Toby did, noticing as he moved closer that a folder lay open on his desk with what looked like legal paperwork spread out from it. He tensed, waiting for his grandfather to bring the hammer down on him.
“These documents,” Ray began, “are the ones my lawyer started drawing up for me on Monday. They include a revised version of my will and paperwork related to the ownership of this team.” He looked up, pinning Toby with his piercing gaze. “Every one of them is written to exclude you from ever inheriting or otherwise acquiring any portion of the 60-percent stake I hold in this ball club.”
Toby nodded. He’d expected as much when he’d defied his grandfather. After talking with his lawyer, Toby knew there was no risk of him losing the share his father had left him, the 30 percent he’d gotten on his own twenty-first birthday. But it didn’t surprise Toby that his grandfather would make sure Toby would never have any more.
Ray held his gaze for a few long moments, and then he picked up several of the sheets and slowly, deliberately, tore them in half from top to bottom. Toby sat up straighter, and Ray picked up another set and repeated the motion.
He pushed the ruined paperwork aside, along with the folder they’d been inside, revealing a second folder. He opened this one and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
“This is the document I had written after I told my lawyer to dispose of those.” He nodded toward the ruined paperwork. “It is a press statement confirming that I am aware of your sexual orientation, and that of Caleb Browning. Further, it states that it is the policy of the Atlanta Braves not to discriminate against its employees on the grounds of sexual orientation, and that the team will not tolerate any such actions by any of its staff.” He looked away from Toby finally. “It’s being released to the press as we speak. It is all I will have to say on the matter.”
Toby waited, wondering if his grandfather would have something a little more personal to say. When Ray didn’t continue speaking, Toby leaned forward. “So…. What? You’re not going to cut me out of the team because it would be a bad PR move? What about the fact that I’m your grandson and you’re supposed to actually, oh, I don’t know, care about me?”
Ray lifted his head, and Toby was taken aback by the weariness on his face. Suddenly, Ray Macmillan looked every one of his sixty-four years. “I don’t…. This is what I can do. I can’t….”
He trailed off, and despite himself, Toby felt a pang of sympathy. His grandfather was from a different generation, raised under different belief systems and societal structures. Just the fact that he was willing to overcome those learned prejudices enough not to cut Toby out of his life was a huge step.
Toby decided he could live with that, for now.
“I…. Thank you,” he finally said. He pushed to his feet. “I’ll see you—well. I’ll see you.”
He turned and walked out of the office, his heart aching, but not broken.
“HAPPY birthday, dear Tooooo-byyyyyy! Happy birthday to you!”
Toby leaned forward and blew out the candles, to a chorus of cheers. His face hurt from grinning so wide, but he couldn’t help himself. He stood in the middle of the Braves clubhouse after Friday night’s game, surrounding by the team and staff, a huge sheet cake decorated with an elaborate depiction of a baseball game sitting in front of him. He’d expected to get birthday wishes—he did every year—but the clubhouse staff had outdone themselves this time. Even the postgame meal was Toby’s favorite—pulled pork sandwiches with all the fixings.
Best of all was Caleb, standing next to him and smiling almost as much as Toby. Tonight was his first night back with the team, though he’d stay on the disabled list for at least another ten days, and they’d both been heartened by the many supportive greetings he’d received when they arrived. A few players avoided him, though because they disapproved or didn’t know what to say, Toby didn’t know. Heck, for all he knew, they might have their own secrets they weren’t ready to share.
“Speech! Speech! Speech!” Toby didn’t know who’d started the chant, but he suspected Marty, from the smirk on his face. Toby waved a hand until everyone quieted down a little.
“I think I’m kind of speeched out this week,” he said, to several hoots and even a couple of “go, boys.” “So I’ll just say thank you, for the cake and, well, just for being good guys and standing by me. Us.”
He reached for Caleb’s hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Now,” he said, reaching for the cake server sitting on the table. “Who wants the first slice?”
With his friends and coworkers clamoring for first dibs, Toby felt Caleb step up beside him, close enough that Toby could feel his body heat. He didn’t have to look. He knew Caleb would be right there, and that was enough for him.
About the Author
SHAE CONNOR lives in Atlanta, where she works for the government by day and reads and writes about pretty boys falling in love by night. She’s been making up stories for as long as she can remember, but it took her a long time to figure out that maybe she should start writing them down. Now, she usually has far too many stories in progress, but when she does manage to tear herself away from her laptop, she enjoys running, hiking, cooking, and traveling, not necessarily in that order.
Shae posts snippets, updates, and thoughts on writing and editing at her website, http://shaeconnorwrites.com. You can contact her at [email protected].
ONE LAST ROAD TRIP
KERRY FREEMAN
Dedication
In memory of Glenn Burke (1952-1995)
Acknowledgments:
Thank you to Shae Connor for inviting me to contribute to this anthology (GO BRAVES!), to Kate McMurray and Marguerite Labbe for sharing the love of baseball, to Trinity Stanley for being the best alpha reader a writer could have, and to my wonderful husband for buying takeout dinners and covering for me at family functions so I could finish my manuscript.
Prologue: San Diego
THE clubhouse was finally quiet. Jake had had enough microphones and cameras shoved in his face for one day. As he sank down into a big brown leather recliner, he smiled at the realization he would never have to do another postgame interview again.
Sure, he was bummed that they’d missed the wild card by a half game, but he was secretly a little relieved. He was ready to hit the road. He wanted to see his kids, and he wanted to get back home. It’d been years since he’d been in Georgia for more than a three-game stand in Atlanta, and he missed it. He missed everything—and everyone—he’d left behind there.
“Hey, Jake,” the clubhouse manager called from the doorway. “Did you already clean out your locker?”
Jake smiled. He remembered the old metal lockers from high school. The fancy wooden shelving he had here was as far from that as he could get. “Yep, everything’s in my car.”
The manager walked to Jake’s locker and looked up. “Not everything.” He gingerly climbed onto a wheeled chair and pulled down Jake’s nameplate. He hopped down and tossed the plate to Jake. “Here you go.”
Jake caught the plate and took a long look at it. “I guess that makes it official.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going on a road trip back home to Georgia. Gonna stop and see the ex and the kids on the way.”
The manager shook his head and laughed. “You’d think you’d have gotten your fill of road trips as long as you’ve been playing.”
“Yeah, well, this is my last one.”
“We’re gonna miss you around here. I know the team will miss you on second base.”
That was a polite lie. Maybe if he’d retired last year, but this year he’d been hobbled by knee pain more often than not. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be wishing I was here when next season starts.”
“Well, you just make sure you’ve got someone to keep your mind off baseball by then,” the manager said with a wink.
Jake smacked the nameplate against his leg. “I just might do that.”
Chapter 1: Albuquerque
&nb
sp; JAKE was pretty sure he’d never get over being amazed that every possession that meant anything to him would fit in a five-by-eight trailer. But there he was, trailer behind him, driving out of San Diego before most people were awake.
At first, Jake enjoyed the time alone. The skies were crystal clear and the weather warm. He rolled down the SUV’s windows once he hit I-8 and let the fresh air flow around him. He admired the passing scenery. He cranked up the music and sang along as loudly as he could.
Several hours and several turns later, Jake hit the beginning of a 233-mile stretch of I-40, and he was ready for the damn day to be over with. Why had he thought a twelve-hour driving day was a good idea? He was too damn old for this shit, and his knee was beginning to really hurt. All he wanted was a nice long shower and some food. A soft bed would be nice too.
He grumbled as he pulled into the drive of his ex-wife’s modern adobe house. Marcy waved, and next to her stood a fit young Native American man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two years old.
“Oh Lord, is that the boyfriend?” Jake shook his head.
Jake climbed out of the SUV and gave his knee a few experimental bends before placing his full weight on his leg. He pulled his duffel bag out of the backseat and slung it over his shoulder.
Marcy ran up to Jake and planted a swift, friendly kiss on his lips. No matter how much he reminded her that divorced couples should not kiss that way, she persisted in doing it. He only hoped the approaching probable boyfriend wasn’t the jealous type.
“Oh, Jake, I’m so glad you finally got here,” Marcy exclaimed. “I was starting to get worried. Eddie said I was being silly, but you know how I am.”
Jake gave her a hug and kept one arm around her shoulders when he finished. “Yep, I do. You always fretted over my road trips.”
“I can’t help it. People are killed all the time by a rock or a log or a tire just flying up from the road and crashing through their windshield.”
The young man—Jake assumed it was the aforementioned Eddie—held out his hand and firmly shook the one Jake offered in return. “I’m Eddie. Nice to meet you, sir. I’m a huge baseball fan. Let me take your bag to the guest room.”
Jake, shocked by the greeting as well as Eddie’s rapid-fire delivery, handed over his duffel. Eddie took it and dashed through the front door.
“Did your boyfriend just call me sir?”
“I’m afraid he did,” Marcy said with a laugh. “You’ll have to forgive him. He’s been so nervous about meeting you. I think he’ll calm down once he realizes you won’t smother him in his sleep.”
“He’s safe. Well, as long as I don’t find out he’s a Yankees fan.”
Marcy softly punched his gut. “Give me a little credit. Like I’d ever get involved with a Yankees fan.” She pulled away and grabbed Jake’s hand. “Let’s get inside. Eddie has been working on dinner all afternoon, and I think you’ll really like it.”
Every time Jake visited Marcy, he was impressed with the warmth of her home. From the beautiful, plush rugs to the oversized couches and chairs, everything was designed for comfort. She’d done the same in their home together. He’d tried his best to make his apartment in San Diego feel the same, but he’d never been very successful. He was determined the new house in Georgia would feel more like a home, even if he had to fly Marcy out there to do it for him.
Marcy led him to the kitchen, which was full of the delicious smell of fresh fry bread. The kitchen table, which was framed on three sides by huge picture windows overlooking the Sandia Mountains, was teeming with all sorts of toppings for fry bread tacos: fresh vegetables, shredded beef, homemade salsa. Eddie stood at the stove, flipping fry bread in a pan of sizzling oil.
Jake sat facing the largest window. “Wow, y’all really know how to feed a guy. Everything looks great.”
Eddie grinned. “Marcy doesn’t let me feed her this stuff very often. Thinks she has to watch her figure. But she gave in since we had a guest.”
Marcy brought a bowl of chopped cilantro to the table and sat down. “If he fed me this way every day, I’d weigh five hundred pounds.”
“Hell, I’ll eat whatever you don’t,” Jake said. “Nobody cares how much I weigh anymore.”
Eddie carried a plate piled high with pieces of fry bread separated by paper towels and joined them at the table. After he sat down, he leaned over and gave Marcy a brief kiss. Jake was surprised by the small stab of jealousy he felt. He wasn’t jealous that someone was kissing his ex-wife. He was jealous that he didn’t have anyone to kiss himself.
As he set to making his first taco, Jake cleared his throat. “So, how’s the shop doing?”
“It’s doing really well,” Marcy answered. “We get tons of business now that we’re in Old Town, what with all the tourists. Eddie’s fetishes just fly out of the store. People buy them almost as fast as he can carve them.”
“Still selling those rugs?”
“Absolutely. I have an exclusive agreement with an older Navajo artist, and her rugs are just stunning.”
Jake took a big bite of his taco, and the flavors were bold and explosive. “If the fetish market ever crashes, Eddie should think of opening a restaurant. This is amazing.”
“Thank you,” Eddie said, a huge smile on his face.
Marcy rolled her eyes. “He’s going to be impossible to live with now.”
Jake shrugged. “Just being honest. But about those rugs, I was wondering if you could pick out two for my new place and send them to me. One for the bedroom and one for the living room.”
“What size do you need?” Marcy asked.
“Hell if I know. Big?”
“Oh, that’s helpful. Send me the dimensions you want once you get moved in, okay?”
“Will do.” It was time to take the boyfriend on. “So, Eddie, how old are you, anyway?” Jake ignored the choking sound Marcy made.
Eddie’s eyes went wide. “Um, me? I’m twenty-five.”
“Well, that’s three years older than I thought. Anyway, technically, you’re young enough to be Marcy’s son.” Jake was almost positive he saw Marcy spit out her tea in his peripheral vision.
Eddie sat up straight and squinted at Jake. “Technically, it’s really none of your business anymore, is it?”
Jake liked that Eddie stood his ground. He’d need that determination to be with Marcy… and to survive the kids. “You may have a point there. Actually, you do have a point. But the kids seem to think it’s their business.”
Marcy burst into laughter, making both Jake and Eddie jump in their seats. “The kids? The kids? The kids are now adults, and they don’t even live here anymore. I can’t believe they put you up to this.”
“They’re worried. But, for the record, I did tell them you were a big girl and not likely someone to be taken advantage of.”
“So why the interrogation?” Marcy paused then pointed at Jake. “Erin used her oh-Daddy-please voice on you, didn’t she?”
“You know I can’t deny her anything when she uses The Voice,” Jake whined.
“At least I don’t have to worry about that,” Eddie interjected.
“Don’t be so sure. Erin always finds a way to get men to do exactly what she wants, just like her mother.” Jake patted Marcy’s hand. “I feel sorry for any man Erin settles on. He’ll have to get used to her having her way. I’m pretty sure you know what I mean.”
Eddie laughed and took Marcy’s other hand. “I like letting her have her way.”
“Thank you, sweetie,” Marcy said as she squeezed Eddie’s hand.
Jake scooped shredded beef onto another fry bread. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell the kids exactly what I figured out right away: you two are good together. And to quit acting like their mother is some poor senile woman.”
“They’ll forget all about me once you tell them your news,” Marcy said.
Jake glared and hissed at her.
Marcy waved him off. “Oh, please. Eddie knows all about it. You can’t have alr
eady forgotten my rule. Tell me something, know I’ll tell my partner.”
Jake hadn’t realized Marcy and Eddie were that serious. “I didn’t know that was the situation.”
Eddie nodded. “I moved in two months ago.”
“Okay. Do the kids know?”
“No, not yet,” Marcy said. “I’m going to tell them when they come home for Thanksgiving. You are coming for Thanksgiving, aren’t you?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss that revelation for anything.”
“Maybe you’ll have someone to bring with you by then.”
Jake sighed. “Marcy.”
“I think that’s my cue to excuse myself.” Eddie pulled away from the table and stood.
Jake shook his head. “Really, you don’t have to do that.”
Eddie leaned over and gave Marcy another quick kiss. “I think you two need some time to talk, and I’ve got a sculpture waiting for me in the studio. We’ll see each other in the morning, okay?” He waved at Jake before leaving the room.
Marcy left the table and retrieved a large pitcher from the refrigerator. “I think this conversation calls for alcohol. Margaritas okay with you?”
“Sure.”
As Marcy returned with the pitcher and went off again to get glasses, Jake took a good long look at her. Her brown hair, now streaked with gray, flowed around her face and down her back. Her skin was darker now, probably from all the New Mexico sunshine she was getting. When she sat back down, Jake noticed she wasn’t wearing any makeup, something she never would have done in San Diego. Not that she’d ever needed it. Still, she looked healthy, young, and happy. Albuquerque—and Eddie—definitely agreed with her.
Jake took the drink Marcy offered him. “You look really great, Marcy. I can tell you’re really happy here. The kids, they’ll understand once they’re home. You’ll see.”
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