by Lynne Jaymes
“Nice,” the catcher says, taking a ball out of his pocket and throwing it to Rowan. We repeat the process over and over, and by the time I step off the plate, most of the balls are in the outfield and I think I’ve got at least a little more respect from my new teammates.
Nobody says anything directly to me as I walk into the dugout, but I’m sure everyone was watching. I grab my bag and find the Gatorade that I shoved in there earlier.
“Those were some nice hits, son,” Coach Castro says from his position against the fence.
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to read too much into it. Coach was the one who brought me here in the first place. “Sir,” I add at the last minute. Most of the guys on the team are from Texas and they always call the coaches ‘sir’. I’m trying to follow their lead no matter how stupid it sounds in my mouth.
“I’m looking for a good lead-off man this year,” he says, spitting a wad of saliva into the soda can he always carries. “Think that could be you?”
“I hope so sir.” My voice is a lot cooler than I feel. A good performance this year means scouts in the stands for the pros. Only the one thing I’ve wanted since I was a little kid.
Coach walks onto the field and I turn around to face the bench that lines the back wall of the dugout. We’re supposed to keep our bags and shit off the bench, but most of the guys don’t, and there’s no place for me to sit. I stand there trying to figure out my next move when one of the guys shifts just slightly and sets his bag on the floor without meeting my eyes.
“Thanks,” I say, sitting down on the dusty bench.
He just nods and turns to the guy next to him. “Hey Austin, did you move into the new place yet?”
“Yep,” a guy with blond hair answers from a few feet down the bench. “Went and bought me a couple of Mexicans down by the Home Depot to haul the heavy stuff.”
I glance over at Austin. I’ve never heard anyone actually say that before.
“You bring the pool table?”
“Bet your ass I did,” Austin answers. “Had to get five guys to carry it but I’m not leaving that behind.”
“Must have cost you.”
“Nah,” Austin answers. “All you gotta do is slip the Mexicans some burrito money and they’ll do anything you want.”
The first guy shakes his head. “I hired an actual moving company last time. Not only did it cost me an assload of money, but they sent over two blacks to do the job. Lazy sons-of-bitches took twice as long as a Mexican would and cost me twice as much.”
The last sentence sends a jolt through me but I bite my lip and stare at the ground. I can’t imagine having this conversation back home, but I have to remind myself that I’m not back home right now and opening my mouth is only going to cause trouble just when I’m starting to find my place on this team.
“That’s why the blacks don’t hang out by the Home Depot,” Austin says, spitting the shells of some sunflower seeds onto the floor. “At least the Mexicans want to work. The blacks just want you to float them some money so that they can hang outside of the liquor store on East Avenue all day.”
I look around, but it seems like nobody else is even paying attention to the conversation. My old team was mostly Hispanic guys and anything like this from Austin and his friend would get their asses kicked in a hot second. In this dugout full of white guys, it seems like no big deal.
Rowan walks in and tosses his glove into his bag. I notice that none of his teammates make room for him on the bench either, despite the fact that he’s been here since freshman year.
“Great pitching,” I say to him, as he rummages for something in his bag.
Rowan turns around, a surprised look on his face. “Thanks. You swatted a couple of good ones on me.”
“Wasn’t easy.” I glance over and see that even though none of the guys are looking at us, every single one is following the conversation and I wonder what in the hell is going on.
Rowan glances behind me at the other guys on the bench and turns back to his bag. He picks a Garvin State water bottle up off the floor and takes a swig.
“Fuck, Adkins!” a brown-haired guy calls. He walks up and grabs the bottle out of Rowan’s hand. “This is my fucking water bottle. What’s the matter, you can’t read?” He points to a name written in black pen on the side. “My name, my bottle.” He peers into the opening. “Now you probably got fucking AIDS all over it.” He tosses the bottle back in his own bag as Rowan shakes his head and grabs his bag on the way out of the dugout.
“Good practice,” Mitch says, walking into the dugout, as Rowan pushes past him. He stands and watches the guys as they pack up their bags. “What the hell was that all about?”
The guy with the brown hair stands up and faces Mitch. “That fucking faggot drank out of my water bottle.”
Mitch hikes his bat bag onto his shoulder. “What? You’re just pissed he didn’t kiss you directly?”
“I swear to God—” The guy with the brown hair lunges at Mitch, but some of the other guys from the team hold him back.
“Nice,” Mitch says with a sly smile. “Rowan’s the best pitcher we have, so get off his shit.” He looks around at the rest of the guys. “All of you.” The guy with the brown hair still looks like he wants to kill Mitch, but the rest of the guys seem to listen. I don’t know why, but Mitch seems to have some authority here—probably a good idea not to piss him off.
I hang back as the rest of the guys file out of the dugout and into the locker room. As the last one leaves, I stand next to Mitch, pretending to reorganize my bat bag. “Hey,” I say. “So what was that about? With Rowan I mean.”
Mitch shrugs. “I don’t know. There was a rumor last year that someone saw him coming out of a gay bar down in Abilene.” He turns to look at me. “I don’t know if it’s true and honestly I don’t give a fuck. Rowan’sa good guy and an awesome pitcher and that’s what counts in this dugout.”
“That’s cool,” I say, swinging my bag onto my shoulder.
Mitch turns to walk out with me. “I know you’re not from around here, but don’t buy into their shit. Most of these guys are cool, but for some of them, anything that’s just a little bit different freaks them the hell out.”
I nod slowly, a decision forming in my mind before I even realize it. The last thing I need on this team is to be seen as a little bit different.For all they know, I’m just Tyler Branch—straight, blond centerfielder from California with a promising RBI and a good batting average. And I have to do whatever it takes to keep it that way.
“Not a problem.”
***
I strip off my shirt and stand right in front of the air conditioner that’s perched precariously in the window of my new apartment. I’d strip down to my boxers if I could, but my roommate Jessie might think that’s a little weird. I always thought these things looked tacky when I drove by them, but the window unit that wheezes cold air is my very favorite thing about this second-story walk up, 1970’s apartment complex.
“You gonna make it?” Jessie asks, flopping over the armrest and onto the ancient leather couch that dominates the small living room. With his perpetually dirty long hair and constantly present video-game controller, Jessie is basically the polar-opposite of a jock but he put a notice on Craigslist and I needed a room, so here I am. Plus, this place was mostly furnished and I only brought two duffle bags with me from home.
“It’s hot as fuck out there,” I say, finally starting to feel some relief from the 100 degree heat and 100 percent humidity outside. Now I understand why so many football players die around here during summer two-a-day workouts.
“This?” Jessie glances outside our window at the ribbons of heat that are coming up from the asphalt parking lot below. “This ain’t shit.Back home it got up to 120 last summer and my daddy still made me go and help him mend fences.” He grabs the PlayStation controller off the chipped coffee table. “I don’t miss that none.”
“Summer in San Francisco means that you’d better no
t forget your sweatshirt at night,” I say, walking to the fridge to get a beer. “You want a beer?” So far, Jessie’s been cool enough not to take my stuff without asking.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
I stare at him through the little opening in the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room. I swear, sometimes he talks like an 80 year-old man.
“Yes. Please,” he says, with a grin, his eyes fixed on the TV.
I toss him a beer and go back to my place by the window, taking long, slow sips that seem to cool me from the inside out.My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket, even though I knowwho it is. Hailey’s been texting me all week after our disastrous last night together but like every other time, I hit ignore and put it back in my pocket.I miss her, I can’t deny that. I miss her body close to mine and the way she smelled after sex, of something feminine and animal at the same time. I close my eyes and picture her golden skin against the crumpled white sheets of the king bed in her expertly decorated loft and my body responds automatically. I wish I’d known that would be our last time together. I would have savored every moment, marked every caress in my memory. But I know this is what’s best. For both of us.
There’s not much to see out our window—the parking lot, and beyond the road a stand of trees and then just scrub fields as far as you can see. Garvin is a pretty small town and nature comes to lay claim to it as soon as you get out of the city limits. There’s some movement on the sidewalk in front of our building and my eye is drawn to a flash of red. Two girls are wrestling with an overstuffed red chair that is obviously too heavy for them. I can see the tall one say something to the small one, who tilts her head back and laughs. I watch her long neck stretch and the muscles in her shoulders move against the thin straps of her tank top. Even from up here I can tell she’s not a weak little girl—this is someone who works out, maybe a swimmer or a dancer, and that her muscles are well-toned from years of activity.
The two of them haul the chair through the parking lot and disappear under the carport below. I’m on my feet before I even realize it.
“I’ll be back,” I call to Jessie, but he’s so engrossed in his game I don’t think it even registers.
I can see the two of them through the glass door as they pull the chair up the outside steps. The smaller one must only be a little over five feet tall, and she’s dressed in sneakers and tight leggings that show off every perfect curve. Even as I watch her I’m wondering what I’m doing here. I’m barely free of Hailey and now I’m rushing down the stairs because a cute girl might need my help?
“Hold on,” I say, and push the door open for them.
“Thank you,” the girl says, a hint of a smile still playing along her lips and a soft Texas twang that makes me want to hear her say more. Her hair is up in a messy bun with tendrils sticking to the shimmer of sweat on the back of her neck. It takes all I have not to reach out and lift one away. She’s got that combination of dark blond hair and deep brown eyes that always gets me, and I look away because I don’t want her to see me staring.
“Can I help you with that?”
“No, thanks,” the taller girl says. “One of our friends bet that me and Jenna couldn’t get this thing home on our own, so we’re out to prove him wrong.”
She stands on the bottom step, and Jenna picks up her end of the chair again. I can see her well-defined muscles as she flexes and I have a sudden, overwhelming desire to know what she looks like naked in a tangle of sheets. Shit, I’ve got to snap out of this.
“Are you sure?” I ask, watching them inch the chair up the first few steps.
“It’s alright,” Jenna says. The smile she flashes cuts right through me. “We got this.”
I turn and push my way out the glass front door into the heat of the parking lot. Jenna. It’s the perfect name for her—compact, soft and just a little bit different. I walk to one of the parking spaces and sit down on a cement stop. Six words from this girl and I feel all unmoored, like something is tugging at me from the inside.
This is crazy. She’s just another college girl living in a crappy apartment building somewhere in the middle of Texas. I don’t have time for any kind of relationship right now—this is my one big chance to make it to the majors and that has to be the focus of everything I do. I find myselflooking up at the building and scanning the wall of windows, wondering which one is hers.
I stand up and shake my legs out. If I learned anything from Hailey, it’s that I’m here for baseball, nothing else. Besides, getting involved with Jenna would mean that I’d have to tell her the truth about me, and there’s no way I could do that without risking my place on the team. I take a deep breath and reach for the door handle, hoping that the girls have managed to get the chair inside of the apartment by now because I really don’t want to run into them again. Jenna is bad for me and bad for my career and I’ll just have to keep repeating that over and over until I’m finally convinced.
As I already found out the hard way—love and secrets are a bad mix.
***
Ty and Jenna’s story continues in the novel ONE TRUE THING, available at fine eretailers everywhere.
Read on for an excerpt.
One True Thing
(Ty)
“Killer game dude,” Rowan says, swatting me on the shoulder with his glove as he passes my seat on the bus.
“Thanks,” I say. I can’t help grinning. My bat is hot right now, just where I need it to be. “You too. You’ll get the no-hitter next time.” He was so close, but a double in the eighth blew it for him. The minute the ball left the bat you could hear it was a good hit. It just about killed all of us.
“There’s always next time,” he grins, grabbing a seat toward the back.
“Basking in your success?” Mitch says, sliding into the seat behind me.
“Hardly,” I say. As much as I like to win, I hate to talk about it. It’s embarrassing somehow.
“Back to back homers?” Mitch whistles. “That’ll get you noticed. Did you see the look on that poor pitcher’s face just before they yanked his ass out of the game? I almost felt sorry for the guy.”
“The last one was a lucky shot,” I say with a shrug, hoping he’ll stop talking about it. “You had a great couple of innings too.”
“Come on. Coach only put me in because we were up by five. Between your batting and Rowan’s pitching, the rest of us are just field decorations.”
“That’s bullshit,” I say. “Okay, I’m having a good season. But we both know that bats run hot and bats run cold.” I look around to make sure nobody’s listening as the driver closes the front doors and puts the bus into gear. “Everyone has their turn.”
“Well, it’s definitely yours right now,” Mitch says. He looks over the back of my seat to the book in my lap. “German Existentialist Literature?”
“Yeah.” I wiggle the highlighter at him. “With all the traveling and games five days a week I’m seriously behind.” Not to mention that if my grades slip too much further my baseball scholarship’s in jeopardy, something I can’t afford when I’m finally this close to making things happen. All I need is a few more hours in the day.
“You just need to learn to sweet talk those TAs a little better,” Mitch says, pulling out his tablet and headphones.
“Right,” I say. I haven’t sweet-talked anyone in months, not since I broke up with Hailey last summer. Thinking about not having any girls in my life was easy. Actually doing it is getting harder every day.
There’s not much to see on the three hour drive back to Garvin—hills and scrub trees and the occasional small town, so it’s easy to finally get some work done to the hum of the other guys on the bus talking, messing with their phones or listening to the movie that’s running on the monitors overhead. Sometimes we pass through one of those micro towns, their main streets literally two blocks long, with their raised wooden sidewalks splintering in the sun and most of the glass fronts boarded up. Almost all of them have a big fancy
courthouse sitting in the middle of a square right in the center of town—big brick reminders of what life used to be like in this part of Texas. As we roll out of town I look into the yards behind the peeling picket fences at the rusty swing sets and the above-ground pools and wonder what it would be like to grow up in a place like this. And what the people in a place like this would say if they knew we were watching.
I’m always relieved when we get back on the main road as it rolls over the hills, nothing to see out the window but vultures hopping around road kill and cows dotting the scrub as they bend their heads to forage what they can from the dry ground. The tiny towns depress me and make me feel even more like an outsider in this part of the country. Much better to be flying through a town like this instead of stuck in one.
It’s dark by the time we pull into the parking lot at school. Some of the guys have been sleeping and there’s a lot of groaning and stretching as the lights on the bus flip on and people stand and grab their stuff.
“Where you headed?” Mitch asks as I swing my backpack over my shoulder.
“Home I guess.”
He checks his phone. “On Saturday night? Come on, you can do better than that.”
I shrug. “Like I said, I’ve got a lot of work to do and we have a ton of games next week…” I know how lame and pathetic that sounds the minute the words are out of my mouth.
“Plenty of time for all that,” Mitch says as we hop down onto the asphalt parking lot. “Come to the bar with me. We’ll have a couple beers, some wings…you have to eat.”
I think about it for a split second. All that’s waiting for me at the apartment is a frozen pizza and Jessie and his stoner friends playing video games for hours in the living room. Plus, if I blow Mitch off one more time he probably won’t ask again. “Okay. Just for a little while.”
“Great!” Mitch smiles and taps his phone. “Nina’s meeting us there, and she’s got some hot friend from class with her.”