Chapter 4: Kelley

Chapter 4

Kelley

It’s impossible to tell if Thad hates me or is merely an angry, stressed, and bitter man. The phone call with his mom opened up a sweet side to him. The way he spoke to her with soft tones doesn’t match the way he barked at me directly afterward.

I still don’t know his problem, and as much as I tell myself to let it go, my brain doesn’t work that way. Which is why I’m sitting on the couch, pretending to watch Friends reruns, while I run through our interaction over and over again.

I’m antsy. I need to know what’s been said online about me, but I’m trying so hard not to prove Thad right. It’s obvious he’s resentful of having to be here with me, and when put in simple terms like he did—that I need a babysitter because I have no self-control when it comes to public opinion of me—I sound like a spoiled brat. Two interns to make sure I’m not googling my own name? I’m a mess.

Brady comes through the front door to the cabin, shaking off the snow from his boots and beanie while slipping out of his coat.

“Where did you go?” I ask.

“Oh, I went to ask reception a question. How’s everything in here? I was worried for a moment that you might have killed each other, but you’re still here.” He glances around the floor as if waiting for a dead body to jump out at any moment.

“Hey, he’s the one who has an issue with me, not the other way around.”

“Still, I’d expect you to defend yourself if he came at you.”

“Hey, you’re back.” Thad enters the room. “You mind if I go for a walk? I have a few phone calls to make.”

“I’ve got it from here,” Brady says, and Thad puts on his layers to go outside.

Once he’s gone, Brady joins me on the couch. “So, how are you holding up?”

“Not great.”

“It’s like you’re addicted to your phone, and now you’re going through withdrawals. How long does that usually last?”

“You think I’ve ever lasted longer than a couple of days on an internet ban? The most I’ve gotten is maybe a few hours.”

“Until here, right? Or did you smuggle in a cheap smartphone somehow, like in prison, and have been checking?”

“No, this has been the longest. All those people who say cutting off the rest of the world is cathartic are obviously the unstable ones. Not me. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“You need a distraction. What do you want to do?”

I shrug. “I’ve been watching TV.”

“Ugh. Friends ? Save your sanity from all the homophobia in that show.”

“What?”

“Have you never noticed it? Ross can’t stand having a male nanny who’s straight because he has to be at least bi to want to work with kids—what kind of fucked-up shit is that? Chandler is always offended when people think he’s gay. He’s embarrassed of his dad, the drag queen. Or trans woman. It’s like the show either didn’t know which Chander’s dad identified as or didn’t care to specify, so yeah, there’s a lot of homophobic and transphobic moments in that show.”

“And now I’m depressed again.”

“Ooh, how about we play one of the board games they had stashed over here.” He walks toward a cupboard in the middle of the living room. “Twister?” He pumps his eyebrows at me.

“Didn’t you say you had a boyfriend? ”

He averts his gaze. “Uh, right. He probably wouldn’t like me playing Twister with someone who isn’t him.”

For some reason I can’t pinpoint, there’s innuendo laced in there, but I let it go.

“Operation?” he asks.

I make a buzzing noise. “No. That whole noise is the reason I developed anxiety, I’m sure of it. Trying to do fake operating stressed me out to the point of panic.”

“Ah. So this whole panic attack anxiety thing is not new to you.”

“Nope. Always been this way. As long as I can remember.”

“Sounds like a fun childhood,” he deadpans. “Okay. Scrabble.”

“As long as you’re okay with baseball terms and swear words. I was never very good at English.”

“Swear words and sports? You really think I’d say no to that?” He gets the game out, and we play for a bit, laughing each time one of us puts down something immature like anal or cock .

He questions my “fake-out,” trying to tell me it’s two words, but I fight tooth and nail for the hyphenated version. Which, turns out, isn’t a thing. Stupid Google taking his side.

Thad comes back at some point but sees us occupied and goes right to his and Brady’s shared room and closes the door behind him. I’m not surprised he didn’t ask to join us with how surly he is.

I glance between the closed door and Brady. “When you say he went through a bad breakup?—”

“Whoa, I never said that.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. You said was it a breakup, and I said sort of.”

“What does sort of even mean?”

“It was a breakup with baseball, not a romantic relationship.”

Oh. Ooooh. “He played baseball?”

Brady glances back at the closed bedroom door and then back to me. “He really wanted to go pro, but he didn’t even make the cut for the minors.”

“I’m starting to understand his resentment toward me.”

“I’ve tried to talk to him about being a bitter jerk about it, especially considering he should know you’re not panicking over your career for no reason. It might be an irrational reason to some, but mental health is never rational.”

I lick my lips. “Are we sure he knows?”

“It’s in your file. He should’ve read it.”

“Ugh. Does it have a huge orange label on it saying ‘Head case’?”

Brady laughs. “No. All it says is that you need support due to anxiety disorders.”

“Sss. Plural. That sucks to have that out there.”

“It’s only the people at King Sports, and we’re here to help. We have strict NDAs in place, so no one’s going to blurt your health status all over the news, and as of right now, your anxiety doesn’t affect how well you play.”

“To be fair, I haven’t had to play since coming out yet.”

“As my uncle likes to say, ‘We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.’” He smirks.

“Isn’t it cross that bridge?”

“Yes, but Uncle Damon likes to think he’s funny.”

“Damn, what was it like growing up with him as an uncle?”

“Chaotic. In the best possible way.”

“Yeah, chaos sounds like a terrible time to me.”

Brady doesn’t lose his smile as he says, “Never would’ve guessed that.” We go back to the game, but when the sky outside turns dark and we end another round, he says, “Do you mind if I take off for a bit? I’m thinking of going for a walk to, you know, prepare for all the whining I’ll hear tonight, having to share a room with Thad. It’s getting a bit much.”

“Good to know it’s not only me he has issues with.”

“I’ll tell him I’m going out for firewood, but I might be gone for over an hour to sit out in the silence.”

“In the middle of winter?”

“I’ll bundle up. Besides, are you forgetting I’m from Chicago? I’m used to the cold.”

I watch as he heads for the bedroom to tell Thad he’s going.

While I can understand better why Thad might resent me, I still think it’s unfair of him to judge me. Yes, I have the MLB career he wanted, but it’s not like I took his spot. I worked hard to be where I am.

My parents didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, and the only reason I got the opportunities I did was because of baseball. Athletic scholarships to schools who would pay for my equipment, dedicated coaches and tutors to make sure I stayed on top of my game and my studies so I wouldn’t flunk out and ruin any chance of making it to the majors. I often felt like I had to work twice as hard as anyone else on my team. And he resents me because why? Because I made it and he didn’t?

Brady reappears and lets me know he’ll be back later, reiterating he’s going out to get some firewood.

I remain seated on the living room floor, but playing Scrabble by myself isn’t as funny. Even when I get the word ballsac .

Fuck, is that one word or two?

Who cares, no one’s here to dispute it.

When I get bored, I jump up to get started on dinner. We have the stuff to make spaghetti, but I always forget what’s in the sauce, and because I’m not allowed my stupid phone, I can’t look it up.

I go knock on Thad’s door, and when he says, “Come in,” he’s on his bed, scrolling through his phone. Sure, they can have theirs, but I can’t have mine.

I’ve been spending too much time around Thad, and his bitter mood has infected my brain.

“I need a recipe to make this sauce for dinner, so can I grab it off your phone, seeing as I’m not allowed mine?”

“You really think I’m going to fall for that?”

“Fine, can you please look it up and tell me what I need to do?”

“Ugh. Here, take it.” Thad passes me his phone, already unlocked, and I take it out to the kitchen and search it up.

I grab out the ingredients and place them on the counter, but that annoying little sabotaging voice starts going off in the back of my head, telling me that the phone is still unlocked and one peek won’t hurt.

I’ve listened to that voice many times before and have regretted it immediately. Yet, for whatever reason, I always, always, always think this time will be different. That if I start to see anything negative, I’ll stop reading and go to the next comment.

I stare at the phone. It mocks me back. I pray for the lock screen to appear, but when it does, I let out a loud and long “No” and freak out. I tap the screen, hoping it’s not too late to get it back, and it lights up, only having gone to sleep. One step before the lock screen.

Damn it. I wish it was the lock screen because then I would no longer be tempted.

What does it say about a twenty-six-year-old who is literally addicted to googling himself? That he’s a narcissist? A masochist? Or is this my plain old anxiety and rejection sensitivity disorder?

No matter how many times I tell myself not to type in my name, my fingers don’t listen.

The first time, I get as far as my first name before I delete it again. My thumb hovers on the lock button, and I hate that the voice telling me to click it is drowned out by the one telling me if I do, then I won’t be able to check, and this might be my only chance the entire time I’m here.

It convinces me I have to take it, and the next thing I know, results of the Google search fill the screen.

The first article that pops up is one that was posted only a few hours ago. The headline asks why athletes feel the need to come out at all when it has nothing to do with the sport.

Well, Kenneth Oberman of the piece of shit daily news, if the straights didn’t make it a big deal, we wouldn’t have to come out. Normalizing queer figures in sports is our dream, but it will never happen while there are people who don’t accept us.

And speaking of which, the comments on the article. I wish I didn’t look.

From saying we should play in the women’s league to then bringing up transgender issues in sports, the whole thing is a mess of phobic and ignorant comments that literally make me feel sick.

I pace the small kitchen while I close out that article and find another. This one is more congratulatory, but the comments are the same as the last. I go to the Philly baseball newsfeed, knowing they shared my news. The team management has been great about it. A lot of my teammates already knew—the ones I’m close to—so I’m not worried about backlash from them. I am worried about ticket sales.

Damon and Brady warned me before coming out that ticket sales might suffer.

While there are a lot more supportive comments on this thread to calm my broken heart, it’s one comment in particular that stands out. In a sea of positivity, my brain still has to latch on to the one that has the potential to make me crumble.

It’s not even what the commenter said: that one of my teammates, Cooper, and I would make a cute couple. That’s sweet. Kind of. It’s the reply to that comment from Cooper himself.

“Fuck off, u fucking troll.” At first, I think he’s defending me. He’s not. I wish I’d stopped reading his message there. When in the next sentence he feels the need to use a slur to emphasize he’s not gay, I get a very clear picture of what my teammate thinks of me.

My own fucking teammate . If I can’t even get these guys who literally know me to have my back, how am I supposed to win over the public who know two things about me: that I’m gay and I play baseball?

Everything is hopeless.

Thad comes looking for his phone ten minutes too late. “What in the fuck are you doing?”

I can’t breathe. I can barely move. “Don’t mind me. Just having a setback.”

And that’s when I start spiraling.