Grant: Don’t ever apologize for wanting the both of us. We’re a package deal.
I close the thread, clutching my phone victoriously. “Take that, Weasel Face who’s not even worthy of being called a dick because dicks are awesome,” I say to myself.
This is how two guys who play the same game for a living support each other—not by cheating, but by encouraging each other to play hard.
And dick pics help too.
Since I’m helpful, I take one and send it to my boyfriend.
Grant: Here’s proof of the package deal.
Declan: I’ll make you a deal. My mouth will be on your package when I get home.
My streak continues. In our final game, I hit an RBI single in the second inning. When it’s my turn again in the fourth, the Coyotes’ starter throws the first pitch far out of the strike zone for a walk.
I don’t swing at it. The next one, though, is a fastball down the middle that’s too juicy to resist. I cut right through it, foul tipping it.
The Coyote fires off the next pitch, a high and tight fastball. I track it until—
Crack!
My head rings. My helmet rattles, slipping off. The world goes sideways as pain radiates in my skull. I stumble backward, falling flat on my back on the diamond.
Everything goes dark.
16
Declan
We’re officially more than halfway through the season. The Dragons have been playing well all year, so I voice my hopes as Holden and I head through the airport on the way home from our Minotaurs series. “We’re only a game out of first, now,” I say.
Holden shoots me a dubious stare. “Don’t jinx us.”
“Please. You’re not superstitious like Crosby.”
“I’m not not superstitious either,” he says as we near the gate for the team’s chartered jet.
“Can I see the rabbit’s foot in your pocket then? The salt you throw over your shoulder? C’mon, man. We’re having a good season. Playing consistently well. We have a shot at the—”
“La la la la la la!” Holden clamps his hands over his ears before I can say playoffs.
I crack up, shaking my head at his unexpectedly superstitious streak.
He peels a hand off one ear. “What did you say? You hope they have delicious chicken risotto with mushrooms on the flight home? Me too. Who woulda thought?”
“Who woulda thought you were a black-cat-under-the-ladder guy?”
“Look,” he says, patting his chest as we reach the gate, joining our other teammates. “I’ve seen Bull Durham. The number-one rule in baseball is you don’t fuck with a winning streak. You don’t talk about it. By extension, we don’t talk about how well the team is doing.”
“What are we allowed to discuss, then? Other than risotto. Which is a yes for me too.”
“Acceptable topics include off-season activities. I want to take Reese someplace incredible because she’ll have one week’s worth of vacation then.”
An image of beaches and warm sand flickers before my eyes. Of oceans and blue skies. Grant and I never made it to Miami five years ago.
“Now I’m going to google vacation destinations in November. And I said November just in case.”
Just in case we make the playoffs in October.
Holden slams his hands over his ears again.
Laughing, I grab my phone and begin the hunt. I search as the other guys meander onto the plane, calling shotgun, claiming seats and roughhousing—the usual stuff after sweeping a series.
Trash is talked.
Wagers are staked.
And we all complain when we hear the Wi-Fi is down for the flight.
“Guess that means you can’t catch up on all your History Channel documentaries, Dante,” Gunnar calls out.
“And you’ll be behind in your cartoons,” Dante fires back.
“It’s gonna be rough,” Gunnar says. “I might have to, gasp, read.”
“Hope you brought a picture book.”
I’m not a big TV person, so I don’t care about the lack of streaming to the plane’s TV app, especially when there is sleep to be had on this overnight flight.
I sink into my seat, checking out five-star hotels in various vacation destinations in Miami. When I moved in with Grant, I promised him that I’d get us a condo in Miami. Maybe I’d rather snag one someplace else, though. Like Hawaii. Someplace that has no associations for us. Someplace all new.
I like that idea a lot.
I can take him to Kauai in November. I picture our days and nights. We could even find a property while we’re there. I could buy it—for us.
I’m hunting online for the best luxury hotels with room service, ocean views, hot tubs, and all the amenities, when a voice from a few rows back calls out, “Holy fuck! He just got clocked!”
I look up from the screen, ears perked, listening for more from Gunnar, our third baseman.
Poor bastard who got hit. That’s gotta suck.
Returning to my screen, I click on an image of a sun-kissed beach.
Gunnar’s quiet for a few seconds. Come to think of it, the whole plane is strangely silent. A sinking feeling descends on me, and with nervous fingers I click open a browser to check the sports news, just as Gunnar speaks again.