth. “I hate it when you call me that.”
“You love it,” I countered.
“Right. Change the topic before I lunge across the table and kick your ass. Tell me about Tucson. Where did you run into him?”
“In front of Granding. Phoenix is a theater guy. I saw him dancing in the rain in a fairy costume…and why are you looking at me like that?”
“ ’Cause you’ve got this funny smile on your face. You like him.”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “Sure, but like I said…he’s a theater guy, and he’s seeing someone else anyway.”
Christian frowned. “Why do you keep saying ‘theater guy’? Is that a big deal?”
“No. It just means he’s really gay.”
“Oh, I see. And you’re just sort of gay?” he asked sarcastically.
“No, I’m really gay too. Really, really gay. But he’s super gay. He had eyeliner and lip gloss on that night in LA. You know, I’ve never kissed a guy who wore lip gloss before. ChapStick, yes. Lip gloss, no.”
“And?”
“It was hot. He was hot.” I swallowed hard and looked away for a second when I was blindsided by a rogue memory of grinding against Phoenix in the dark to electronic dance music that was so loud, it sounded like a jungle beat. Sensual and erotic and—
“Dude, you need to get laid,” Christian deadpanned.
“You’re tellin’ me. I haven’t gone this long without sex since I was sixteen. And I’m a helluva lot hornier now than I was then. It’s fucking miserable,” I groused. “I’m jacking off like three times a day on average, Chrissy. My dick is gonna fall off before my season is over at this rate.”
Christian threw his head back and guffawed. “Poor Max.”
“I’m actually thinking about trying a hookup site. Desperate times call for desperate measures, you know?”
I waited for his gasp of dismay and a mini lecture warning me about the dangers of talking to strangers—let alone having sex with them. But he didn’t say a word. And when he finally did, I almost fell off my chair.
“Well, a lot of people use ’em. Maybe try a dating app first. Or better yet, I can ask Evan if he and Mitch have any single friends. Derek and Gabe might know someone too.”
“Stop,” I commanded, holding up my right hand. “I don’t want to date anyone, I just want sex.”
Christian wiped the corner of his mouth primly and looked around us before leaning in. “I understand. But if you go that route, I want to know which site you use.”
“Why? Are you Rory looking for a third?” I joked. I winced a second later when he kicked my shin…hard.
“No, dumbass. I want to know how to track your murderer if I come home to a crime scene.”
“Is that a graphic way of telling me you still care about me?” I singsonged.
“You know I do. Hey, I know I’m not home much, but you can always call me to hang out. You don’t have to be alone…unless you want to be.”
“Thanks. I’m busy with baseball. It’s all good.” I gestured at his half-eaten french fries. “You gonna eat those?”
Christian pushed the container in front of me, then pulled out his phone to check his messages. “I gotta get going. I have class in ten minutes. When is your next home game?”
“Saturday at two.”
“Cool. We’ll be there.”
I frowned. “Aren’t you coming by the apartment to at least get a change of clothes so I can whip your ass at Call of Duty?”
“Yeah, but probably while you’re at practice. I don’t want to get stuck in traffic on my way to Rory’s. You’re welcome to come to his place for dinner. He always makes too much and—”
“No, thanks. I’m gonna swing by the store for frozen pizza and a jumbo-sized bottle of lube.”
“Just don’t get carpal tunnel in your throwing hand,” Christian advised with a laugh as he stood. “Thanks for lunch. I’ll buy next time. I think it’s totally cute that you wanted to meet here on the off chance you’d run into your crush.”
“Fuck off,” I huffed without heat.
“By the way, I passed the theater on my way out of statistics and saw the sign for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. They have performances all this week. The last one is Friday…in case you’re interested.”
He walked away before I could think of a snappy comeback. I scowled as I gathered my trash, glancing up when someone called his name. I was too far to overhear the conversation, but I could tell it was a member of the Christian Rafferty fan club; a small but passionate group of admirers made up of LGBTQ students, allies, and sports enthusiasts. They stopped him occasionally to thank him for being a proud on-campus representative. He shook hands, posed for a selfie, and even signed autographs. He was a hero.
Every once in a while, I felt a twinge of longing for what Christian had now. Not the celebrity stuff…the freedom. He didn’t have to hide who he was or who he loved. He stated his truth with his head held high. He didn’t back down or offer to relinquish his position on the team when he was outed. In fact, he fought for it. He was the best they had, and everyone knew it. I was incredibly proud of my friend. I’d witnessed his bravery firsthand, and I knew nothing about coming out had been easy for him.
Christian was an inspiration for hundreds if not thousands of people who’d followed his story. Hell, he inspired me. But I still wasn’t ready to make any life-altering announcements. Sometimes I wasn’t sure I ever would be.
* * *
A few hours later, I couldn’t stop thinking about Phoenix. I set my bat on my shoulder and willed myself not to pop a boner in practice. It wasn’t easy. It was like I’d accidentally opened a floodgate when I’d mentioned him to Christian. Every insignificant detail from our first meeting replayed in my head. The way he laughed and leaned in when he spoke. And the way he’d moved in the dark with his eyes closed and his hands in the air. Completely uninhibited, yet connected to his surroundings. Like a free man.
Damn, that must feel amazing.
I know what you’re thinking…if guys like Christian and Phoenix had the balls to come out, why didn’t I? The truth was, I thought about it. But not for long. I couldn’t see putting myself before baseball. I didn’t know what it was like in theater, but every time an athlete came out, his personal life took center stage. It happened to Christian.
Everyone had stopped talking about his awesome stats and how he’d led our school to a championship for an unprecedented third year in a row. They all wanted to deep-dive into his personal life instead. Football came second. I couldn’t do that. For me, baseball had always been number one.
I had great memories of being the honorary ball boy of the local rec league my dad coached when I was four or five. But I didn’t like being stuck on the bench while my brothers played. So what if they were eight and nine years old? I was sure I could hit better than them anyway. My dad wasn’t convinced. He patted my head, gave me a team cap, and told me to be patient. Yeah, right. I didn’t know the meaning of the word. I stuck close to my brothers during practices and games. I mimicked their batting stances and made them throw the ball with me.
Mom signed me up for T-ball the following season. I thought it was lame. I was easily annoyed with the kids who picked their noses in the outfield and didn’t know which way to run around the bases. Amateurs. I was more than ready for the real thing. And when my brothers moved on to soccer the next year, my dad turned his full attention to the only one of his sons still interested in his favorite sport. He probably figured I’d lose interest at some point. But I didn’t.
As my skills developed, I loved it more than ever. I loved the little things; like the smell of freshly cut grass on the field and the daily routine of softening my glove and practicing my throw. I loved the weight of the bat in my hand and the rush of adrenaline when the ball cracked against the sweet spot and went flying over the pitcher’s head.
In my mind, baseball was synonymous with something bigger than me. Family, friendship, and community. My private life had no place here. No one’s did. I didn’t want to listen to our catcher gripe about his girlfriend’s pain-in-the-ass mom or hear about our pitcher’s dismal love life. I came to play ball.
“…she said wouldn’t do it unless—oh fuck, what’s the matter with Micah? That’s the third fly ball he’s dropped,” Javi groused, adjusting his baseball cap. “I overheard Coach say he’s thinking about moving him to center field.”
“Johnson’s at center,” I said, glancing out on the field just as the overhead lights came on. The sun had set and now the sky was a pretty shade of pink with fluffy purple clouds. Practice would be over soon, which was probably a good thing. I could tell the guys were getting restless. We’d been out here for hours.
“Yeah, but he’s versatile like you. He can play anywhere. What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I assured him, swinging my bat a couple of times in an attempt to get my smile under control.
Times like this, I sort of missed Sky. Our relationship was toxic as hell, but the sex was un-fucking-real. And it had been nice to have someone around who understood queer sex innuendos without needing an explanation or a diagram. Javi, our catcher, was a good guy, but he was straight as an arrow. And sometimes, a little clueless with it. He wasn’t homophobic, but I knew he assumed every gay dude looked, talked, and acted like Phoenix. Super colorful and extra fabulous.
Geez, I had to quit thinking about the guy. This was getting ridiculous. I adjusted my junk then glanced over at Javi curiously when he fixed me with a hopeful look.
“So what do you say? Are you free Friday night?” Javi asked before spitting on the dirt in true baseball dude fashion.
“Free for what?”
“Haven’t you been listening? Sarah’s friend’s brother is in the play. She hooked us up with some great seats for closing night. And there’s an extra ticket…for you,” he said with a crooked smile.
I chomped on my gum obnoxiously and narrowed my eyes. “A play? What’s it called?”
“I have no fucking idea. Something about a dream, I think.”
“A dream?” I repeated in a sort of weird daze.
“Hey, I promise I’m not trying to set you up with Sarah’s really hot new friend.” Javi paused to waggle his brows. “I just want to help expand your horizons and get you cultured, ya know?”
“Yeah, right. You’re setting me up, and I’m not falling for it.”
“Fine,” he huffed. “I need company. I don’t want to go either.”
“Then don’t go.”
“I can’t tell my girlfriend no. We had this long, drawn-out talk about compromise. I think this play is a test, and I don’t want to fail. You’re the only one I can ask who won’t flat-out laugh at me for suggesting it.”
“Well, I’m laughing,” I deadpanned.
Javi huffed. “C’mon, man. What are you doing instead?”
“I don’t know yet. Something will come up.”
“Hmph. I bet.” He turned away from the view of the dugout and made a nasty hand motion before swinging his bat a couple of times. “Hey, it’s two hours out of your life and at the very least, it’ll get Micah to shut up.”
I furrowed my brow. “Shut up about what?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed his stupid homo jabs. The guy’s a troublemaker. I can tell he’s one of those idiots who likes to say something explosive, then walk out of a room. Like a human grenade,” he said with a humorless half laugh. “I hope Coach puts him in the outfield. The farther he is from the plate, the better. You’re up.”
What the hell was with Micah? At any other point in my life, I would have ignored the lame-ass taunts. There was always someone on any team who liked to stir shit up for the heck of it. For some reason I felt a little vulnerable without a boyfriend. There were days Sky and I would fuck like rabbits, drive separately to practice or a game, and then ignore each other. I could smell his sweat on my skin and no doubt, I had his dried cum on my stomach. We both should have been nervous someone would catch on. We’d lived together, slept together, and spent almost every free moment we had alone naked. Best of all, we were each other’s beards. Sky would casually mention a girl he liked, and I’d ask how their date went…that kind of thing. Without him around, I felt exposed.
I pushed the feeling aside as I stepped up to bat. As Tom Hanks said in A League of Their Own, there was no crying in baseball. I had to suck it up and not let that little shit under my skin. I crouched into position with my bat raised high as I scanned the field. Not to brag, but I was by far the best hitter on the team. And with Minsky throwing puffballs to preserve his arm for Saturday’s game, I could choose a target anywhere on the field or I could knock this one out of the park.
I found my mark just as Minsky pulled the ball and his left leg to his chest before unfolding his body, cranking the ball behind him, and unleashing it over home plate. Yep. Too easy. I cracked the ball toward shortstop with just enough heat to land at Micah’s feet, then skip high above his head. Any decent infielder would have been ready to jump or dive to stop the ball, but Micah was asleep on the job. At least he was until he almost got beaned. He hopped out of the way and let left field take over. The play was over in seconds, signaling the end of practice. Javi punched my bicep and laughed like a loon.
“You’re a crazy motherfucker, Maldonado. That’ll either shut him up or start a war. Of course, you’d really shut him up if you came out with me Friday. And you never know…you might just meet the girl of your dreams.” Javi snorted, sidestepping my punch.
Not possible. I removed the batting helmet and headed for the dugout as Javi droned on about a plan involving a casual drink after the show. He didn’t seem to care that I hadn’t committed to anything, and I didn’t feel like making a thing of it anyway. I caught Micah’s irritated scowl and flashed a mischievous grin. Nothing malicious. Just a friendly warning to back off and mind his own fucking business.