Page 21 of Switch Hitter

Yes, Sean… because we’re fucking grown men that need to talk about it.

And not via text message.

Mmm… don’t wanna do that.

Sean

Yeah no… can’t we just leave it be?

This time he doesn’t respond.

Practice the next day is exactly what I need and exactly what I don’t. The field is familiar; the dirt feels right under my cleats. The smell of grass, sunscreen, and sweat is normal enough to calm the shaking parts of me.

Baseball doesn’t ask me to explain myself.

Baseball doesn’t look me in the eye and say, Tell me the truth.

Baseball is clean.

I can be clean here.

Jogging out with the guys, tossing a ball with Will, I let the familiar rhythm carry me. Will is steady, always. Center field calm. Married-to-a-nutritionist calm. The kind of man who has already decided who he is and sleeps fine at night.

“So… Camila says you look like you didn’t eat,” Will says, because of course she would notice. I swear the woman is a food witch.

I scoff. “Camila doesn’t know me.”

“Camila knows everyone. It’s actually kind of terrifying.” Will catches my throw and smirks.

I shrug like it’s nothing. “I ate.”

Will’s brows lift. “What’d you eat?”

I open my mouth and nothing comes out. So I just send the ball rocketing back.

Will catches it and stares at me for a beat longer, then nods like he already has his answer.

“Come over later,” he says. “She’ll send you home with leftovers. She always makes extra.”

“I’m not⁠—”

“Shut up,” Will interrupts, but it’s not mean. It’s firm. “Just take the food. You’ll make her happy… and maybe you won’t be so sad.”

My chest tightens, and I hate it. I hate being cared for when I don’t know what to do with it. We move into drills. Running routes. Timing steps. Reading the ball off the bat. Coach is yelling about effort like he can yell feelings out of your bloodstream.

It helps.

For an hour, I’m just an outfielder again. I’m just #27. I’m just legs, lungs, and reflex.

When we head into the dugout for a break, my phone buzzes in my bag and my entire body goes rigid. I pretend it didn’t happen. Brooks notices, because Brooks notices everything.

“Damn, O’Malley,” he says. “Your phone get a restraining order or something? That thing’s been vibrating nonstop since New York.”

I glare at him. “Bro… why are you so obsessed with my phone?”

“Because I think you’re hiding something.” He boops the tip of my nose, and I lunge forward to tackle him. Pinning him against the fence just makes him laugh.

“Definitely hiding something.”