by Leah Meers
A happy laugh and a head topped with curly brown hair got my attention. Emmitt, the guy I rented the apartment from, stood tucked under the arm of a bulky guy I assumed was his boyfriend, Max. I knew he renovated the apartment, and Emmitt mentioned him a dozen times the few times we talked, but we never met. I wound my way over to the booth full of people.
"Hey, Emmitt," I said and took another sip of my drink. "Heard you laughing across the bar."
"Oh hi, Gabe." His smile stretched his face as he turned to the crew in the booth. "Everyone, this is Gabe. He's gonna be DJing here starting this weekend."
"Hope you're good," said a blonde Viking type with tats covering his thick arms. "The last guy never played anything hard enough." He grinned then and offered a hand. "I'm Cal, and this is Ross." He tipped his head at a dark-haired man leaning against him. Ross just smiled vaguely in my direction.
A spike-haired woman in a black vest nodded. "I'm Dinah, and this is my baby Roxy."
"Hello, Gabe," she said without lifting her head from Dinah's shoulder.
I sank into the conversation about home renovations – apparently another couple they knew was turning an old house into a B&B with Max and Houston's help – compared ink and talked about the local tattoo shop, Iron Arc, with Cal while Ross watched with a hint of pique in his dark eyes, and laughed at Roxy's story about how her mother didn't quite understand that Dinah wasn't 'one of those transgender people she heard about on the news' just because she had short hair and wore oxfords instead of blouses. A woman named Penny with a cherry red buzz cut showed up and squeezed into the booth next to them.
"Your hair is amazing," she said, trying to focus through alcohol-blurred eyes. "I should bleach mine."
Common mistake. "Oh, this is natural. I'm cursed." I flicked a platinum lock over my shoulder.
As she grumbled about the unfairness of hair color, I felt a hand sweep across my back as someone leaned in close. I tensed when an exhalation fluttered past my ear before a deep voice said, "Gorgeous." I turned to see a bronze hunk flash me a smile over his shoulder as he moved off through the crowd.
Cal laughed and Emmitt said, "You're going to be popular here, Gabe. I can just feel it."
Max nodded and pulled his boyfriend tighter against his side. "He has a sixth sense about these things."
"Well, look at him," Emmitt said and waved a hand at me. "He's cute." Ross at the table made an "Mmhmm" noise, and Max just laughed some more.
I was never one to blush at compliments. I wondered if they were into threesomes and looking for someone to bring home with them. Like many red-blooded, modern gay men, I had indulged a time or two, but it wasn't really my thing. Besides, he was my landlord, and that might make it all kinds of awkward. Still, Emmitt was a great guy, and Max had to be if he picked him. Muscles for days, too.
The thought of muscles brought someone else to mind. My head swiveled as I scanned the bar. I had mentioned Revere's to Cody, but I didn't really expect him to show up the same night. In fact, I wasn't even sure how he identified, or if he was out, or anything. My easy smile tightened. The thought that Cody, the object of my reigniting fantasies, could live totally and completely straight hadn't crossed my mind.
He wouldn't have been the first guy to experiment in college. Several years had passed since then, and he could have spent it with only women. I shook my head and gulped down some more rum and coke. He had checked me out that night on my couch, right? Or maybe it was just the surprise of seeing all my ink and piercings.
With bravado I couldn't blame on the single mixed drink, I vowed to figure it out for sure the next time I saw him. And I would see him. If I got another shot at having Cody, I would not let it slip through my fingers.
Chapter Four
Cody
Dr. Nowak tapped his pen against the charts spread out on his desk and stared at me over his horn-rimmed glasses. "You've been wearing the brace?" he asked.
I nodded. "Whenever I do anything active or if it's sore during the day."
"And you've only been doing the allowed exercises, right? Getting lots of rest?"
"Yes, sir," I said. "The only other thing I've done is go jogging, and I always wear the brace for that."
He nodded and scanned the paperwork again. With a sigh, he sat back and tapped the pen cap against the papers again. "Would you say your current level of pain is manageable for the long term?"
My brows drew together as my jaw clenched. That sounded like chronic pain talk, not some type of solution so I could get back to playing. "What do you mean?" I knew what he meant, but believing it made bile churn through my gut.
He sighed again. "Your healing has apparently hit what we call maximum medical improvement. It has shown no positive change over the last four weeks. You could live like this as long as the pain is not insurmountable. You have limited mobility issues. Or you could opt for surgery and take your chances for improvement down the road, although there are no guarantees, of course."
The excruciating pain that had driven me to my knees on the mound during practice months ago lingered too fresh in my memories. When the coach decided I was healed enough, it only took two practice sessions to find me face down in the dirt again with that same white-hot lance of agony shooting through my shoulder. The days and nights of ice packs and cursing were made tougher by the fear I would never play baseball again.
The brace helped, but I still reached for ice on quite a few evenings after an active day. It still twinged when I washed my hair in the shower or reached dishes down from the top cabinets. Yeah, I could live like this forever, with this constant reminder of failure and my wasted talent.
"Do you mean…?" I looked away from his sympathetic gaze and stared at a chart of hand-washing instructions on the wall.
Dr. Nowak sat forward again. "Cody, despite what your coach and your father want -- they both called me, by the way, though I could tell them nothing due to privacy laws – the chance of you playing professional baseball again is virtually nil. I'm sorry."
He gave me a moment to respond, but I couldn't think of one thing I could say or ask. That was it, then. It was over.
"If the pain is manageable and you maintain this level of mobility, you can still live an active life. Carefully rebuild your strength. Play catch with any future kids in the yard. Coach Little League if you want. Go fishing. Just not the type of strenuous activity required by a pro pitcher."
Mind movies of my father playing catch with me in the backyard streamed on a loop in my head. Great. I could do that with my own kids one day, groom them for the life I never got to have, make sure they didn't waste their talent. Fuck that. Fuck it. I sucked in a shaky breath and tried to push the anger and the incredible sense of loss out of my head.
"Thank you, Dr. Nowak," I said and stood up with shoulders straight despite the pain that filled the right one. "I'm not interested in surgery. I think it's just time to move on."
He nodded and pushed the papers back into my file. His hand reached out to shake mine as he got to his feet, but I ignored it and walked out.
~ ~ ~
At that time of day, my father finished up at Excel Sports and drove home. My mother got dinner on the stove. I didn't want to see either of them. I didn't want to see anyone. I cranked up my music and got out of town as fast as possible. The road west around the lake rolled past forests and farm fields before swooping back to follow the shore close enough to offer a scenic drive to tourists who felt like staring at a different piece of water.
My shoulder ached more than usual after all the motions the doctor put me through to test mobility. The doc asked if I could live with this, and yeah, the physical pain was manageable. Anything was if you were forced to manage it, right?
"What am I supposed to do now?" I asked the empty car. Coaching in North Carolina? As little as I enjoyed living with my parents again at twenty-seven, moving that far away made everything feel so much worse.
It would be simple. My father would get Bill, whoev
er he was, to pull some strings and get me the job. Even without my pitching arm, I knew enough to be of value to a college team. I would work, earn my paycheck, ice my shoulder every night, get married, have two kids, coach Little League. I slammed my fist into the steering wheel and cursed when a flash of pain accompanied the anger.
The sun sank down the sky as I chased it west around the lake. A jumble of possible future plans flowed through my mind, and I dismissed them just as quickly. Baseball was out. Coaching was out.
Not only did the idea of getting a job because of my father's connections churn my gut, the last thing I wanted to do was help other hopefuls achieve their dreams. I couldn't even go back to warehouse work if it involved overhead lifting or picking up anything over forty pounds. My education was worthless. I had taken just enough classes to get through some vague liberal arts degree designed to keep athletes on the field.
I steered the car into a turn in the road flanked by pines that blocked out most of the late-day sunlight. The next town still lay twenty or thirty minutes away, but going there wouldn't solve any of my problems. I had no dramatic urge to run away or escape my disappointed family's clutches. At least not without my stuff.
A dirt road flanked by a rail fence came up on the left, and I pulled in to make a U-turn and head back home. A painted wooden board read 'Camp Rocky Cove.’ Below it, someone had tacked a ‘Help Wanted’ sign with a website address.
My Mustang idled halfway across the drive. Was it fate? A laugh surprised me. Could I see myself working at a camp? With kids? A memory of Dr. Nowak telling me I could still play catch with my kids one day popped into my mind again. I liked kids and wanted some of my own one day. They were always a part of a vague life plan. Kids who I would let discover their own dreams and support no matter what. I pulled out my phone, navigated to the website, and bookmarked it.
It was something that might not suck. A way to make money, at least. My parents had sent me to camp as a kid, and I remembered the long, hot days playing games, swimming, and having fun with no expectations of greatness. That had changed in junior high when my dad insisted on baseball camp every summer. The trip back home seemed shorter than the one away from it, but at least my mind filled with something other than pain and failure.
~ ~ ~
The moment I stepped in the house, my mom called from the kitchen. "Cody, is that you?"
"What did the doc say?" my dad added. "Come in here."
The distraction of thinking about camp and simpler childhood days almost made me forget that I'd have to get this confrontation out of the way. I wanted to tell them to leave me alone, but that wasn't how we did things in our family. Maybe I should have rebelled more as a teen. I scrubbed my palm over my short hair and looked from one to the other.
"Dr. Nowak said improvements have stopped. Surgery wouldn't help. I can live with the pain and other stuff, but baseball's out of the question." I would have added a shrug, but my shoulder hurt too damn much to move it anymore. I wanted to grab my ice pack and disappear into my room.
My father's face transformed into a red thundercloud. My mother's frown tipped toward pity. I stared down at the table and waited for the inevitable response.
"Bullshit," he snapped and slammed his fist against the table. The silverware jumped and clattered together. "That doctor doesn't know what he's talking about. We'll talk to the team doc and—"
"Just quit it, Dad," I said, my own anger spurred on by the pain. "It's over. It's fucking over, okay?"
"Cody, don't talk to your father like that!" My mother dropped the spatula into the pan and stared wide-eyed between us.
"He can sign off on the physical for the coaching job. At least we can salvage something out of this." A red crease formed between my father's bushy brows.
I felt like I would spontaneously combust at any moment. Salvage something out of this? He meant out of me, the son who destined to fulfill all his dreams for him. The one who would wave his cap from the mound after a no-hitter and give him something to brag about. The one whose trophies could sit next to his on the shelf in the living room or decorate the counter at Excel Sports where the entire town could see them.
"I'm not taking the coaching job," I said. "I'm not going to North Carolina. If you want me out of the house, fine, I'll go, but I'm not following your plan anymore, Dad. I can't. It's over." Before he could say another word, I left him seething at the kitchen table and headed to the freezer. I grabbed the ice pack, met his glare for a moment with it clutched in my first, and strode out of the room and up the stairs to my bedroom at the end of the hall.
In the first ten minutes after my outburst, I expected my dad to storm upstairs and yell at me some more about throwing my life away. Another ten minutes passed, and I thought maybe my mom would come up to try to smooth things over or offer sympathy. Sure, baseball had always been my dad's dream for me, but I wanted it, too. The chime from my phone interrupted the turmoil in my mind.
Gabe: I still have your hoodie.
The day I drove Gabe home after Sandy interrupted his swim, he had grabbed my phone and put his number in. I stared down at the simple sentence and breathed what felt like the first whole breath I took in an hour.
Cody: I can come pick it up if it's in the way or something.
Gabe: Yes, my place is that small. Everywhere I turn… nothing but your massive hoodie. I have to crawl through one of the sleeves to get to the bathroom.
A laugh surprised me. I shifted upright and leaned against my pillows.
Cody: Well, you're the one complaining about still having it. I thought maybe you wanted to see me so you could give it back.
Heat swirled through me that had nothing to do with the anger of an hour earlier. I wanted to see Gabe, and it had nothing to do with my sweatshirt. With the echo of his voice in my head, our sophomore year of college didn't feel any further away than the day before. How we laughed together. Late nights when he introduced me to new music. The gleam in his eyes when he made me come.
My cock twitched as memories tumbled through my mind. His slender body, his pale skin, my fingers trailing through ribbons of white on his belly and chest. The ice pack slid off my shoulder as I shifted to press my palm against my thickening cock.
Gabe: I'm at Revere's half tipsy already. Your hoodie is home. Not really club wear. ;) You should come!
The suggestion coupled with my thoughts forced another laugh out of me, but it also sent heat down my spine. My hand pressed and twisted in my lap in some half-hearted attempt to relieve the building pressure.
Cody: Maybe I will.
I parked my Mustang outside of Revere's half an hour later. Gabe told me he'd still be there for hours, hanging out with friends. The rainbow flag outside the door cemented the thought Revere's must be a gay bar. I had known Gabe swung that way since the third week of college, so no big surprise there.
Me? Deep inside my mind, I could float the term bisexual, but Gabe had been the only guy I'd ever been with. The sports world wasn't exactly inclusive or welcoming. I dated a few women, hooked up with others, never got serious about anyone, but no one expected me to, except maybe my mother. A few men had caught my eye, but it was easy enough to ignore the attraction, keep my head down, and stay on track.
Out in the open? If anyone asked, I'd probably tell them to mind their own business. Like with most other guys who didn't flick their wrists or wear lip gloss or any of the other ridiculously stereotypical things idiots expected LGBTQ men to do, I passed for straight easily enough. I saw no reason to correct anyone or volunteer the information that I once had a hot and heavy thing with a beautiful boy at college.
Dim lighting, the flash of bright spots over a crowded dance floor, a sleek wooden bar down the left side of the room, and dozens of men paired off or grouped up around the tables and booths near the edges. Nothing looked any different from every other weekday bar, other than the lack of women.
How was I supposed to find Gabe in that crowd? I pulled out my phone a
gain.
Cody: I'm at Revere's. Where are you hiding?
Gabe: Holy fuck. You came. Meet me at the bar. I need a refill anyway.
I ambled over and attracted the attention of a young man with shocking blue hair. He checked me out with a toothy grin while I ordered a beer, and my nerves sparked to life. I turned away and took a gulp before scanning the crowd for any sign of Gabe. Nothing but a bunch of strangers filled the room, some with eyes turned my way. I moved to an empty spot down the bar and grabbed a stool.
This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come to a gay bar in my hometown. What the hell was I thinking? I shook my head and took another gulp of beer. I knew what I was thinking. I wanted to see Gabe again. That thought overshadowed any fear of my big secret leaking out. Who cared? It would be just another thing for my dad to feel let down about. Halfway through my next swallow, a hand landed on my arm, and I almost choked.
"Demonstrating your gag reflex won't win you many friends here." Gabe slid onto the stool next to me and took the beer bottle out of my hand. He placed it on the bar and eyeballed me with a mock serious expression.
I couldn't help the smile, half at his wry joke and half in relief that I wasn't alone in this sea of gay men anymore. The moment the thought formed, I mentally scolded myself. As if a sea of gay men was some dangerous, scary thing.
"It's fine, Gabe. You didn't make me spill." Two could play the innuendo game. I looked down at where his palm tried to wrap around my bicep. "You want another drink?"
His eyebrows shot up his forehead, and he snorted before answering. "Does a bear shit in a gay bar bathroom?" he deadpanned.