Page 34 of Hiding in the Outfield

“Frankie’s fine. Taking full advantage of having everyone in the house at his beck and call. I’ve told him numerous times his face is broken, not his fucking legs. But he still somehow managed to get me to bring him breakfast in bed this morning.”

I snort a laugh. Sounds like Frankie. Don’t know how I would know that; I barely know him. I just…I guess I can see it. I’d be glad to bring him breakfast in bed.

Maddox rocks back and forth on his feet. “Want me to stick around? I’m happy to talk about whatever. If you want to say the words again, I’m here to listen. I understand how hard they can be to voice.”

My nose stings, but I manage to breathe through the emotion. “Yeah, I’d like that.” I scoot back so I’m leaning against the wall and pat the spot next to me. “Um. Maybe you could tell me a little bit about your story?”

Maddox kicks off his shoes and hops onto my bed. He slides his knees up and rests his arms on them. “Like how I figured out I’m gay and all that?”

“Yeah. And, like, how was it for you? With your family and telling people. If you have? Does Winters know?”

Maddox chokes on a laugh, and he eyes me like I’ve lost my mind. “I guess you missed that part. The boyfriend I’ve been in love with since I was twelve didn’t give it away?”

I frown. “Huh?”

“Dude. Easton. Easton is my boyfriend.”

I open and close my mouth. What now?

He snickers. “I guess that means we’re doing a good job hiding it.”

I shake my head. Damn. “Yeah, definitely had no idea. That’s wild—best friends to boyfriends.”

“Best friends and boyfriends,” he says with a fond smile.

My heart stumbles to a stop.

That. I want that.

It had been easy to ignore the faint longing. Baseball has always served as the perfect distraction. I let it consume me. I’m not sure what’s changed, but it’s not enough to cover up the ache any longer.

And while I sit here and listen to Maddox tell me about when he first realized he was into guys, what his family was like, the support he’s had from them and his friends and the LGBTQIA+ community, it makes me wonder if maybe there’s a way for me to have more than I’ve let myself.

I can’t come out. Not with baseball. Not with my family.

But maybe there’s a space for me. Somewhere.

Somewhere where I can be me.

You are always welcome here.

Maybe Skip was right.

THIRTEEN

JACKSON

I’ve been sitting in my car for fifteen minutes. I glance at the passenger seat, at the grocery store bouquet. The petals of the purple flowers are limp and fucking sad. This was a horrible idea. The milkshake I bought has probably melted, and the fries are definitely lukewarm at this point.

I should just go home.

Movement catches my attention. The front door to the townhouse stands open now, and—shit—a very angry Paulie Nebiolo is glaring at me, arms crossed over his chest. He’s half a foot shorter than me, but he’s built like a bull.

I glance down. At my red shirt. I groan.

Looks like I’m facing an enraged bull. I definitely can’t go home now that he’s seen me. This is good. The shove I needed. I had lost my balls, and Nebs clearly found them and is now dangling them in front of me. Come and get them.

I open the door, collect the things I bought, gather my courage, and step out of the car.