Page 3 of Hiding in the Outfield

“Hey, hey!” Paulie says, then raises his voice. “Hi, Nick! How⁠—”

“He’s married,” I choke out.

The phone goes silent. A heart rate monitor flatlining.

My body shakes, and my breaths fall choppy and discordant. Everything spins.

“Chessie?”

My brother’s words flit to me from far away.

“Chessie? I’m getting on the next plane.”

My stomach heaves again. He’s married. He’s having a child.

“I’ll be there soon, Chessie. I love you.”

I finally thought I’d found my forever. A guy that was different from the rest. Loved me. Saw me.

Turns out, he was the worst of them all.

ONE

FRANKIE

One year prior to Stealing Forever.

A Campari with soda water slides my way across the bar top. “Thanks, Tom.” I send him a flirty wink, and he laughs, shaking his head as he walks down the bar to help the next customer.

Tom’s the bartender at the Clippers’ sports bar of choice, Zingers, and he’s a fucking delight. Rough around the edges, bearded with tattoos, and takes my flirting in stride. Which I personally love. It’s so refreshing to see a man comfortable with himself, who doesn’t fall into the trap of toxic masculinity.

I don’t think he has any interest in men, and he also doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable with other men showing interest in him—or I should say, me showing interest in him. There’s not a huge influx of queer men here. Trust me, I would know because I’m always on the lookout for my next hookup. Though I do sometimes get that little inkling that certain men here aren’t so straight.

Some people don’t mess with men who are newly out, who are testing the waters to gauge if this really is what they want. And I get it. Some men react badly after their first experience. Even when you let them lead the entire time, they find a way to blame you for taking advantage, or they lash out as a defense mechanism because they can’t confront their homosexuality.

Ask me how I know.

But when you find someone who truly is just trying to discover themselves, being the one to enlighten them is heady. There’s nothing more beautiful than watching someone come into their own. And, yes, I’m selfish, because I also really love how eager and enthusiastic they are when they fully own how much they love dick. I will one-hundred percent act as gay Jedi Master. Show you the way of the gay, Frankie will.

It wasn’t a role I signed up for, but I fell into it. Man after closeted man latched onto me, and I just accepted that this is my purpose in life. Frankie is your entry into the world of queer men.

Maybe it’s because I’ve had such a positive support system growing up, and this is my small way of giving back to those who don’t. Being gay has never been anything other than normal for me. I come from a crazy Italian family who bickers hard and loves harder.

I don’t know if my mom had suspicions, but my family flew rainbow flags and was involved in the LGBTQIA+ community long before I started dating guys. I didn’t bother coming out; I simply invited my boyfriend in high school over for dinner, and no one blinked twice. It was the same for Pauls when he brought home his first girlfriend. Just my parents smiling and asking questions to get to know our partners.

Unfortunately, not everyone has an amazing support network. Not only do they not have that, but they have the opposite: a community full of hate and prejudice. Their only option is to hide to survive. And I’d bet my Louboutin low tops the man sitting with my brother’s baseball team who’s been subtly eyeing me for the past hour is a man deep in the closet.

I mean, I could be wrong, but trust me, Frankie almost always knows. Kind of like how I know Paulie’s good friend Shane is…curious. It’s a bummer he didn’t get called up to Triple-A with Pauls this year. Shaney-babe is fun and adventurous and exuberant, all wrapped up in a six-foot, ab-covered, tight-assed package. Still not counting it out. I’ll be pouncing the next time I see him.

“Want to move to the table?” Paulie asks.

We’ve been standing around the bar with a few of his teammates: one of their starting pitchers, Frize, who’s been on the Clippers for years, their back-up catcher, Paddack—because no big deal, but my little brother is the fucking starter—and another pitcher, Araujo.

Araujo is delicious. He’s got a Diogo Costa vibe, except with longer hair. And yes, I have scoped out the entire Clippers team.

“Let’s,” I say to my brother.

My gaze flicks to the man again—our stares clash. My mouth curls, and I lazily drag my thumb over my bottom lip. His eyes widen, and he jerks his head back toward the table.