Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Maybe he’ll take me up on an offer to fill it.
The lights come up, the bar switching from subtle to GTFO, players giving each other thumped-hug goodbyes. Some are sauntering over to the main area, now filling with patrons, to continue the party, seemingly unbothered by the fact that this is a gay bar. I could stay, flirt, pick up, find someone who’s obvious in his interests. Whose flicked looks over at me might be a little more calculated than Adam’s.
Or I could stay right here. I’ve always loved a challenge. Especially when I need one. And I definitely need one.
It’d be easier if Adam wasn’t getting his jacket, rolling down his sleeves, literally buttoning his wholesome self back up. “You heading home?” he asks.
“Depends, I guess.”
He raises a dark eyebrow. “On?”
“On if the party’s staying here too.” I might overemphasize party, but subtlety sometimes doesn’t get you laid.
But Adam’s quiet, looking almost spooked. Ah, fuck. Don’t need to be coming on too strong. Or, honestly, at all. I’ve never hooked up with a ballplayer before. But it’s not like I have a great track record with non-ballplayers either. “I shouldn’t…” he trails off.
An unfinished statement laced with none of his previous flirtation.
Un-subtlety doesn’t get me laid either. I swallow my disappointment with a gulp of champagne, then toss a goodbye at the room as I walk out to call myself an Uber.
Or would. A hundred other guys all have the same idea, and the app flashes a message: Looking for a driver in your area. Great. Thanks, app.
I slouch—it’s not sulking if I do it on purpose—against the stuccoed exterior wall of the bar, refresh my app, and wait. And wait. And…
An Uber pings. Uber Pool. Normally I’m okay with it. There are worse things than riding in awkward silence with a few strangers. Though maybe not with Adam’s rejection still stinging.
But fine, if that’s my only option, I’ll take it. I hit accept and am granted a magical two-minute wait time. An Uber pulls up, a compact sedan with a bunch of boxes piled up in the front seat. I guess I’m squeezing in the back. This night keeps getting better.
Especially after I confirm my name with the driver as yes, that Derek M.
“Cool. I’ve got another pickup right here,” he says.
Who climbs in a second later, apologizing for having made the driver wait all of three minutes, but Adam fucking Chason?
“Oh, hey,” he says awkwardly.
“Hey,” I mutter, but I hope that’s the last of it. The driver doesn’t move for a second. Is there going to be a third big leaguer squeezed in with us in this tiny backseat? But then he puts the car in gear, pulling out into the Phoenix night. The car seems even smaller with us in motion, Adam’s knee occasionally brushing mine.
“Sorry,” Adam says, like he has somewhere else to put his knees, or like I’m going to be mad for him getting cooties on me. I’m mostly mad he isn’t getting cooties on me. I deliberately brush my knee against his to evoke another half-whispered sorry from him.
It’s possible I do it again after that. Adam’s hands tense on his knees, a tension that matches the one in the car. I shift my legs, again, enjoying the brush of fabric, and the slight color in his cheeks visible in the dimmed backseat lighting. After a second, he shifts too, not like he’s uncomfortable with the whole situation but like his pants are suddenly tighter for some reason.
“So, that was…fun,” Adam says.
His hesitation is intriguing. Hell, a lot about him is intriguing, a puzzle that doesn't quite fit the image he projects. “Yeah, it wasn’t too bad,” I say, checking the street signs to see how far away we are.
While I’m looking out the window, there’s another swoosh of fabric. This time, he initiated it. Huh. What’s his deal? It’s not like Mister Shy engineered an Uber pool, but it sure seems like he’s trying to engineer something else.
Maybe his I shouldn’t was supposed to end with I shouldn’t, but… Because you don’t get to be where we are as players without going after what we want. Still, I have questions: If he’s not straight and just a little less vocal about it than I am. If this is his first time with another player. He certainly doesn’t hesitate in how he drags his knee across mine, even as he’s studying the passing houses through the car window.
Maybe his I shouldn’t was supposed to end with I shouldn’t ask myself over, but I’m going to anyway.
Do I want to try again with him? Maybe I pegged him all wrong. Maybe he’s not the boy next door after all. Before I decide, the driver announces our first destination: my boring rental house that looks like all the others around it. At least I opted to spend spring training alone. If nothing comes of this thing with Adam, I won’t have any witnesses to my eventual slightly sad face-plant onto the couch—unlike the regular season where I live in a Seattle high-rise. Down the hall from Travis. Who invites himself over. A lot. I don’t mind that much, until he has to witness my inevitable relationship disappointments.