Page 45 of Switch Hitter

That they fucking do.

“Do you want me to deny it?” I ask calmly. “Say it wasn’t me.”

“No,” she says quickly, because PR people hate a denial that becomes a headline. “No, we don’t need to do anything unless it turns into… something.”

I can hear her choosing her words carefully.

Unless it turns into something.

Meaning, unless it turns into a you story.

Unless it turns into a “Why were you there?” story.

I keep my tone even. “Then we won’t do anything.”

Marcy exhales like she’s relieved and also still worried. “Just… be mindful.”

I almost laugh. Be mindful, as if I don’t live my entire life under a microscope. As if being mindful would’ve stopped me from flying to Sean.

“Sure thing,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Thanks,” she replies, and the call ends. I drive the rest of the way to my apartment in a quiet that feels heavier now.

I’m not afraid of rumors but I know Sean will be.

Sean is going to see a tweet, or a headline, or some grainy photo, and his chest is going to seize. He’s going to think, “This is it. This is the moment my family finds out and my life explodes.”

And then he’s going to run.

Unless I remind him he doesn’t have to face it alone.

Parking in my spot, I get out and take the elevator upstairs. As soon as my door closes, I drop my bag by the couch and take a long breath. I should eat something. My mom would kill me if she knew it’s been six hours since I last ate. I open the fridge, stare at the containers, and finally heat one of the meal preps up.

While the microwave runs, I check my phone.

Notifications from social media fill my screen. New York fans are like sharks; they smell anything remotely interesting and circle.

Opening the app, I see it’s not huge. We’re not even trending, so that makes me feel a little better. Just a post from some random baseball account with a blurry photo and a caption that makes my eyes narrow.

“Mets ace Emiliano Guerrero spotted in San Jose on off day ”

Comments are already doing what comments do.

“Maybe he’s training.”

“Is he injured? Fuck, we can’t lose him right now.”

“My guy is just laying some pipe. Getting ready to give us the next generation of Guerrero players.”

“Is he being poached by the Coyotes?”

“Maybe he’s⁠—”

I close the app before I can read more because none of it matters. Except for the fact that Sean will see it and it will matter to him. My phone buzzes, like the universe agrees.

Sean

You okay?