34. Dane

It felt good to run. I loved lifting weights and pushing my body. Those last few reps, when my muscles were just about to fail but I still had enough juice to eke out a few more lifts? Those were life itself. Working out helped everything: my physical, mental, and spiritual health.

Softball fueled something else, a desperate need deep within me no yoga instructor could define with a catchy phrase about chakras or centers of gravity. I wasn't sure if it was the competition or the physical activity. Maybe it was being around a group of guys who played a game at a level most others would never achieve. Or perhaps being around a bunch of hot-as-fuck gay guys in tight shorts and even tighter jerseys kept me coming back. That part definitely didn't suck.

Well, sometimes it did. But that was fun too.

I'd had a shitty week. Alex was released, but rather than being wheeled out in a chair to be greeted by his smiling wife and adoring children, my buddy was cuffed and wheeled directly to two waiting police cars. The loving embrace of the local media's cameras was his only reward for saving a man's life and successfully completing his treatment.

In the days that followed, Patrick had two more articles hit page one of the AJC, each offering more detailed accounts of the alleged crime, the investigation, and the sordid motives behind why a good man would fall from grace. That last one tore at my soul. Alex was a good guy, dammit.

On top of all that, someone evil had put something in Atlanta's water. Not literally, but it felt that way. I worked two back-to-back shifts. We fell so far behind on our tones that two other stations had to cross lines to assist. It was as if Georgia Four Hundred had been converted into a bumper car road, and the good people of Roswell, Alpharetta, and Atlanta were determined to knock all their neighbors into the ditch.

I saw three people die that week. That shit seared into your eyes, rooted into your brain, and lived in your dreams.

I barely slept all week.

Softball was my respite, my one retreat where I could let the world fade away, and my only care was a white ball and nine delicious men—nineteen if you counted our opposing team, who, remarkably, may have possessed more genuine hotties than our team, and that porno cast was hard to muster.

It was to be a full day. We'd fallen behind in our season's schedule due to a couple of rainouts, and the league was determined to make those games up as quickly as possible. Our schedule called for a double header on each other the next three Saturdays. Since rain rarely cared about level or skill, the B, C, and D levels were also behind and making up games. The park was packed.

And no gay ever missed an opportunity to throw a party. It was in the handbook. Or maybe it was a manual. I wasn't sure. I was a bad gay.

The good men and women of the Hotlanta Softball League had chosen to finish each of their eternal double-header Saturdays with a post-softball party at a different bar. The host bar owners catered food and kept the beer and spirits flowing. Proceeds from these not-so-impromptu gatherings went to assist Monroe Place residents who played in the league, two of whom were on my team.

Our community could be snarky and petty, but when one of our own was in need, we pulled up our skirts, tossed off our heels, and got to work.

Okay, I didn't own any of those things. It was a metaphor. Or a simile. An example? Fuck me. I sucked at grammar and shit.

We won our first game and had just finished the third inning in our second. Our guys squeezed through the dugout opening and readied to bat. I had seven other guys ahead of me in the order, so I sat at the far end and leaned against the wire.

Eduardo flopped down beside me. "You look good today."

His camera-ready smile and thick, decadent accent made me shiver. I'd played with the dude for two years and he could still make my knees weak just by talking. Hell, he could probably read the phone book or recite the Pledge of Allegiance and I'd pop a boner. Eduardo took dreaminess to a heavenly level.

"Oh, thanks. You too." I tried not to blush.

He chuckled. "I was talking softball. Your defense is amazing today. They have really been testing you and you keep going down on them."

Eduardo's English didn't always translate perfectly. It was a running joke on the team.

"Uh, thanks, I think. You know I haven't gone down on anyone today, right?"

He chuckled, and the sound made my heart flutter. "I mean, you get them out. Your fielding and throws have been … how do you say … like butter."

A few of the other guys snickered and elbowed each other. One leaned over: "I can't believe it's not butter, dude."

The other guy, who happened to have hair that fell below his shoulders, flicked said hair back and trailed his fingers down his bosom-like cleft. "Butter is your friend," he said in a poor Fabio-like imitation.

Others were about to pile on, but whoever was batting smacked a triple off the center field wall and the whole team surged to rattle the front wall of our cage in salute.

"Have dinner with me."

I nearly fell off the bench. In the time we'd played together, Eduardo and I had hooked up a couple of times, but we'd never actually spoken at length. We'd definitely never gone out to dinner, unless you counted the full team events where we sat beside each other. I was pretty sure that wasn't what he meant.

"We have the thing tonight. You know, to raise money for, well, you."

He rumbled a laugh again, then hooked his arm around my shoulders, sending a wave of something up my spine. The field spun for a second. "Not tonight. One night this week. I would like to know you, Dane Walker. You are good man with large penis, but I think you are more."

The sudden invocation of my privates threw me off even more than the sudden half-embrace. I stammered to reply, but my English was suddenly more broken than Eduardo's.

"I am serious. I like you, Dane. You try to be serious and tough, but I see you. I would like to know you better, and not just the inside of your asshole."

Dear god, make it stop.

My ears were burning, and I was sure my face matched the red of our uniform stitching. Eduardo had never seen the inside of my asshole. He'd never felt it, licked, fingered it, or anything else. I'd pounded the shit out of his, but he'd never had mine.

Great, now I had a boner … in softball shorts. The guys in the bleachers would be able to see it if I stood up. Sweet.

I still hadn't answered Eduardo. He was staring and waiting.

"Um, Eduardo, I really like you too. I mean, we're great on the field together and, well, you're really hot and all, and the couple of times we hung out were hot, but … shit … I'm all messed up right now. I just—"

"Do you still want that reporter?"

What? Where the fuck had that come from? Of course I didn't want Patrick, the fucking traitor. Why would Eduardo think that?

"No!" I almost yelled. "Sorry, no, he's in the past. Really. We don't even talk or anything. I just … I'm just not ready to try again. Does that make sense?"

He nodded, and I thought something like sympathy entered his big brown eyes. Shit. Did he feel sorry for me?

Thankfully, the next guy at-bat hit into a double play and we had to retake the field. I wasn't sure I could take more questioning.

My throat was welling up. Dammit, I was over Patrick. In fact, there was never anything to get over. We went out a few times. It didn't work. That was that.

"I understand. It is an open offer. Like your legs." He grinned, grabbed his glove, and headed for the field.

It took me a second to process his joke, shake my head, and follow him out of the dugout.