A Kind of Honesty

by Lane Hayes

  When my phone buzzed, I took the coward’s way out and pulled it from my pocket, selfishly grateful for the distraction. It was an e-mail. Nothing exciting. However, the screen went directly to the text I’d typed earlier to Carter. I’ll be home tonite. Miss u. I stared at the simple message for a long moment and then erased it.

  This place was my real world. No one deserved this shit. Certainly not Carter.

  It took a couple days to feel like myself again once I returned to the city. Visits home were draining. The agonizing impotent feeling was hard to shake. Music always helped, and in a way, so did yoga. And Carter. I bumped his elbow as we gathered our belongings after class the following Saturday. It was drizzling outside, but I felt energized, relaxed, clear-minded, and curiously strong.

  “Sex and food,” I said in a low tone as I took a seat on the bench next to him and pulled on my shoes.

  Carter gave me a sideways glance and sidled closer when another patron joined us.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he agreed conversationally as he reached for his phone. “I’ve got bagels and fruit and fuck—”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Mitchell is out with a cold. He’s the second guy to bail and—geez, I need to find someone else to be in charge of this stuff. I can’t be wasting my Saturday looking for—ugh.”

  “You’re killing your own yoga buzz. Who’s Mitchell and what do you have to look for?”

  “Jeff Mitchell is one the brokers at my office. He’s sick and has to miss the game this afternoon. Evidently his fingers are broken too, and he can’t pick up the fucking phone to find his own damn replacement. I’ve already been through this today. I got Zeke to cover for Danovich, but….” He turned to face me with a somewhat desperate expression. “Will you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “I need a left fielder. The game is today in Park Slope at four.” He checked his phone for the time and grimaced. “Maybe I can get one of Zeke’s brothers to help out, but I—”

  “I’ll do it,” I heard myself say.

  Carter’s immediate sigh of relief and huge smile made me forget what we were talking about for a second. I stared at him in a daze, thinking he had really pretty eyes for a guy. Deep blue and green and—

  “…you won’t have a problem with the publicity, right?”

  “Huh?” I squinted, and then slipped my sweatshirt over my head. I had to snap out of it and pay attention. Mooning over a guy in public was all kinds of a bad idea. “Isn’t this just your company team?”

  “Yeah, but sometimes these games get covered in the local papers and online.”

  I couldn’t help my derisive snort. “Who the fuck wants to read about a bunch of thirty-year-old Wall Street dudes playing baseball in Brooklyn? Even on a slow news day, that isn’t exactly a story.”

  “Advertising, smartass. We’ve organized ten firms to play biweekly. The games on weekends get coverage. We take turns promoting our companies via old-fashioned means like banners and hot dog stands. But we also invite the press and some of our games are televised.”

  “Televised? You’re shittin’ me.”

  “No. I love baseball, but I’m not an idiot. The more often our name is in front of an audience, the more business my firm generates.”

  I swiped my hand through my hair and turned toward the window, pretending to be fascinated by the gloomy drizzle outside and the flurry of passersby.

  Publicity was not a good thing for me. After successfully avoiding the limelight for an entire month, I felt more protective of my private life than ever. I wasn’t ready to be under a microscope again. Not without the cover of my band. Frankly, I was suspicious of Miranda’s silence. I didn’t trust her. There were pictures of her circulating in the tabloid wearing oversized, dark sunglasses and dressed in somber colors with a serious expression. Every caption mentioned her gaunt features and ghostly pallor. Usually there was a footnote about our recent breakup and the rumors of a pregnancy, which of course left the average reader to assume I was a deadbeat dad-to-be. I knew the truth and I knew better than to buy into the fodder she was providing for the star machine.

  However, a baseball game with a bunch of financial consultants in Brooklyn seemed fairly tame. Even if it was televised… who the hell watched boring crap like that on TV?

  “If I wore a long-sleeved T-shirt to hide my ink and asked not to be named—”

  “The T-shirt isn’t a problem, but people are going to ask your name. Why don’t you just go by Gary?” he teased.

  “Gary?”

  “Your LA alias. I can’t believe you forgot.”

  “Hmph. You said Zeke will be there. Won’t he think it’s strange you asked me to sub? Our friends don’t know—”

  “I’ll tell him the truth,” Carter replied nonchalantly as he stood and moved toward the door.

  “Excuse me?” I sprinted after him and nearly tripped over a tourist on the sidewalk.

  Carter stopped suddenly and gave me a patient look. “I’ll tell him we met at yoga this morning and we were talking after class when I got Mitchell’s message. I’ll leave out our sleepover last night and the blowjob you’re about to give me. Better?”

  I pulled the hood on his red sweatshirt to get his attention. He stumbled backward a step and glared at me.

  “If I’m doing you the favor, I’m the one gettin’ blown,” I pronounced.

  He glanced up and down the busy street theatrically. “Did you want to say that a little louder? So much for keeping a low profile, Gary. C’mon. We’ll flip a coin.”

  I watched Carter’s retreating form as he made his way up Sixth Avenue, and I wondered if I was letting my dick do major decision-making for me yet again. He stopped at the corner and turned to give me a sassy grin. I returned it with a quickness that made me dizzy. If I were completely honest with myself, I’d admit I had no clue what I was doing whatsoever. I was either setting myself up for a spectacular fall or I was guilty of overthinking. When he made a lewd tongue-in-cheek gesture and then raised his eyebrows lasciviously, I laughed and hurried after him. Maybe I was a fool, but this time it felt too good to be bad.

  The weather didn’t clear later that day, but it didn’t worsen either. The skies were gray, but the intermittent precipitation was refreshing. At least that’s what Carter’s overly enthusiastic employees claimed. My initial impression was that finance was a geekier profession than I’d assumed. The team was made up of seven men and two women who ranged in age from their late twenties to midforties. They were a gregarious bunch who seemed to get along well. They told jokes that reminded me of sitcom office moments where the characters roast each other at the water cooler with silly comebacks and nerdy high fives. They were effusive in their welcome and quick to offer pointers about how to beat the dreaded Raptors.

  “The pitcher is Lance Gandle. He’s a hotshot litigator, but he’s a pussy on the mound,” a short, red-haired woman who’d introduced herself as Dahlia informed me conversationally.

  Carter gave her a sharp look. “Lance is playing? Where’s Kevin?”

  “I dunno. I’m only reporting what he told me when I saw him in the parking lot just now,” she replied with a shrug before turning to me. “Aim for his nuts when you’re at bat and you’re golden.” She smacked her gum and tipped her red cap before stepping aside.

  Carter handed me a glove and rolled his eyes. “Dahlia is one of my secretaries and she’s literally a ballbuster, but—”

  “Lance? As in the hot guy at Benny’s party? Your ‘plus one’ also known as your ex? That Lance?”

  “Yes. That Lance.” Carter sighed and stared off into space for a moment before turning to me with a crooked grin. “It’s no big deal. Just remember… this is a friendly game. Don’t aim for his nuts, please.”

  “I thought you were in it to win it,” I teased, punching my fist into the warm leather of the mitt. It had been far too long since I’d been on a baseball field.

  “I am.” Carter’s grin was more of a devili
sh smirk that made me want to tug on his baseball cap and grind my dick against his through those sexy, white pants.

  When he started to turn away, I grabbed his arm. I wasn’t ready to share him yet. It was a high-school-ish sentiment I didn’t really understand, but I found myself racking my brain for silly topics to keep him near me.

  “Hey. You know I’m gonna be a little rusty. It’s been a decade or more—”

  “You’ll be fine. Come on. Let’s warm up.”

  He grabbed a baseball from an enormous bag filled with equipment on the bench behind the dugout and pointed toward the grass in right field. I adjusted the team cap he’d given me and followed him. We stood far enough apart that conversation wasn’t possible, so I concentrated on trying not to drop every ball he threw as I took in my surroundings. The park was nicer than the ones I remembered in my neighborhood back home. The concession stands and bleachers looked new, and the field was well maintained with towering trees nearby to offer shade in the sweltering summer months. It was an idyllic oasis that could make you forget the frantic pace of the metropolis less than a mile away.

  I threw the ball to Carter, wincing when it sailed over his head. He jumped to retrieve it, then grinned with wicked satisfaction before lobbing it high in the air. I almost fell on my ass in my haste to get under the ball. I slid precariously but avoided any major spills. However, I didn’t avoid looking like a moron. I craned my neck, searching like a cartoon character who couldn’t see what was right in front of him. Or behind him. Carter grinned and made a smartass comment about keeping my eye on the ball. I flipped him off behind my mitt, which made him howl with laughter. I couldn’t help smiling in return. There was an infectious joy about him I found appealing. It had to be baseball, I mused, as I hid my blush by turning sideways and unleashing the ball as hard as I could at him. It was my first decent pass of the day. Carter nodded enthusiastically and was about to speak when he was interrupted by a newcomer. Zeke.

  They chatted amicably at a distance. No doubt Carter was explaining my presence while calmly fielding my erratic throws, then returning them with the practiced ease of someone who’d been playing for years. I took the opportunity to study them together. Both were dressed alike in standard white baseball pants and red T-shirts with the name Spiders emblazoned on the front. Carter was a couple inches taller and had a more muscular build than Zeke, who was on the leaner side. I cautioned myself not to go there, but I had to admit they probably had made a good-looking couple.

  I didn’t like my immediate twinge of jealousy. It was disconcerting. We were guys. Guys didn’t get jealous of previous male lovers. Did they? I was trying to shake off my errant thoughts when I spotted Lance in the opponent-side dugout. Fuck, maybe they did, I mused unhappily. The guy was actually hotter than I remembered. Must be the uniform. Whatever it was, jealousy was too kind a word. I was possessive and obsessive, and those were not qualities I recognized in myself.

  I glanced up as Carter motioned for me to join them in the dugout. Zeke hung back to greet me with a bro handshake.

  “Hi, man. Glad you were there to save the day. Carter takes these games very seriously. He would have been strung out for a week if the team had to forfeit,” he teased, knowing Carter was within earshot.

  “Happy to help out.” I was aiming for easygoing, but my voice sounded tight, like I was nervous. I tried again with what I hoped passed as a sincere smile. “I’m not sure how helpful I’ll be. I haven’t played in years. He might have been better off asking Benny to take over.”

  Zeke chuckled. “Yeah, well, Benny will be the first to tell you he’s an expert with balls, but he’s not into team sports. You’ll be fine.”

  I wasn’t fine. I sucked.

  As in… I struck out at every turn at bat. I dropped three fly balls, missed two grounders, and accidently hit a runner in the leg when I finally managed to chase down a ball and throw it to second base. Carter gave me subtle tips and words of encouragement in the dugout, but I was a train wreck. My last play of the game involved a diving catch toward center field that resulted in me flying face-first into the grass. Thankfully Dahlia was there to take over and save the play from becoming a home run.

  Carter, on the other hand, was amazing. He was responsible for a couple homers and a run batted in. His form was impeccable, but his confidence was the turn-on. Well… that and his muscular thighs in those baseball pants. And he pitched like a boss. At least, I thought he did. I was too busy staring at his ass to analyze his prowess on the mound. He seemed far better than Lance, who I noticed kept a close eye on Carter too. I fleetingly wondered what went down between them, but honestly, I was too busy trying to keep my head above water and not be a liability.

  In spite of my negligent contribution, the Spiders won five to four. According to the regulars, who waved off my apologies for a poor performance with good grace, the Raptors were a tough team to beat. The consensus was we were better this year.

  “They won everything last year, but not again! Carter was terrific out there! I think our leader wants the trophy this time around,” Lawrence from Accounting exclaimed with cocky sincerity.

  He was a tall, skinny Puerto Rican American in his midthirties with short black hair and olive skin who walked with a confident swagger and slapped high fives after every play… good, bad, and mediocre. He told me he was originally from Long Island, but he spoke like a Harvard professor in a modulated tone with no trace of an accent. Another reminder that I was out of my league. I was the obvious interloper, but no one questioned my friendship with Carter. They bought the “acquaintances through friends who met by chance that morning at the yoga studio” story without batting an eye. I was prepared to point out that Zeke and Benny were our connection if necessary, but no one asked. They were friendly and actually invited me back to sub another time. Talk about a mystery.

  The only one who seemed to pay closer attention was Zeke. He didn’t ask any probing questions, but I sensed an intensity in his gaze that made me wonder how long it would take before Benny called to find out what the hell was going on.

  “Beer and pizza at Sam and Ed’s. See you guys there,” Dahlia singsonged as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

  “I’m outta here. Benny’s at my dad’s. George planned a family barbeque when he found out I’d be close to home this afternoon.” Zeke adjusted his cap and cast another inquisitive look between us. “Why don’t you come by after your beer?”

  “Tim and I drove together. I haven’t broken the news about the after-game pizza-and-beer tradition to him yet.” Carter bumped my shoulder before bending to pick up his gear.

  Zeke gave me a curious smile. “All right. Next time.”

  Carter stood and turned to me with a sweet grin. “Can you handle a beer with this motley crew?”

  “I can definitely handle a beer.”

  Sam and Ed’s was a relic from the 1980s. The space was long and narrow with tables and chairs mashed together as close as possible to fully maximize the occupancy potential. The dark-paneled walls were decorated with sports memorabilia and neon signs advertising various beers. There were video games along the back wall and kids running everywhere. I did a double take when my vision finally adjusted to the dim lighting, because this seriously looked like the last place on earth Carter would ever come by choice. It was so… ordinary.

  This type of pizza joint was on every street corner in my youth. I sidestepped two boys racing for the game area and remembered being just like them, buzzing on a sugar high and begging my mom for quarters to stuff in the candy dispenser or to play my umpteenth video game of the night. It was the polar opposite of Marcelle’s, which was fine by me. I was surprised it was fine by Carter.

  It took less than five minutes for me to realize I misjudged him. Again. Carter was like the freaking ambassador of Sam and Ed’s. Everyone there knew him well. Pitchers of beer were delivered to our table the moment we sat down, and piping-hot pizzas were set in front of us soon after. Carter chatted amica
bly with his employees slash teammates and their spouses or friends who joined us at the long, rectangular table in the center of the restaurant, and he managed to look very much at home. I felt like I was seeing a completely different side to him, and I was having a hard time making the pieces fit unless—

  “Do you own this place?” I asked in a hushed tone.

  We sat shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh at the packed table. If I wasn’t crazy about the guy, I might have been a little wary of the close confines. It was oddly intimate.

  Carter’s brow creased with a frown. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I dunno. You own that fancy place in Gramercy and everyone seems to know you here too. Just curious.”

  “They know me because I’ve been coming here for fifteen years.”

  “Fifteen years! How?”

  “The Guldens. Zeke’s parents live a few blocks away. We used to come here all the time during school breaks. After I formed my first team and worked out permits to use the park for games and practices, we started coming to Sam and Ed’s as part of our postgame tradition. It’s not fancy, and maybe that’s why I like it. This place is synonymous with baseball. And family. It’s supposed to be real.”

  He turned when someone called his name from the opposite end of the table. I tuned out the conversation and light banter around me and made a production of choosing a thick slice of pizza as I pondered Carter’s words. Or at least the key words… baseball, family, real. This hole-in-the-wall pizza joint had no aspirations of grandeur. In a way it reminded me of that dive bar in LA… albeit in a wholesome sense. It was as basic as it got. Somehow it was very telling that Carter seemed extraordinarily comfortable with his elbows propped on the sticky table, swigging beer and laughing as his employees dissected the finer points of the game. None of which involved me, I mused with a half chuckle as his thigh nudged mine.