by KD Casey
“You sure about that?”
Zach’s bathmat is cushiony under his knees, Eugenio’s skin wet under his tongue. His laughter vibrates Zach’s hand as he works it up his ribs, lingering over the tattoo outlined there, droplets of champagne and water converging and filling it in.
“I got you something,” Zach says, later, when they’re in bed, Zach’s hair damp from Eugenio dragging him back into the shower with him. “It’s, um, don’t laugh.” He gets up, rummaging around the back corner of his closet before withdrawing a black, hard-sided case, putting it on the bed.
“Is that a glove box?”
“Just open it.” In it, a glove, a fielder’s glove. “I had it when we played in Oakland. But I didn’t take care of it right. It just sat in the back of my closet in Miami. By the time it got up here, it was falling apart, so I had to recondition it.” He washed it with soap and a harsh sponge, oiling it, getting someone at the Union clubhouse to rethread the laces, replacing the ones that dried out and snapped. “I don’t know. It’s dumb. I probably should have gotten you something else.”
He looks at the pile of his stuff on the dresser—the circle of his headphones, a stack of graphic novels sitting at odd angles like cards in an unshuffled deck. There’s a plant sitting on the nightstand, a cutting of the aloe he transplanted, stubbornly growing toward the thin city light coming from under the curtains.
“It’s not dumb.” Eugenio sits up in bed, sheet thrown over his lap, exposing the vine he has tattooed there. His chest is bare, even though he’ll probably start complaining that Zach keeps his apartment too cold. And Zach studies the dark swirling shapes inked on his sides, the outline of California on the canvas of his ribs. The way his eyes shine in the half-light.
“It’s a promise,” Zach says. “I didn’t do what I needed to for a long time, but I’m promising now. That I love you. And that I want to be with you.”
“Zach,” Eugenio says, and it’s soft, something carefully held.
“Before, during that trip down to Cambria. You said it. That you loved me, and I guess I said it back, but I didn’t know what that meant, really. I do now. Or I think I do.”
“Zach,” Eugenio says again, setting the glove box down on the floor, and leaning in, “I love you too.” And his mouth tastes sweet when Zach kisses him.
* * *
Eugenio texts him the next day, cursing cheap champagne, the concept of hangovers, the fact that baseball happens “so much,” and that he’s expected to go squat in front of thirty-five thousand screaming people with his head throbbing.
Sorry, Zach texts back.
He’s laughing into his phone enough that Brito chirps him about it. “Who’s that?”
“My—” Zach glances around to see who else is there, though most players are out on the field for batting practice “—my boyfriend.”
There’s a moment, a long one, Brito’s face looking like someone painted on his expression, before he says, “Hey, man, that’s cool.”
“Yeah?” Zach says.
“I mean, sure, why not?”
“Could you maybe not mention it to the rest of the team for now?”
“No problem,” he says. “Are you gonna go hit BP or what?”
And he goes into the tunnel connecting the clubhouse and the dugout, Zach following after.
The tunnel is narrow, too narrow for them to walk side-by-side, for players to linger there mid-game, having the kinds of arguments ballplayers have—about a missed infield hop or the weather or the mass of expectations weighing on their shoulders like the September humidity.
In Oakland, the tunnel was wide, dank, no worse than the rest of the stadium, home to the occasional nesting animal or plumbing flaw. In Miami, it was vented, fans battling the atmospheric soup. In Cincinnati, cheerful, lined with pictures documenting the Blues’ long history, black and white photos of ballplayers from bygone eras, a reminder of the game’s persistence.
But here the tunnel is long, narrow, painted off-white, purposefully blank. Its only decoration is a large metal sign roughly the size of two license plates, bearing a quote from a famous Union outfielder, one that thanks the Lord God for making him to play ball.
The sign itself is old, rusted at the screws holding it to the ceiling of the tunnel, dented from the force of a thousand hands tapping it as they go between the cushioned luxury of the clubhouse and the concrete reality of the dugout. One of those baseball routines that morphs into a ritual. As expected as a fastball on a three-one count, as the Union playing for the Commissioner’s Trophy in October. The press of their fingerprints against a piece of aging metal a talisman against failure.
Zach walks down the tunnel, sunlight from the entrance silhouetting Brito ahead of him. Walks and raises his fingers to brush the sign, then reconsiders, lowering his hand. Maybe he’ll go three-for-four tonight with a walk, have every borderline strike go his way. Maybe he’ll ground out into a succession of double plays and run afoul of a fickle umpire. But whatever cruelty or kindness the game has to offer awaits, and he moves out of the darkness into the light of a fine clear baseball afternoon.
* * *
Acknowledgments
Every book is the product of a community, and I’m grateful to all the folks who have helped and supported me along the way.
First, to my agent Deidre Knight, who guided me through a cavalcade of edits with aplomb, and who answered my many, many questions and wonderings. I’m a far better writer than I was a year ago because of your encouragement and advice.
Stephanie Doig, Deborah Nemeth, Ronan Sadler, and the rest of the team at Carina Press for making this manuscript come to life and helping me navigate the wilds of publishing. Kudos in particular to Deb for helping me strip out approximately 10,000 dialogue tags. And thank you to John Kicksee for the lovely cover design.
Jon Reyes and Laura Brown, who read drafts of this manuscript and offered constructive and thoughtful feedback about the portrayal of certain characters, topics, and themes.
Harry Pavlidis, Jarrett Seidler, Jesse Dougherty, and the folks in Baseball-landia who were gracious with their time and attention. (And when I said, it’s, uh, for a romance novel, all went, “yes, and we want it to be accurate, right???”) Any remaining baseball mistakes are my own.
Mia Tsai, who, as a “pitching coach,” coached me through writing my first Twitter pitch, which would eventually shape the one for #CarinaPitch. Thank you for helping me understand stakes and raise them.
The lovely writers of the Romance Schmooze, whose daily conversations, musings, and thoughts about writing and Judaism are always a pleasure. I’ve learned so much from you all and feel reconnected to my Jewishness in ways I wasn’t expecting.
Mary Ocampo gets her own shoutout and possibly hazard pay for putting up with my grammatical choices for the past ten years.
The denizens of Nats Twitter, without whom my baseball fandom would be much, much poorer. Watching baseball is more fun with y’all whether at the ballpark or online. I promise I’ll try to work Baby Shark into a subsequent book.
The Bear-pen—Jett, Dara, and Noah—who are a constant source of queer Jewish baseball joy, and our Shabbos goy Kay, for providing pasta and opinions. You told me never to live a bullpen life, and I didn’t listen.
Nathalie Alonso, who has been the best publishing buddy anyone could want, and whose thoughts and input on baseball, writing, and the world I would be worse without. I am impatiently awaiting your many books.
Laura Shir: This book is for you. For naming Zach and Eugenio, and reading all of this a thousand times (and edits of edits and edits), and puzzling out difficult scenes and providing feedback every step of the way from inception to publication. You asked me to tell you a story—in a GChat!—and I guess I did. Thank you for holding my hand while I screamed and cried, and for doing it patiently. You are the finest book midwife in this and any galaxy.
My family (Mom & Dad, if you’re reading this, I told you not to!), including my sister, the world’s biggest Willie Harris fan (™). Teach Daniel to throw left-handed, please.
Sam, herder of cats, provider of tea and support, proofreader extraordinaire, fetcher of beers and food at the ballpark, who cares not for baseball but a lot for me: I love you. <3
And to you, the reader of this book. Thank you for coming on this journey.
About the Author
KD Casey is a romance writer and baseball enthusiast living in the Washington, DC, area. Her journey into baseball spans watching the Orioles play in the ’90s, the Pirates play in the 2000s, and the Nationals play at RFK Stadium in the early, ignominious days of the franchise.
On the nonfiction side, she’s written for a variety of baseball analysis websites, though can primarily be found at Baseball Prospectus. She believes in high socks, unbuttoned jerseys, and that there’s nothing wrong with the American League...well, except the DH.
Come discuss writing and baseball with her on Twitter (www.twitter.com/kdcaseywrites/) and Instagram (www.instagram.com/kdcaseywrites/) at @KDCaseyWrites or subscribe to her newsletter at https://linktr.ee/KDCaseyWrites/.
Nothing interferes with Shane Hollander’s game—definitely not the sexy rival he loves to hate.
Keep reading for an excerpt from Heated Rivalry by author Rachel Reid
Heated Rivalry
by Rachel Reid
Chapter One
December 2008—Regina
Ilya Rozanov trudged through the bitter cold of the hotel parking lot to the team bus. Like most of his teammates, it was his first time in North America. He had expected to feel more overwhelmed by that, but Saskatchewan was hardly New York City. Here, there was nothing to focus on but cold and hockey, and those were two things that Russians were very familiar with.
It was two days before Christmas, but for the world’s best teenage hockey players, Christmas meant the World Junior Hockey Championships. For Ilya, it meant the chance to finally get a firsthand look at Shane Hollander.
There had been much made of the seventeen-year-old Canadian phenom. Ilya was sick of hearing the name, which had caused such a stir in the hockey world that even Moscow wasn’t far enough to escape the hype. Both Ilya and Hollander were eligible for the NHL entry draft that coming June, and they were already expected to be the number one and two overall picks. The expected order of those two picks depended on who you asked.
Ilya knew his answer.
He had never met Shane Hollander. Never played against him. But he was already determined to destroy him.
He would start by leading Russia to a gold medal victory, here in Hollander’s own country. Then he would lead his team back in Moscow to their championship. And then, surely, he would be chosen first in the draft. This was the year of Ilya Rozanov. Since he was twelve years old, 2009 had always been the year he was expected to burst onto the world stage. No Canadian pretender would change that.
The Russian team arrived at the rink for their scheduled practice at the tail end of the Canadian team’s. Ilya paused with some of his teammates to watch the Canadians run drills. The practice jerseys didn’t have names on them, so he couldn’t pick out Hollander before he was told by his assistant coach to get his ass into the dressing room. The schedule at the practice rink was very tight.
They took to the ice as soon as it had been cleared by the Zamboni. The rink was small, and kind of dumpy. The actual games would be in the large arena downtown. There were a few people sitting in the stands, watching the Russian team practice. Some scouts, no doubt, and the few family members who had actually made the trip from Russia, as well as several local hard-core hockey fans.
Halfway through the practice, Ilya noticed a young man sitting a few rows above the penalty box, wearing a Team Canada ball cap and jacket. He was flanked by a man and a woman, who were probably his parents. It was hard to tell from the ice, but Ilya thought it might be Hollander. His mother was Japanese or something, right? He was sure he had read that somewhere...
“Care to join us, Rozanov?” his coach bellowed in Russian across the ice. Ilya turned, embarrassed to find the rest of his teammates huddled around the coach.
He didn’t like that Hollander—if that was Hollander—was here watching them. Or maybe he did. Maybe Hollander was nervous about facing him later in the tournament. Maybe he felt threatened.
He should.
After the practice, Ilya showered and dressed quickly. He headed back out into the rink to stand behind the glass and look at the stands. Hollander and his parents were gone. The Slovakian team had taken to the ice for their practice.
Ilya shrugged and made his way to a vending machine. He bought himself a bottle of Coke and wondered if he could slip outside for a quick smoke before getting back on the bus.
He zipped his Team Russia parka up to his chin and slipped out a side door. It was cold as fuck outside. He pressed himself against the wall of the brick building, stuffed his Coke into his coat pocket, and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter.
“You’re supposed to smoke over there,” someone said. It took Ilya a moment to translate all of the words.
He turned to see the person that he now definitely recognized as Shane Hollander. He had a very distinct look. Some of his features were clearly from his mother—jet-black hair and very dark eyes—but his father was of some bland, Anglo-European heritage, so Hollander didn’t look exactly Asian. His skin, however, was flawless. Distractingly so. Smooth and tan with—and this was his most striking feature—a smattering of dark freckles across his nose and cheekbones.
“What?” Ilya said. Even the single word sounded stupid with his accent.
“The smoking area is over there.” Hollander pointed to a far corner of the parking lot, next to a large snowbank. It looked very windy there.
Ilya settled back against the wall and lit his cigarette. This fucking country. Bad enough he couldn’t smoke indoors anywhere—he needed to go sit in the fucking snow while he did it?
“I’m surprised you smoke,” Hollander said.
“Okay,” Ilya said, exhaling a long stream of smoke between his lips. There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Hollander made another attempt at conversation.
“I wanted to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “Shane Hollander.”
Ilya stared at him, and then felt his lips twitch a bit.
“Yes,” he said. He pinched the cigarette between his lips and shook Hollander’s hand.
“You’re an awesome player to watch,” Hollander said.
“I know.” If Hollander was expecting Ilya to return the compliment, he was going to be waiting a long damn time.
When Ilya didn’t say anything else, Hollander changed the subject. “Are your parents here with you?”
“No.”
“Oh. That must be rough. With Christmas and everything.”
Ilya struggled a bit to translate so many words, then said, “Is fine.”
Hollander shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “It’s cold, huh?”
“Yes.”
They leaned against the wall together, side-by-side. Ilya rolled his head against the brick to look down at Hollander, who stood a good four inches shorter than him. He was very interesting to look at. His cheeks were rosy from the cold, and his breath was emerging in white clouds from between his pink lips.
“Next year these are gonna be in Ottawa. My hometown,” Hollander said.
Ilya finished his cigarette and dropped the butt on the ground. He decided to make an effort, since this guy seemed so determined to talk to him. “Is Ottawa more exciting?”
Hollander laughed. “Than here? I don’t know. A little. It’s just as cold.”
“Your parents are here.”
“For this? Yeah. They’re here. They always
try to come see me play wherever I go.”
“Nice for you.”
“Yeah. I know. They’re great.”
Ilya didn’t have anything to add to that, so he stayed silent.
“I should probably go. They’re waiting for me,” Hollander said. He moved away from the wall and turned to face Ilya. Ilya’s eyes went right to those damn freckles. Hollander stuck out his hand again.
“Good luck in the tournament,” he said.
Ilya accepted the handshake and grinned. “You will not be so friendly when we beat you.”
“That’s not happening.”
Ilya knew that Hollander truly believed that. That he would get the gold medal and be the NHL’s number one draft pick because he was the fucking prince of hockey.
Maybe Hollander expected Ilya to wish him luck as well, but Ilya just dropped his hand and turned to go back inside the rink.
* * *
In the car, Shane told his parents that he had been talking to Ilya Rozanov.
“What’s he like?” his mother asked.
“Kind of a dick,” Shane said.
* * *
When the final game of the tournament was over, the Canadian team had to suffer one more humiliation. The Russians stopped celebrating long enough to line up so the teams could shake each other’s hands—a show of sportsmanship that, at that moment, Shane did not feel in his heart.
For one thing, the Russian team had been dirty. He had hated playing against them.
For another thing, Ilya Rozanov was really fucking good. Infuriatingly good. And over the course of the tournament, the media had put a lot of effort into building up their rivalry. Shane tried to ignore the press, but it was possible that they were stoking the flames of his hatred.
When he reached Rozanov in the handshake lineup, he could see camera flashes all around them. He made sure he looked Rozanov right in the eye when he tersely said, “Congratulations.”