Page 28 of Hiding in the Outfield

“Okay.” I mouth it, but the word doesn’t actually surface.

“Now to the locker room… You mentioned both you and Devereux. What’s been going on there?”

“Um.” I clear my throat and lick my dry lips. I think at this point I’ve sweated out every bit of moisture in my body. “Both Dev and I have made homophobic jokes. On multiple occasions. Or said insensitive and hateful things. And Dev has openly dropped slurs. He’s directed them toward Nebiolo’s brother and Stone.”

And I guess at me too, but I don’t have the courage to list that one. Nor do I think I deserve any sympathy after how I’ve conducted myself.

Dominguez blows out a breath, and the disappointment in his gaze has me shrinking in my chair. “That’s not acceptable. Not here. Not from anyone on my team or in my clubhouse.” He studies me. “If I hear you’re contributing to that kind of environment again, there will be consequences. Suspension. You understand me?”

I nod jerkily. “Yes, I understand.”

“Now, I’ve already been made aware of the situation. The locker room and the assault that left Nebiolo’s brother in the hospital with a concussion and broken cheek⁠—”

My sharp gasp slices through the room, my body curling over at the gut punch that information just left me with. Concussion. Broken cheek. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. My stomach revolts; his words fist it, squeeze. Twist. I think I’m going to be sick. What have I done?

“Respira,” Dominguez barks out.

I snap straight, immediately taking a breath, my body automatically responding to the tone he uses when we’re doing drills.

“He is going to be all right, Jackson.” There’s an unwavering confidence in Skip’s voice, and I latch onto it. I desperately need someone to tell me this is all going to be okay.

“Interestingly enough, you’re the only person to report you. Therefore, I don’t think any further action needs to be taken on your behalf. At least not punitive.”

I blink slowly. At least not punitive…?

“We have a great mental health clinician, Jackson. We have these resources for a reason. This was an extremely traumatic event. They’re here if you need them.” He watches me, those eyes seeing every part of me I’ve kept hidden my entire life. “For any reason.”

A sting, sharp and immediate, hits me behind the eyes, and I blink rapidly. My brain’s first reaction is to shout, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Deny, deny, deny. Even though the elephant has been in the room during this entire conversation and thoroughly discussed.

“I’m here too,” he says quietly. “Baseball has a long way to go. A very long fucking way. But the Jetties and all their farm teams aren’t waiting for the rest of the league to catch up.”

I bite my cheek until a metallic tang hits my tongue.

“My door is always open. You are always welcome here, mijo.” The emphasis he put on here makes me pretty certain he means more than just his office.

I glare at my hands, knuckles white from how hard I’m clutching my thighs, desperately trying to keep my tears at bay.

You are always welcome here.

The words repeat on a loop in my brain, like it can’t seem to make sense of them. Skip spoke them in English, but my mind keeps tripping over them anyway—like he said them in Spanish instead and I missed half the meaning.

You are always welcome here.

Not in my house. Not in my hometown.

Not anywhere

Those words have never belonged to me.

ELEVEN

FRANKIE

Holy fucking pressure. It’s like someone sat on my face—but not in the good way.

It’s only gotten worse now that the swelling has started. I whimper. The swelling. It’s horrendous. My face is grotesque. I refuse to leave my room until it’s healed. Also, because when I stand, I still get a bit of dizziness and nausea. So upright in bed it is. Oh, and did I mention I can’t watch TV, go on my phone, or use my computer? What exactly am I supposed to do with myself?

I know, I know. Jerk off. Except, no. I can’t do that either. No orgasms. Apparently, it can increase intracranial pressure. Fuck me six ways to Sunday. Except not right now. I let out a growl.