Page 137 of Hiding in the Outfield

Jackson glances off screen then back at me. “He, ah, is meeting with the GM and the PR department.”

Oooh. Unease prickles over my skin.

“Is that a…good idea still? Should you wait until you’ve established some rapport with the franchise?”

The Jetties were already familiar with Jackson and his dedication and talent. All Berkeley sees right now are his stats. Not to mention the Jetties have a queer man on their roster with Stone. They’re a known ally.

“Couldn’t they choose to DFA him…”

If they’re bigots. If they don’t want the firestorm that will come from having a gay man on their roster. If he gets designated for assignment, he could be claimed by another team—or end up back in the minors. It makes him vulnerable. It could end up as a giant game of ping-pong with Jackson being tossed from team to team.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Chuck says from offscreen. “However, Berkeley is an extremely progressive and inclusive city. There is nothing this city will love more than a queer superstar in the making to champion.”

“You’re…going to sell them on it,” I say slowly as I mull it over.

Jackson’s shoulders creep up toward his ears, proving he’s not so certain how well this plan will work. “Apparently, Chuck thinks he can sell them on the fact that I’ll be good for ticket sales.”

“Essentially, yes,” Chuck says bluntly. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Money is what’s most important to these people. Fans in seats. The plan is still the same—Jackson will only be privately out. But if it were to get out, we will have a plan in place to handle it immediately. One that will make the owner’s bottom line happy.”

Damn. This guy is good; I’ll give him that. He’s a shark…disguised as a Greek god. My attention sharpens on Jackson. I don’t think he heard a word of what Chuck just said; he’s disappeared somewhere inside himself. He’s fading fast.

“Okay,” I say. “Enough chit-chat. Get him to his hotel and to bed—well, not literally. If you get him in bed, I will cut you. But we can talk more about this tomorrow.”

Chuck laughs again. “Noted.”

“Jackie,” I say softly.

His gaze slowly focuses on mine like he’s coming out of a trance.

“I love you. I can’t wait to see you step out on the field. Make me proud, dolcezza.”

His lips tilt up. “Love you too.”

FIFTY

JACKSON

My knee bounces erratically as I face my locker. Locker. I scoff—or that’s what I intended. It came out more like a strangled llama. I’m sitting in what is essentially a large walk-in closet. It’s stocked with every piece of clothing I could need while I’m at the clubhouse. Somehow, someone somewhere managed to determine my size.

Multiple pairs of cleats rest on a shoe shelf. New gloves are in one of the cubbies just waiting for me to break them in. My worn, tried-and-true one from this season with the Clippers next to them. Ready to serve me tonight.

And with it all…the jersey and pants I’m in right now. With my number. Eighty-eight. I’m officially Jackson Olander, Berkeley Dune Enforcer, number eighty-eight.

Major. League. Ballplayer.

I cradle my head in my hands. Holy fucking shit.

There is a very good chance I’ll hurl all over my shiny new cleats—the ones I did my damnedest to break in today. I was hoping I’d get some of this anxiety out during BP, but it did jack shit.

I close my eyes and breathe. And remind myself that when this is all over, when this amazing and completely terrifying game is done, I get to go home to him.

Frankie.

My someone.

I’m not alone.

“You all right, kid?”