Page 112 of Hiding in the Outfield

I stand. “I’m done here.”

“Sit, Jackson,” Dad barks.

I hate that I almost do. I’ve been listening to his orders for so long; my body tries to respond automatically. But not anymore.

“No.” My fists tighten. “I realize this is a lot for you to take in. But there’s nothing to change, nothing to fix. I’m gay, Dad. And pretty fucking happy about it.” A breath eases from me. That felt really fucking good.

My dad’s face is turning an alarming shade of purple as he glances around the restaurant. His obvious terror of this being overheard almost has me laughing. Maybe I’m losing my mind because there is nothing funny about this right now, but I can feel it bubbling up in my chest.

I somehow rein it in and find control. “If you ever decide to leave your hate behind, I might be open to a conversation. Until then, I think this is goodbye.”

“Come on, Jackson,” Mom says, pleading. “You’re not even willing to try?”

A disbelieving laugh slips out. “Seriously? Are you?”

Silence falls over the booth again, and there’s my answer. I turn on my heel and stride for the exit.

“You walk out that door, and you can say goodbye to that agent contract,” my dad calls.

I slow. He’s going to try to threaten me?

“Richie won’t rep someone like you.”

Then I’ll find someone else. I flip him off over my shoulder and keep walking. They might not be able to leave their hate behind, but I can.

I leave them all behind.

I push through the door and turn down the sidewalk. It’s not until my lungs start to burn that I realize how fast I’m walking…and that I’ve gone in the opposite direction of where I parked my truck.

A defeated breath bursts from me. I turn and numbly make my way back the other direction. I’m about five yards from the door of the diner when it pushes open, the bells tinkling.

I freeze.

My brother freezes.

I’m not sure how long we stand there, but then he’s making for me and wrapping his arms around me. He squeezes me so tight my back pops. My heart’s taken up residence in my throat because this…this feels like something good, right? Something positive?

“Fuck them,” he whispers.

My nose stings, and the pressure behind my eyes comes in so fast I have no chance to fight it. Jake steps back, and we stand there awkwardly. Olanders aren’t really huggers. I focus on the blurry ground.

“I’m so sorry, Jack.”

I glance up and meet an identical pair of blue-and-silver eyes.

“I don’t agree with them. I know I’ve said a lot of fucked up shit, which would make it seem like I do.” His gaze skitters away. “When Anna broke up with me…she opened my eyes to a lot. Like maybe the way we were raised is kind of…fucked up. The way Dad treats Mom, the way he talks about women… Anna put me in my place because I was well on my way to becoming him.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and glances back at me. “I’m really sorry for the shit I said growing up. I was such an asshole, and I can’t imagine how the things I spewed made you feel—” His voice cracks, and he slams his mouth shut. He glares at the sidewalk, a vein ticking at his temple. He finally lets out an unsteady breath and meets my gaze with wet eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry, Jackson.”

He wavers in and out of focus, and I blink hard. I nod stiffly because I can’t speak right now. Not with the emotion coating my throat like pine tar.

I point to my truck, and his head follows my hand. He nods, and we both head over to it in silence. It stays that way as the engine roars to life. As I pull onto the street. As I drive through the city. Everything happens as if from far away, like I’m partially disconnected from reality. I stop at stop signs, but I don’t really register them. I’m not even aware of where I’m going until I’m killing the engine in Frankie’s driveway.

“You, um… You’re not bothered that I’m gay?” I finally ask. Probably should have confirmed that when he first got in the car.

“Nah, Jack. It’s cool.” He shoots me a small smile. “A few of the players I coach are gay.” He frowns. “Or queer. LBTG?”

“It’s LGBT…”