Chapter 2: Kelley

Chapter 2

Kelley

Okay, when my agent suggested this arrangement, I didn’t realize they would be confiscating my phone.

Yes, I want to be on a social media ban, but this is a bit extreme. I can see where my phone sits in the middle console, in between Brady and Thad, who are in the front seats of the car, and instead of staring out at the winter scenery going by as we make the drive from Manhattan to the Catskills, all I can do is stare at my phone, hoping I develop telekinesis in the next two and a half hours before we get to our destination.

Thad mutters something under his breath about it being bullshit that he has to babysit a grown-ass adult. It’s possible he’s hoping I don’t hear him, but I do. Either that, or he doesn’t care if I know he thinks I’m blowing this all out of proportion.

The thing is, that’s what my brain does. It catastrophizes everything, and a lot of people don’t understand why I do that. It’s taken a good amount of therapy to understand my anxiety, but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy to deal with. So I don’t fault Thad for the way he thinks. Nearly everyone else in my life is the same. Compassion and empathy are the lost skills of society.

Thad is an intern, like Brady, but I haven’t had any proper interaction with him. If I’m honest, he kind of intimidates the hell out of me.

He has these massively broad shoulders, light blue eyes, and dark hair that has a thin blond streak on one side. The few times I’ve seen him, his hair has had that permanent wet look. Whatever hair product he uses liberally keeps his hair slicked back.

But it’s not his good looks or his bigger physique that intimidates me. It’s the way he stares—no, more like glares—at me. Every time I’ve been into the King Sports offices lately and he’s been there, his daggers are palpable from across the room.

I don’t know what his deal is, whether he’s that ornery with everyone or only with me, but it sets my skin aflame every time.

There’s something about me that craves to be accepted by everyone, which is annoying and frustrating because I know that’s an impossible feat. Especially as a gay athlete.

It’s possible that’s why Thad is unhappy about his assignment, but Damon King is not the type of person to hire a bigot. The whole reason I wanted to sign with him is because of what he’s done for queer athletes. He started his company after making a name for himself as the agent for queer people. Sure, his firm represents people of all sexualities and orientations, including straight athletes, but the majority live under the rainbow. I knew he’d be able to handle my coming out and was na?ve enough to think he was all I’d need.

Instead, here I am, on the verge of a panic attack because the online comments I knew were coming still happened. There was a small part of me that was hoping I’d be different. I’d be the outlier, and even the homophobes out there would say, “He’s so good at baseball, I don’t care where he parks his dick at night.”

Deep down, I knew that was never going to happen, and I almost chickened out of doing that stupid photoshoot and article, but Brady was there with Damon, and he talked me into going through with it because, as he said then, doing it in the off-season is the best plan. This way, by the time spring training starts up, my news will have died down.

Would it be selfish of me to hope one of my teammates gets caught having an illicit affair during their break though?

I don’t regret letting Brady talk me into coming out, but I wish the world was a different place .

The reason I came out was to finally start living my life as my authentic self. I was looking forward to dating men, being out and proud, and having that freedom, and I thought I was ready for it, but it turns out I might not be. It’s too late now though. I can’t close that closet door now it’s been opened.

“You doing okay back there?” Brady asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

“Yup. Just …” My gaze flicks to the back of Thad’s head. “Thinking.”

Brady smiles. “Overthinking, you mean.”

“Well, yeah.” I’m always overthinking, always in my head, and it’s been that way since I was a child.

The only thing that has ever taken me out of my uncontrollable and runaway thoughts is being on that pitcher’s mound. Having to focus on baseball and only baseball. Forcing my brain into thinking about technique, aim, and striking the next batter out. Baseball is my outlet. My reprieve.

“The next two weeks are going to be about relaxing and forgetting the rest of the world.”

Easy for Brady to say. I can’t forget the rest of the world, even if I try.

I’ve always envied those people who let everything roll off their back, the ones who don’t give a shit what someone else thinks of them, but I am not that guy.

It’s not that I want everyone to like me or I want to be popular or universally loved, but at the same time, there’s something inside me that can’t stand the idea of rejection. I wish my brain wasn’t wired that way, but it is.

Which is another reason why Thad is intimidating. He hasn’t said a word to me since we got in the car, and now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t think he said anything to me in the office either. He talked about me, not to me, all the while only being six feet away.

I hope the next two weeks will get me out of my head, but I don’t like my chances with Thad being around.

We arrive at the estate, a huge property with cabins and a main house. It’s obvious this is more of a summer destination, but that’s why Damon picked it. The King Sports corporate retreat is held here, and he knows it’s practically deserted in the winter.

I won’t have to deal with the outside world for two whole weeks. I try to imagine not having to worry about what people are saying online, the speculation, the lies and projections turning into rumors and scandals, and the next thing I know, my team drops me, the world hates me, and I have to crawl into a hole for the rest of my life.

Nope, can’t picture a day where I won’t worry about that, but I do hope for a day where it doesn’t make my chest heavy and my heart pound.

That panicky feeling is back.

I stay in the car while the guys go inside the reception area to check in. I would get out and go with them, but it’s a little hard to breathe, and I don’t want them to make a big deal about it.

My phone catches my eye again. They forgot to take it with them.

Anxiety is weird. Logically, I know that looking is only going to make me spiral more. Yet, there’s that voice in the back of my head, the eternal optimist, that says maybe there are some more nice things being said about me. Maybe I’ll read new messages or comments that show nothing but support, and then my anxiety will ease.

I bite my thumbnail—a terrible habit I never grew out of, even if my nail looks like a stump. When that doesn’t work, I try other calming and grounding techniques my therapist taught me. From playing with the stud in my ear to pinching the hairs on my arm, nothing works.

Nothing takes my mind off the catalyst of my anxiety that’s sitting right within reach. If I look and there is something bad, at least I’ll only be depressed and no longer anxious, but if I look and I see something good, maybe I could breathe again.

As if deciding for me, my body lurches forward to lean in between the seats. Before I can reach for the phone, my seat belt runs out of slack, and I jolt to a stop.

Shit.

I strain to reach forward some more, but the belt is tight. I go to release it when the front doors open, and Brady and Thad get back inside the car.

The look of guilt on my face and the way I throw myself back into my seat must give away what I was trying to do because Brady glances at the phone, then turns his head to me.

“You weren’t trying to reach for this, were you?”

“Of course not,” I lie. “I was trying to see if you two were coming back yet. You were gone for a long time.”

“It was maybe two minutes, tops,” Brady says. “You were the one to ask for this social media ban.”

Technically, I asked for distractions from social media. The blanket ban came from them. I hang my head. “I know I need it, but it’s a bad habit, and I’ve never been good at breaking those.”

“Is anyone good at breaking those?” Thad asks. I still don’t know if I can count it as him speaking to me directly when he’s not even looking at me.

“Don’t look at me,” Brady says. “I’m the worst at letting go of bad habits. Okay, where’s that map she gave us?”

“She said to follow this road to the end. We’re near the river at the back of the property,” Thad says.

“Okay.” Brady reverses out of the parking space and slowly makes his way past some rustic cabins lining the drive. The gravel crunches under our tires, each cabin becoming bigger the farther we go until we hit the end and see the biggest one of all.

Not that being the biggest one means that it’s in any way big. Or luxurious.

“This is what I call roughing it,” I say as we get out of the car. I’m not opposed to it. It looks cozy, and the chimney with smoke coming out means they’ve already got a fire going for us inside, so it should be nice and toasty.

“Of course you’d think that.” Thad storms past me toward the trunk .

I spin and follow after him to get my bags out of the back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sorry the accommodations aren’t up to your standard, Your Royal Highness.”

“Thad,” Brady scolds.

“Did I say that?” What is this guy’s problem with me, and why do I care?

“Practically,” Thad mumbles.

“Dude, you’ve stayed here during a retreat,” Brady says to him. “You know the cabins are rustic and cheap. He wasn’t complaining; he was stating a fact.”

Thad doesn’t respond, just grabs his duffle bag out of the trunk and marches toward our cabin.

I step closer to Brady. “Why do I get the feeling he’d rather be anywhere but here?”

“Ignore him. He’s … going through a hard time at the moment.”

“And why does that sound like the watered-down, politically correct thing to say?”

“Because I’m not sure it’s my place to say anything at all.”

“What, was it a bad breakup or something?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Sort of.”

“These two weeks are going to be fun, aren’t they?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll have me around, and I’m delightful.”

He might be joking about that, but so far, since coming out, he’s the only person who’s gotten me to calm down when I’ve gotten too panicky. Brady has a way about him that talks to my soul. My therapist could say something rational and logical, but my brain doesn’t want to believe it. When Brady says it, for some reason, it sinks in.

“Lucky me,” I say dryly.

He doesn’t need to know I’m not being sarcastic.