Page 13 of Hiding in the Outfield

My shoulders sag as I walk into the weight room. I’m so fucking tired of being alone. I’m tired of my only human contact being women dancing on me and kissing me so that no one guesses who I really am. Fake. Disingenuous. Is it too much to ask to just want someone to hold me?

My gut seizes. Men don’t get held. Men do the holding.

I avert my gaze. From what? My upbringing. The thoughts in my head. Sometimes I feel like I’m two people. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I am both the bigot and the gay man.

I settle on one of the black mats and start my stretches. I could probably find a discreet guy, no names, no faces kind of deal, but that’s not me. I’m not down for random hookups. I’ve put everything off for so long that now…I don’t want it to be just one night. I can’t. I want someone who would be willing to go slow while I gained my footing. I’ve never even kissed a man. I don’t know what I like and don’t like. What if I freak out and bolt? I snort. What if I freak? There’s no if there. I’ve built that moment up so much in my mind, there’s no way I don’t have a panic attack when the day comes.

I’ve had sex once—once—and it was that awful night when I was fifteen and couldn’t handle my dad’s comments any longer. I got through it, and I think I hid it well from Hannah, but it was one of the most painful nights of my life. Fortunately, she had no qualms about it being a one-and-done deal. Probably because it was pretty fucking horrible for all involved. Since then, nothing. Just kissing random women at a bar if I have to.

I’m a twenty-six-year-old virgin in pretty much every way that counts when it comes to being a gay man. I honestly think I’d be happy if I could just have last night for the next fifteen years. Just a foot pressed against mine, the heat of a leg burning into me. A subtle reminder of connection.

It’s dangerous to want this. If word got out… My skin prickles with sweat, and I have to force my lungs to keep pulling in air. All those things Dev says, all the things so many of our teammates agree with him on, would be directed at me. I don’t know how Stone does it. Maybe because the guys keep quiet when he’s around, but I know what they say about him when he’s not within hearing distance.

I wanted this: to be one of them so they wouldn’t learn who I really am. There’s a steep price for that, though. I’m constantly subject to their hate. A continuous, slow drip of venom bleeding into my soul.

It’s ironic. Baseball was my escape growing up, my outlet where I poured all of myself so I could get through discovering I was a gay kid in a family and a town where that was not a possibility. Now the game I love is a cage all on its own. It’s one I’ve been happy in for a long, long time, and when I step out on that field every game, I’m reminded of why.

I pick up a pair of dumbbells.

Thrill.

I squat, then push into an overhead press.

Adrenaline.

Again.

Pushing myself to my limits.

Sweat builds on my forehead.

Winning.

Another rep.

Recognition of my talent, talent I work fucking hard for. Talent that I have regardless of my sexual orientation but would be overshadowed if the truth ever came out.

I love the game. And baseball loves me back. When I step out into center field, spotlights beaming down on me, everything else melts away. No anxiety. No fear. Just me and my trusty, worn leather glove, partners in crime. Robbing runs. Stealing wins.

I belong.

After my third set, I drop my weights to the mat and bend over, chest heaving.

My phone rings, and the screen lights up, Dad staring back at me from the floor.

I swipe it and press answer. “Hey, Dad.”

“Jackson. You working out? Good man. Don’t lose those gains we worked so hard for over the winter.”

My father is also my trainer. Sports are his life, and once he had sons interested in them, it was like he got to relive his time as an athlete through us. And now that Jacob isn’t playing any longer, I’m blessed with all of Dad’s attention. It’s not…horrible, I guess. He is a good trainer.

“Yeah. Getting in my quick morning session.”

“Don’t go too heavy on the weights. Can’t have you risking injury.”

“I know, Dad. I’m following your program to a T.” I focus on high intensity, lower weight sessions in-season.

“You’re an Olander, though. We’re overachievers, and I know how addicting it is to lift heavy. But right now is about maintenance.”