by KD Casey
“Look, I think there’s a lot to the fact that you’re amped to tell a multibillion-dollar corporation but aren’t ready to tell your family.”
Zach swallows. There’s a glass of ice water that came with his dinner, and he drinks, reserving an ice cube behind one of his teeth, melting in a cold trickle down his throat. “You’re pretty good at this.”
“I also think that sometimes, with coming out, especially for my clients who’re a little older, maybe who aren’t out to their families or friends, there’s sort of an uncorking process. That you feel like you want to tell everyone, just because you haven’t told anyone for so long.”
“I guess that’s sort of how I’m feeling.”
“But each conversation, particularly with an employer, is going to be different. It’s not one conversation. It’s a lot of them, and we can work together to give you the tools to navigate the ones you want to have.”
“Okay, where do we get started?”
“Well, first, I was wondering—you just got traded today but called me a few days ago. So what motivated you to reach out?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After he ends the session with Henry, Zach lies on the bed for a while. It’s sunset, and there are city lights out his window. Miami was never really dark but didn’t have the same over-lit quality this high up off the street. It’s strange to think about his bed, his bed frame, his dishes, his balcony, his plants other than the aloe, all sitting in his overly chilly apartment, a thousand miles away.
And Eugenio left the peelings from his beer label on the table on Zach’s balcony, a faded hickey on Zach’s shoulder, and no promises other than that he’d answer Zach’s texts. Something that felt incredible at the time and now is subtly disappointing.
He stares up at the flawless white ceiling, feeling like he’s been hollowed out. Henry didn’t seem surprised during the session, letting him get up and get the box of hotel-provided tissues and waving off Zach’s apologies. Now his arms are heavy, his back adhered to the mattress like there’s something sitting on his chest, stalling his breath. He lies like that until the light fades even more—evening, or as much of one as the city has. He gets up, cracks open and drinks a bottle of hotel water, considering whether he should call Morgan just to listen to her talk but doesn’t.
It’s still early on the West Coast. He looks up the Gothams’ schedule, and then turns on the TV, advancing the channel guide to see if they’re showing the game, which they are.
Why were you batting third in Miami but fourth in LA? he texts Eugenio. An ellipsis appears, meaning Eugenio is probably at his stall, changing from whatever he wore for batting practice into his uniform for the night.
LA’s actually good. Are you going to watch the game?
Zach sends pictures of his hotel room, the tray with the remnants of his dinner, the view of Central Park, the bathtub, which has jets. The bedspread, the part that’s wrinkled from where he’s been sitting on it, the other side of the bed undisturbed. I talked to that counselor today.
How’d it go?
And Zach doesn’t know how he should summarize the conversation so doesn’t try to. Henry says I’m supposed to make a list of people I want to talk with and find someone who can help me be accountable.
There isn’t an immediate response, and it’s possible Eugenio has been called into a pregame meeting or has to go and warm up the Gothams pitcher, but more likely he’s sitting there, waiting for Zach to continue.
I was wondering if you would, Zach types.
And Eugenio types and erases a few responses, dots appearing and disappearing. Zach gets up, walks to the window, watches the traffic passing below him, the ambient city light keeping the shadows at bay. He considers all the times Eugenio asked him to talk with his family or with a few of their teammates. All the times Zach said he would and didn’t.
I should probably ask Morgan instead, Zach writes.
Yeah, that might be a better idea.
I was gonna tell the team tomorrow but Henry said that might not be a good idea just now. But I will tell them
There’s a long pause, Eugenio typing. You don’t have to.
I know but I want to
Zach pulls up the Union’s schedule, looks at it against the Gothams’, and they both have an off day at the end of the following week. He sends it to Eugenio, asking if he wants to see him then, feeling a little overly formal about it.
Another pause, Eugenio typing and reconsidering before saying, I’d like that.
He watches the game that night, texting Eugenio as if it’s a live feed. Thoughts about his game calling, which is solid. About a strike he manufactures on a pitch that’s at least a few inches outside the zone. A double he hits in the seventh inning, Eugenio standing up as he gets into second, peeling off his batting gloves; his nails are painted electric blue.
The Gothams and Union already played their series for the year, the subway series that commentators hype as a rivalry, even if the rivalry is more between boroughs than between the actual teams. The Gothams’ success won’t hurt or help the Union’s, and so he sits, drinking a beer he orders from room service, trying to remember the last time he watched a game as a fan: Not the playoffs, always watched with resentment in his belly, that feeling like a pulse of why not me, why not me. Or games watched in video review, sped up, all the slow measured things that make baseball baseball—the long pauses, the frustrations, the rituals—removed in order to prepare for the next opponent.
The game as a game, as only a game, nothing more and nothing less, and he watches as Eugenio works the count full in the ninth, as he fouls a few pitches back. It’s a quirk of the sport like no other, the potential infinity built into at-bats: that a hitter can foul, and foul, and foul, and never move the count. That the game can go on forever. That Eugenio could stand in the box and tap each pitch just out of play. That each movement and action and inaction stretch the game, one built on an infinite time scale, just a little bit longer, until Zach’s momentarily sad when it ends, hotel room ringingly quiet without it on.
He gets to Union Stadium early the next morning, carrying a duffel bag with his street clothes and his electric razor, since Maritza gently suggested that he shave a bit closer than normal before doing press. He went through the pockets of his bag that morning, unzipping internal compartments. In it, an extra catcher’s wristband embroidered with Eugenio’s number, an Elephants sign card still inserted. He puts it in his stall. It feels lucky.
He isn’t starting that day, but he sits in on the planning meetings, reading through the scouting reports for this series and the next, talking with Brito, their fourth starter, who played for the Elephants years before Zach was there.
Brito nods to his hearing aid. “When we’re talking on the mound, how do you want to play it?”
Brito’s about his height, tall for a catcher but normal for a pitcher, dark-skinned, and broad enough to block sight lines from snooping base coaches.
“Usually, I use my glove to block the whoever from seeing,” Zach says.
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
“This place is kind of ridiculous.” Zach waves a hand at their surroundings.
Brito laughs at that. “When I signed, I kept waiting for them to charge me for my equipment bag, or whatever other dumb shit the Elephants used to do back in the day.”
“Feels like I got let into Emerald City.”
“I could break the plumbing. Make you feel like you’re at home.”
“Thanks, man. Appreciate the offer.” Zach looks around, at the couches, the enormous television, the tributes to the Union’s dynasty hanging as reminders of what’s expected of them. “How long did it take you to get used to all this?”
Brito rubs a hand over his chin faux-thoughtfully. “Probably when they actually signed a free agent rather than shipping them all out of town.”
“No.” And it’s a definite no. “They fed us all that stuff about the organization being cash-poor, but they still had billions and didn’t give us shit.”
“Yeah, I don’t think anyone here’s pretending they don’t have money.”
“They sure aren’t.” Brito laughs and tells Zach he’ll see him out on the field.
Maritza comes to collect him before his meeting with PR, giving him a look as if assessing the quality of his shave. The PR team is all suits, flashier than Oakland, who tended toward West Coast scruffy but more subdued than Miami.
Zach shakes their hands, and he expects Maritza to leave, but she sits in one of the chairs; it occurs to him he doesn’t actually know what she does other than shuttle around hardy plants and fragile egos. There are introductions, everyone stating their role—Zach saying, “Uh, catcher,” when they get to him—and Maritza is apparently a PR staffer who drew the short straw of having to meet him at LaGuardia.
“We always want to have these conversations with any player new to the organization,” one of the suits says.
Zach did a meeting with Stephanie back during his first year in Oakland, though that was more combing through his Twitter to make sure he wasn’t going to embarrass the Elephants or his mom. In Miami they did the same thing, asking if he could do Spanish-language media and then being pleased when he said that he was trying to learn.
“We like to get to know our players a bit. Find out what we can about them. Maritza will coordinate that.”
“Okay,” Zach says. It’s dry in the room, cold air blowing in from the vents, and he takes a miniature water bottle from the center of the table, twisting off the cap and drinking half of it.
“Mostly, we’d like to hear about any brand commitments that you have. Any potential opportunities for cross-pollination. Any causes—personal, political, whatever—you’re passionate about or involved with.”
“I did a commercial for an auto dealership in Miami last year.” There’s a pause, and Zach considers the shine of the large conference table they’re seated around.
“Does your wife or partner have any particular causes that she works with?” another asks.
“Uh, no. Look, I don’t do a lot of media beyond the post-game stuff. My hearing—it can sometimes be challenging to be on camera.”
“We can provide... I don’t actually know,” one of the suits says, before pausing. “We can look into whatever accommodations you might need.”
“Really,” Zach says, “I can talk to the beat reporters or whoever.”
“We generally prefer to handle things via the team.”
“In that case, I should let you know I agreed to do this Players’ Update article a couple weeks ago. Along with Garza—the Rivers pitcher. He has finger prosthetics.”
“Oh, that’s great,” one says. Several conversations happen at once, two of them talking to two others, a burst of chatter that makes it hard to pick out what anyone is saying.
Maritza slides over, turning her chair toward him so that she’s facing him. “We can do the intake interview some other time. It’s mostly just about hobbies, interests, whatever in your personal life you’re willing to share, what you’d prefer not to share, that kind of thing. Also, if you have social media, we need to review it.”
“I really just use a burner account to argue about basketball. That’s about it.”
“Well, if that’s your biggest secret, we can probably work with that.”
“I’m really pretty boring.”
“I mean, you’re a ballplayer. So, it’s either boring or interesting, and interesting makes my job harder.”
“Well, um—” he feels a brief flicker of guilt at lying to her about it “—I wouldn’t want to do that.”
Around them, the chatter dies down, one of the suits finally waving to get everyone’s attention. “We appreciate you letting us know about the article. We’ll need to coordinate with Garza’s agent and your publicist.”
From there, it’s a procedural meeting, with Zach eventually calling Stephanie, putting her on the big video conference screen in the room, and going, “You all can work it out, I guess.”
He doesn’t start the first game, but baseball is baseball. He stands by the railing in the dugout and watches the Toronto hitters get mystified by the Union starter’s changeup. He bullshits with his new teammates and listens to their manager talk in rapid-fire English to half the players and rapid-fire Spanish to the other. Around them, the stadium is loud, open enough to not feel hellish, closer to being in the ocean, sound lapping against his chest like water.
After, the reporters ask him about what he likes about New York.
“The fans,” he says, “and the food.”
About what makes New York different from Miami.
“It’s louder,” he says, and it’ll be taken as a dig at his former team, something ungrateful and a little snide about how quiet Swordfish Park is. “The thing about playing for a while is that no matter where I go, there’s always familiar faces.”
“Anyone here you’re excited to see in particular?” someone asks.
It’s an invitation for Zach to compliment various Union players, which he does. “I hear the ballclub on the other side of town is also having a good season,” he adds, and then wishes the reporters a good night.
* * *
Eugenio comes back to New York late on a Thursday night, texting Zach when he lands.
Can I see you tomorrow? Zach asks.
There’s a pause, one Zach’s tempted to fill as if to prove how much he’s been working, if only for the past week, but doesn’t.
Let me see how I’m feeling. He adds a set of emojis indicating jet lag but sends his address and instructions on getting into his parking garage. No promises.
The next day, Zach goes and sweats in the New York heat, knees in the expensive dirt of Union Stadium. He takes his at-bats, netting a double and a walk, the ball more visible than it was in Miami, the game less glacially paced.
Afterward, he spends most of the media scrum not thinking about his phone, which is sitting in his stall, practically glowing with an invitation for him to pick it up. He grabs it as soon as the last reporter leaves. There’s a text from Eugenio that says, I’ll be at my loft in 20 min.
Zach parks in a guest spot at Eugenio’s building and then takes the elevator to his floor. He pauses for a second in the hallway before knocking, contemplating the paint on the door, the number of visible locks. His hands—which were dry on the steering wheel of his rented truck—begin to sweat. His heart rate kicks up. The hallway shimmers a little around him, an unornamented space meant to prevent anyone from lingering.
He takes a breath, holds it, then lets it go. Knocks. And Eugenio opens the door like he was waiting for Zach on the other side, deadbolts already unbarred.
“Hi,” Zach says, once Eugenio closes and re-latches the door, “I’m in New York.”
“Hi,” Eugenio says, smiling, “you are.”
Zach is sure he sees the inside of the loft: a kitchen that looks like it could be on a cooking show. An oversized brown leather chair. A large television and larger bookshelf. He’s sure that there’s visual input from the room coming into his brain, but there’s mostly Eugenio standing there, wearing glasses, a set of sweatpants and socks, an Elephants shirt that’s long in the arms and tight across the shoulders. Zach doesn’t need to see the name across his back to know it’s there, Glasser stretched between his shoulder blades.
And Zach kisses him, without prelude, one hand cupping his jaw, the other at his side, over the empty outline tattooed there. Kisses him and doesn’t stop, until Eugenio pulls back. “I missed you,” Zach says.
“Zach,” Eugenio says, teasingly, “I saw you less than a week ago.”
“That’s not wh
at I meant.” And he kisses him again.
* * *
August goes by in a blur. Zach starts a third of the games and rides the bench the other two. He catches, and plans, and looks at scouting reports, and goes and sleeps in a hotel that must be ungodly expensive, but Maritza just shrugs when he asks about finding a place before October.
He takes at-bats against Boston’s cobbled-together rotation and Toronto’s elite one and Tampa’s endless flock of relievers. He works with the Union hitting coach, simplifying his swing, reminiscent of his approach at the plate back in Oakland, something that feels awkward for the first few at-bats but then becomes more and more natural. And the game goes no faster or slower than it did in Miami, but he finds himself anticipating each one’s conclusion not to get it over with but because he has something to look forward to after.
Eugenio’s loft is big for New York, with a kitchen he cooks in when he has time, a bed where Zach sometimes sleeps, and they part ways in the mornings, Eugenio driving into Queens and Zach north to the Bronx. Eugenio has a stack of menus from local restaurants they grab from randomly to determine where to eat. Most people leave them alone or ask Eugenio to sign something while looking appropriately unimpressed by Zach.
Zach gets him a plant from a greenmarket nearby, a small, fussy thing. They spend an hour trying to identify it in order to find care instructions, before Eugenio gives up, putting it in half-shade near a window and saying, “It’s a plant. I’ll water it if it looks sad.”
Zach talks to Henry twice a week, and they run through conversation after conversation, the same way he learned how to hit—a conscious action transforming into something automatic.
“I’m gay,” he tells Eugenio one night, yawning, tired from a frustrating three-game set against Boston, the unrelenting heat of late summer in New York, their food, which came late and got his order wrong.
“I know, baby. You’ve said.” And he laughs when Zach half tackles him and kisses him in front of their uncurtained window.