Page 32 of Hiding in the Outfield

He grabs the top of my chair. “Can I?”

I nod.

He drags it in front of me. He sits, resting his elbows on his thighs, his knees knocking into mine. “I think we are in a spot in our friendship,” he says slowly, “where we both are wavering on whether we can really trust each other.”

I study his crown of thorns tattoo. Still I Rise. Isn’t that the truth? The battle of life.

“Maybe.” Definitely.

It’s been eating away at me, my secret. I’ve never told anyone—I’ve never even said the words out loud—until two days ago when I said enough for the skipper to know, even if I didn’t say it outright.

I’m so tired of keeping myself chained away. My father’s suspicious gaze materializes. The chains tighten.

“I know what Devereux said, but I don’t believe for a second that Frankie sexually assaulted you. I honestly don’t believe Frankie took you down that hallway to begin with. Do you want to know what I do think?”

I give a slight shake, but it doesn’t stop him; it doesn’t stop him from relaying the truth of that night.

“I think you went down that hall all on your own. I think…”

My gaze flicks to his, and I wait.

He reaches forward and gently squeezes my forearm. “I think you’re the one who kissed him.”

My air cuts off.

I double over, wheezing as I try to suck in breaths. But it’s not enough air.

There’s a crash, then a hand lands on my neck and pulls me upright. “Breathe.”

I try to follow the command, but I can’t. He knows. He saw through me. Panic plays out on repeat in my brain in the form of a single question. Who else has figured it out?

Barnes’s muffled swear drifts in and out. My vision wavers.

Something clamps over my chin. Green and black and beige blur in front of me. “Olander. Come on, man. Breathe. With me.”

His green eyes come into focus, and I suck in a choppy breath.

“Good, Jackson. Out.”

His breath whooshes over my skin, and I copy him, but I sound like I’ve just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. God, will I ever be able to breathe again?

Do I deserve to?

“Again.”

It comes a little easier that time. My chest loosens, and the blood pumping in my ears softens. I take another ragged breath, and it’s almost normal.

His grip on my chin slips away. “Fucking hell, man.” He runs a hand through his dark hair as he paces in front of me. “I don’t even know how to have this conversation with you. East said to use my discretion. I don’t even know if it’s going to matter. Like holy shit. That was…” He sweeps a hand over me. “That.”

I can’t make sense of what he’s saying. I’m not sure if it’s my oxygen-depleted brain or him.

He mutters under his breath, then he spins to face me. “You can trust me, Jackson. I’m a safe space. I don’t know if those words mean anything to you. I’m not going to force you to talk about something you don’t want to talk about or that you’re not ready to talk about. It’s not my place to assume or pressure you. But…” He pauses, gaze boring into me, seeing way too much. “Just so you know, I’m gay. In case that helps at all with your decision to trust me.”

My mouth drops open.

I would never have guessed. He’s just like…one of the guys. I suppose the group he hangs out with does have a couple queer guys. There’s Stone. Though Maddox and he have never seemed particularly close. Maybe a front? He’s really close with Frankie. My eyes fly wide, and I fist my bedsheets.

“Are you with Frankie?” I choke out.