2. Alan

Chapter two

Alan

Don’t get me wrong. I love what I do. I love that Banana Ball has brought a new kind of energy to the game I grew up watching with my gramps. But if I am being totally honest with myself, which seldom happens, I do let what other people think get to me. My gramps in particular. My sister, Kelly, tells me to ignore him. And I should. I really fucking should. But that little Alan inside of me is still holding out hope that he’ll come around, despite the fact he’s made it very clear he doesn’t think what I play is baseball at all. There are a lot of differences, true, but the game is essentially the same; we just took out all the boring stuff and got the crowd way more involved. Not only in the celebrations but in the game itself. Having a spectator launch themselves up out of their seat to catch the foul ball that wins the point for their team gets the crowd and the players’ hearts racing in a way that nothing else does.

I still don’t try to hit a foul ball, but it happens, and I’d be lying if I wasn’t rooting for the person in the stands as much as everyone else to catch it. Gramps might get his wish if the rumors are true and only one of our teams will get to continue next year.

“You’ve got the mic,” Dennis calls, handing it over as the rest of the team heads across to the other side of the field.

“You sure?” I ask, more out of politeness. I don’t want him to give it to anyone else. I love singing in front of thousands of people almost as much as I love smacking it out of the park.

He raises one brow at me and purses his lips a little in reply.

“Okay, I was just checking,” I say, then flip the mic over in the air, catching it perfectly by the handle again. “Opening choreography?”

“Let’s just see what you feel in the moment, then we can add from there.”

It’s not like Dennis to not have a million and one instructions, but I’m game to see what I’ve got without him. “What are we singing then?”

“I think you’ll know it,” he smiles and taps his phone. It’s connected to a speaker by the dugout. On game day, the music will play all over the stadium, but for rehearsals, we shouldn’t have the whole of Savannah hearing what music we’re planning.

As soon as the music starts, I shake my head. I know this song. Ever since Elton and Britney released it, it’s been on my playlist. It’s also become one of my top three on karaoke night, and seeing as Dennis never misses karaoke either, it’s no surprise he’s picked this song for me.

“I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to go full Elton,” I call, jogging up the stairs. I spin on the first line dramatically, stepping slowly down each step and singing along, then throwing my head back, I spread my legs out at the sides, and belt out the chorus.

The pop version brings a great beat to work in a few moves I usually reserve for Abba night at karaoke, and Dennis watches the whole time, arms folded over his chest, but smiling and nodding along to the music.

I get to the field and throw one arm out at the side, spinning in place.

“This would be a great spot for a few guys to lift me and spin me,” I say, then pretend I’m lowered down, do a dramatic bow, then wriggle my ass as I sing and dance until the music finally fades to a close.

“So how was it?” I ask.

“It’s missing something,” he replies, frowning.

“Yeah, it’s missing my big orange feathery coat and giant star sunglasses.”

“No, I think we should make it a duet,” he replies, turning towards where the team is now jogging up and down the stairs of the back stands. “Phillip, get over here,” he yells, and after a few snide remarks from the guys still hitting the stairs, he makes his way over.

“What’s up?”

“Grab a mic. You’re our Britney.”

“I’m what now?”

“We’re doing the remix song by Britney Spears and Elton John,” I say, expecting it to spark realization, but he looks even more confused.

“You have heard of Elton John, right?”

He laughs. “I’m just messing. I’m a gay guy in the world. Of course, I know Britney and Elton.”

“Phew,” I reply, wiping the imaginary sweat from my brow. “I thought we were going to have to revoke your queer card for a minute.”

“You got a card?” he asks, looking me deadpan in the face.

“Shut up and just sing,” I say, and Dennis points towards the mic beside his speaker.

“Both of you up there, in the stands, about two sections up, one on each of those rows. Sit on the aisle seat, and when the music starts, you stand and sing. Phillip, copy Alan’s strut down the stairs and do that thing again on the chorus, but after that, I want you to be at the cross-section between the rows, and that’s when you come together, hold hands and then climb onto the back of the seats and step down them towards the front that way.”

“Won’t people be in them?” Phillip asks as we head up to our starting places.

“No, I’ll have ushers move them to the stairs for the opening. Fans never seem to mind, and we’ll give them a bag of swag to make up for the inconvenience. Okay, are you ready?”

“Ready,” we reply, and Dennis hits play.

Phillip is good. Really good. He matches my strut perfectly and even pulls out his hair tie and does a hair flip when we meet in the middle. I hold out my hand, and his huge fingers clasp over mine, and then we turn and step up on the first chairs. They are strong, and can easily hold our weights, not that I weigh all that much.

“Great, now as you step down, keep singing and looking back at one another, then to the front. Yeah, like that,” Dennis calls.

Voices come from down below, and the Funky Monkeys start jogging out to the field. Now that we are in the League, our training times overlap more than ever, and when Ryan flashes that freaking adorable smile my way, a flutter hits my gut, blood rushes to my face, and then I lose my footing.

I swear I catch his smile turn to a look of shock before I clench my eyes closed, waiting for the smack of the ground against my face, but it doesn’t come.

“You okay?” Phillip asks, and I open my eyes. His large hands hold me tight.

“Fuck, that was close,” I manage through heavy breaths. “Thanks.”

“No worries. You good to stand on your own now?” he asks, and it’s only now I realize I’m not standing at all. He’s holding me completely off the ground.

“Yeah, sorry again,” I say, and he lowers me down. My attention moves to the field, and Dennis, who’s just standing there watching, and he has that look on his face that he gets when he’s trying to work out a new routine. Ryan is still there, too. I should smile and wave at him, let him know I’m okay. But what if he doesn’t even care? What if I wave and just end up looking like a total idiot? More than I just did then.

“Again,” Dennis calls.

“Do you think we should reconsider the seats?” Phillip asks, still holding my hand as we step down between them.

“No, I think you should do it exactly like I asked you to do it, but this time, when you get to the bottom seat, I want you to lift Alan into your arms, step those long legs over the rail, then jump down, without dropping him, and then continue the rest of the song on the field.”

There it is, the thing Dennis was working out when he should have been worried about the two-B who almost face-planted the cement.

“Is that a good idea?” Phillip asks, and I actually see Dennis’s eye twitch a little.

“It’s fine. I’m good,” I say, slipping my hand free from Phillip’s.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t watching what I was doing. I’ll be more careful. Let’s go again.”

He nods, and we head up to take our places. On my way, I glance back to where Ryan had been standing, only he isn’t there, he’s jogging over to where his team is warming up.

Come on, Alan, focus. Sure, he’s the only guy you’ve been interested in for ages, but he’s into guys like Harry, big and buff all over, and he’s a total ten. We’re a six, maybe seven on a good hair day. While I’m pretty fit especially in my arms, my legs seem to struggle to put on any real mass and my skin shows the years growing up on the ranch in the sun, his fair complexion is only marked by the deep dimples that form in both his cheeks when he smiles. And he smiles a lot.

I didn’t notice it at first. Most likely because I was seeing someone, and unlike my douchebag ex, that meant something to me. But now I can’t unsee it. Unsee him. I find him in every room, look for him on the field. I almost cheered for him when he struck out one of our players at the end of last year. And that is just another reason I can’t go there. He’s a Funky Monkey, the enemy.

We’ve played on opposite teams in the Banana Ball League for years now, and he’s never given me any indication he might even be slightly interested in a guy like me. He’s always friendly, and he and I worked on a few ideas last year for some promos, but that was it. The only thing he’s ever talked to me about is baseball. It’s always business. He’s proved he isn’t shy in asking out a guy he likes. If he was interested in me, he’d ask me out like he did with Harry, which just further proves he’s definitely not into me.

Don’t let yourself even think of the possibility. I try to tell myself, but my eyes are locked on the way his ass picks up in perfect rounds as he jogs away, and now all I can think about is sinking my teeth into it.

“Monsieur, Alan, are we good?” Dennis calls in his mock French tone that is so far from French.

“Yeah,” I reply, not really paying attention, still.

“Then do you think you can sing this time?” he says, and I let the rest of my surroundings in, Phillip is halfway down the stairs, shaking his head at me with a deep frown across his forehead, and Dennis is standing with his hands on his hips like he’s about to have a full-blown tantrum.

“Oh shit, yeah. Sorry. I’m ready,” I say, and we run it again. This time, I don’t fall on the chairs, and it’s actually pretty cool being lifted and spun around. Even if it is Phillip, cause no way would I ever go there.

Dennis makes a few additions to the field routine, finally calling in the rest of the team to get them involved, and then we run it three more times with everyone, the last time in full uniform with the media manager, Will, recording on a drone while two guys hold devices in front of Phillip and I. Anyone who thinks what we do isn’t hard work just needs to spend a day with us, it’s five in the afternoon, and I’m sweating and exhausted. I’ve been up since four getting in my early workout and steam before training, then we finished batting practice, hit the gym for an hour on weights, then cardio program out on the field, and the last hour, I’ve been dancing and singing on top of all that. But when Dennis cheers at the end of the run, we know we’ve nailed it, and the team can finally head inside to shower. I spend a few minutes stretching out my muscles on the field but also watching Ryan. He’s pitching into the net on the far side, checking his speed. I can’t make out the exact number from here, but I swear I just saw triple digits. Fuck, that’s fast. He throws another, but on the release, he grabs his shoulder.

“Motherfucker,” he calls, and that I hear clear as day.

Shit. He’s hurt. Kyle, one of the team physios, rushes over to him. I want to run over, too. My body is vibrating it wants to so badly. But I’m not a physio. I’m not even first aid trained unless you count the mandatory basic stuff they get us to do each year.

So I just stand there watching as Kyle strips off Ryan’s shirt and moves to sit behind him on the grass. If he’s hurt badly, he could be out for the whole season. Fuck, if it’s really bad, this could be it for his career. A few guys from his team who were still on the field crowd around him making it hard to see what’s happening.

But then a gap opens just in time to watch Kyle slide his hands over Ryan’s shoulder, massaging up his muscled arm, and when relief spreads across Ryan’s face and he leans his head back against Kyle, moaning, “ Yeah right there, ” my dick responds. It’s messed up. I know it is. Ryan’s on the ground hurt, and I’m over here imagining it’s me behind him, exploring his muscles with my hands, making him moan. But by the look on his face, it mustn’t be as bad as it could have been. Maybe it will just need a good massage. I know how to massage. Should have become a PT instead of a player, looks like they have all the fun.