His eyes brim with sadness. “You don’t want me to watch you play? As soon as I heard you were traded, I came all the way across the country. I wanted to support you. I wanted to be here for you. I caught a plane.”
What the hell?
“You came across the country to . . . support me?” That doesn’t even make any sense. But I don’t have the time to try to unpack his carton of bullshit.
I do what I couldn’t do as a kid—I pretend. I’ve had years of acting practice by now, and I grab his arm and beseech him. “I do want you here, Dad. I promise. I swear I do.” I sigh heavily, like this saddens me, this truth I’m about to unwrap for him. “The thing is . . . I want to impress my new team and coach, and if you’re here, all I’m going to think about is impressing you. So, can you just help me out? I can focus better if I’m not trying to impress the man . . .” It pains me to say this. It pains me so damn much. “The man I look up to.”
“Aw,” he says, a soft smile curving his lips. He pats my cheek. “You’re so sweet. I get it.”
My stomach curdles as I tell him to wait then race to the locker room to fish some bills out of my wallet. Back in the hall, I press a couple hundred dollars into my dad’s palm. I know I’m feeding another of his addictions, but I don’t know what else to do.
I walk him out of the complex and add for good measure, “And, like I said, I’m single all the way. Baseball only.”
It feels like the worst—and most necessary—lie I’ve ever told.
2
Declan
Once I put my dad in a Lyft headed for the casino, I rush back to the field, grabbing my glove on the way. On the diamond, I am all business. In the first inning I field the unholy hell out of a ground ball that comes scorching my way, throwing it to first base, getting the opponent out.
This is all I have to do.
This.
The game—throwing, hitting, fielding.
I’ve done this since the shit started, since my dad hit the bottle.
I’ve gotten good at it too—throwing myself into baseball, ignoring everything else.
But the thing is, you can’t hide from your problems for very long. You can only tuck things away into the corner for a little while, and it’s always a shorter span than you think.
When the game ends, I look up to the stands and—
Are you kidding me?
He came back.
He’s heading down the steps from the seats, sauntering to the field, chatting with the guys on the first-base line.
With my heart lodged in my throat, I walk over.
“Hey Steele,” says Tucker, “I just googled your dad. He hit .327 in the minors. That is dope. Can he be our hitting instructor?”
Is he serious? It was just a throwaway idea he’d had earlier, or so I’d thought.
Again, I fake being fine, flash an I-am-not-dying-inside smile. “I’ll talk to him at dinner. Dad, want to get some grub?”
His eyes light up like I’ve gifted him the moon. “Let’s go,” he says, then tosses me a wink. “And you’ll give me all the details on what you’ve been up to.”
My chest burns. He doesn’t even have to say the word boyfriend, and he’s right back at it, rocking my boat.
Tucker elbows me. “Yeah, who’s the mystery guy?”
I shake my head and force out a laugh. “No one. Dad’s just busting my chops.”
Yeah, romance and me—that’s fucking hilarious.
So damn entertaining.
“Someone you left behind in San Francisco?” Tucker asks with a frown. “Let me tell you, I miss my girlfriend. Marissa’s back home in Manhattan.”
“You’ll get to see her soon,” I say, hoping to deflect attention.
“I can’t wait. And hey, bring your guy to a game,” Tucker calls as I ferry my dad out of there. “We’ll all get a bite to eat after. Marissa, you, me, and your dude.”
I don’t even shower. I just change and get the hell away from my teammates and their offers to double-date.
At a nearby restaurant, my father dives into his chicken pasta like he’s never eaten before. “This is so good,” he moans around the food.
“Glad you’re enjoying it,” I say as I slice a piece of steak.
“So much. Now, can we settle something once and for all?”
I finish chewing and set down my fork. “Sure.”
“You.” He waggles a utensil my way along with a pointed look, and then proceeds to play amateur shrink and play it badly. “You shut people out. You’re afraid to love. Since your mom and I split, you worry the same could happen to you.”
“No. That’s not my concern.”
He tilts his head, shoots me a sympathetic look. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Doubt lines his eyes. “I care about you. I want you to be happy. You looked so damn happy in that picture from the other night.” He means the shot of Grant and me flanking a fan, a social media post he texted me about the next day.
Dragging a hand down my face, I groan. “Dad, I was happy because I was at a hockey game. It’s that simple. You’ve got to stop spinning things into what they’re not,” I insist.
He scoffs. “Come on. Grant Blackwood. He’s a good-looking guy.” He taps his sternum. “Look, I’m straight, but I can tell. You’d be foolish not to like him.”
Hearing him breathe Grant’s name chills my bones.
I’m back in time to every occasion he came home drunk, all the times he wouldn’t let go of a topic. Was your mom messing around with her co-worker? Is that why she’s so happy? Did you see anything fishy? Tell me, please tell me. Just please fucking tell me.
No, Dad. There’s nothing going on. Just stop.
There was nothing going on.
“Stop. Just stop,” I beg. “Just tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you need.” My voice trembles, this close to snapping. I cannot let him breathe Grant’s name anymore. I cannot let this shit rain down on the man I love. If word gets out that we had a spring training fling, I don’t know what it’ll do to Grant’s gameplay.
I don’t give a flying fuck that people know I date men. I don’t care if someone prints in a gossip rag that I went out with a TV star, a blues singer, an Internet exec.
Coming out is the best thing I ever did, but it doesn’t make me Teflon. It isn’t a sword that’ll save me or save Grant.
Being out doesn’t make it okay that I fucked a teammate. That’s a line you don’t cross, no matter your orientation, no matter whether you live in or out of the closet.
I crossed it, and now the consequences are knocking on my door—and Grant’s.
A rumor would look bad for me, but it’d be ten degrees of horrible for the rookie who’s not even on the roster yet. I have to stop it.
And I know how.
“Do you need money?” I ask. I know what shuts him up, but my gut churns at what I’m about to do—enable him.
My father winces like he’s embarrassed. But he’s not. This isn’t the first time he’s asked me for dough. I doubt it’ll be the last time I give it to him.