Chapter 24: Kelley

Chapter 24

Kelley

After the last few games where I’ve been switched out with a reliever and replaced in the early innings, I’m determined to make this game one of my best.

The plan is to not get booted this game, not even for our closer.

I have to up my stats, or all hell is going to break loose. Commentators from the best and worst networks are coming for me, each with their opinion on whether my inconsistent start to the season is because of coming out or not.

The thing is, I’m about as consistent as I was this time last year if I look at my previous season. But with the comments going around, I have to remind myself to look at the facts and ignore biased opinions. That, and remembering not to look at social media. I’ve been waffling on that the further the season goes on, even though I know it’s in my best interest not to go searching.

Turns out getting rid of that impulse isn’t as easy as getting laid by a man who tells me like it is. Either that or his magical dick powers have worn off.

If only I had time to go see Thad and get a recharge on that. Because that’s how it works, right?

It’s our last game against San Diego at home, and I need the W. Not the team as a whole—me. Because I’m the one letting everyone down out there.

This is the first time my anxiety has started affecting my game. Sure, I’ve been worried in the past, but before I was out, I was only concerned with playing well. Now that I’m an openly gay player, there are strings attached to playing badly, those connecting their ignorance to how well I’m doing. Which then feeds my insecurity about people judging me on who I am and not what I’m doing on the field.

In the last two games, I don’t blame them for judging. I’ve been throwing nothing. Been giving walks. And at this professional level, I deserve to be raked over the coals. Just … not in conjunction with my sexuality.

Tonight, I have to go out there and pull off a miracle. I’m the first line of defense when it comes to preventing the other team from crossing that home plate. It’s not entirely up to me, but the majority of the weight sits on my shoulders.

I don’t actually care whether we win this game or not. Well, I do, but my priority is letting as few runs in as possible. It’s up to the batters to step up to the plate—literally.

My only focus is to strike every motherfucker out.

In my years of therapy, things like positive affirmations and positive thinking haven’t really worked for me because that negative voice inside my head always disputes them in some way, but tonight as I take to the mound, all I can do is tell myself I can do it.

For the first few innings, it seems to be working, but when we get to inning five, six, seven, the positive thinking turns to bone-tired exhaustion, which is an absolute killer for confidence.

I’ve only let one person hit a damn home run, but there was another runner on base, so they’ve got two by the top of the ninth. We managed a killer fourth inning, where we pulled six out of our asses, along with a lucky three in the seventh inning on loaded bases and a successful bunt situation. The bunt only got the first across the line, but the second and third crossed home plate on the next hit.

Even though I’d like to think I can’t fuck up big enough in the next inning to give seven runs, the more tired I get, the more negative I become about just getting to the end .

I’m even beginning to look over at the dugout, wondering—hoping—they’re pulling the closer out.

But I told myself I’m going to do this, and I’m going to fight until the end to do it.

Batter number one gets a home fucking run.

I strike batter number two out and send up a thank-you to whichever deity is watching over me. I needed that, or I was about to fall apart.

Batter number three gets a walk.

Batter number four hits deep into left field and is caught out, but batter three manages to round second, and we can’t get the ball to third fast enough.

My worst fears are coming true, and I can’t believe I have to agree with the commentators here, but my inconsistency is frustrating.

Two outs and two runs on only four batters is not bad. It’s not great, but we’re still ahead in this game, and I only need one more strikeout. One more strike and this game is actually over.

I don’t get that strikeout.

The next batter misses the first pitch, refuses to hit the wide ball on the second, and teeters the line of a foul ball on the third, but it’s fucking good, and then it’s a scramble for the right fielder to get to the ball and stop this fucker from rounding second.

He does but then looks at the field and realizes he won’t make it to third, so while Hemmings throws to third, the runner slides back into second to be safe.

Again, I find myself looking at the dugout, half praying they pull me out and half hoping they give me this chance.

One more out. Just one more. If I strike the next batter out, we win and don’t even have to play the bottom of the ninth. This is my shot.

This is my job .

I take a deep breath and focus. I’ve pitched against Anderson before. He sucks at hitting a curveball but is also really good at judging when it’s going to miss the plate. People joke all the time that he doesn’t know how to run, which is how he pulls walks out of every pitcher he faces .

I have a small chance—a window—to try to trick him here. Coach has been having me work on my curveball and putting that little bit of extra spin in it to make it look like it’s not going over the plate, only for it to fully curve at the last second and register as a strike.

Am I always accurate? No. And if I miss, I’m risking another walk here. But this is the kind of pressure I thrive on when it comes to baseball. If I tune out the rest of the world and only focus on what I have to do here and now, I think I can do it.

My catcher, Jenko, gives me the signal for a change-up, but I shake my head. Anderson would see right through that and smash it out of the park. It’s almost as if I can see the hesitance in Jenko’s eyes before he signals for a curveball.

And when I nod, Jenko throws his head back. He’s probably letting out a silent groan, too, that says this is a bad idea.

It probably is. My arm has been inconsistent, and if Anderson gets a hit, there will be two bases and runners to cover. But if he strikes out? I’ll have finished a game on my own for the first time in weeks .

I take another deep breath before assuming my pitching position. I’m staring at Anderson, preparing for this pitch, when all of a sudden, out of the corner of my right eye, I see movement. Dixon on second base. He’s trying to steal third.

From where I am, it’s next to impossible to throw to third without being obvious, and then he’ll simply run back to second. But … if I can get him to think I’m throwing to third and throw to second instead?—

Without overthinking it, I pitch, my elbow facing third and scaring Dixon enough to go running back to second, where, bam, it hits Rengel’s glove, and Dixon gets tapped out.

Turns out I didn’t need my curveball after all.

The accomplishment that washes over me as my teammates run out to the mound to congratulate me is overwhelming, but no way am I going to let that emotion show.

I might be inconsistent, but today was a good game for me. I hope for more games to come just like it .

The high carries the team into our locker room, where I’m asked to cover media—which I generally hate, but not today—while the others all shower and change back into their game-day suits.

I do my interviews and jump right into the shower before even going to my cubby, so when I get back out there in only my towel and pull my phone out of my bag, I almost drop it—and my towel—when I see a message from Thad. Because it’s not his usual message congratulating me. It’s a photo. Of his view tonight. From the stands.

He came to watch my game?

He’s here?

Stupidly, I instinctually look around the locker room, but no, of course he’s not in here, but I’m so damn excited.

I type out:

Please tell me you’re still here? You have to come out and celebrate with me and the team.

His response is immediate:

I’m waiting for you outside amongst all the kids who want autographs, but I’m starting to feel like I’m being stared at by all the parents thinking I’m here for the kids and not waiting on a player. Come save me.

I don’t think I’ve ever gotten dressed faster in my life.

When I get outside, the kids have dispersed because my teammates have already left, and there’s Thad St. James, looking so fucking gorgeous in that blue suit that drives me wild, hair slicked back, and his hands in the pockets of his insanely tight pants.

He smiles, and I almost melt on the spot. “You had an excellent game tonight. That ninth inning was impressive.”

“It was inconsistent,” I say.

“Hey, it worked on throwing everyone off. They didn’t know what you were going to throw.”

I laugh. “I’m going to use that as a selling point for when Philly wants to trade me because of it.

“Nah, no way. If they trade you, it’ll be the biggest mistake they’ve ever made.”

I appreciate him saying that, but I don’t have my head in the clouds. I know the realities of this game, and it’s one of those things that I’m weirdly centered about, especially when it’s my inconsistency that’s the problem. My anxiety more revolves around being traded because of my skill but it being blamed on my sexuality in the media.

“Where are we headed?” he asks. “You said something about celebrating with the team?”

Shit. I did. But I really don’t want to now. I want to take Thad back to my place and keep him there all weekend. Though, I have another game tomorrow. And the following day.

Baseball season is no joke.

People think hockey is the toughest sport, but when it comes to stamina, us ballers are incomparable. We play five to seven games a week, sometimes double headers, and we’re on the road for a lot of it.

I should make an appearance with the team. It’s not like we party hard because of our schedule, and I did win us that game. Even so, staring at Thad, his wide shoulders, that small peek of chest tattoo sticking out the top of his button-up, I don’t want to waste any time while he’s here.

He waves a hand in front of my face. “Did you space out on me?”

I shake it off. “Sorry. I did. I’m torn between taking you out with the team or taking you back to my place.”

His lips curve up.

“To catch up, I mean. Not … anything else. Unless you want something else. Then, you know I’m all for it, and?—”

Thad steps into my space, his hand going to my hip.

I should be self-conscious about the small gesture of affection, but there could be a slew of media people out here, and it wouldn’t be enough to get me to step back .

“I want something else,” he rasps.

I go to move, to grab his hand and drag him toward my car, but his grip tightens on my hip.

“But after that inning, you deserve to go out with your teammates. So, we’ll do both.”

“One drink. That’s all we’re staying for.” If I can even last that long.