Page 24

TUCKER

“S it down!” Coach demanded, and we all sank stiffly against the lockers. Arlo, Silas and a few of the other coaches flanked him with serious looks on their faces. “What the hell is wrong with you guys?”

“He called Dean a…” Cael piped up the fastest, but his words died on his lips as Coach shook his head. He didn’t need to finish.

“I know what he called him, we all heard it.” Coach turned his fiery stare on his son. “Since when do we throw punches to solve problems on the diamond?” He asked.

The locker room was quieter than it ever had been.

“Alright, fair. Dumb question.” Coach ran his hands through his graying, dirty blond hair, pushing his hat off his head as he went. He took a long, deep breath before he spoke again. “I know that I’m not always the most aware, or present,” he said, looking over at Cael again. "But when you sink to their level, they win. You always protect one of your own, but when it comes to slurs, homophobic or racist…” he said with a pause.

We all remembered the year a kid from Boston went after Arlo. It had ended the same way as today. Bloody lips and a softcore scolding that sounded more like a “ good job boys ” rather than a “ you’re idiots ” speech.

“So what, we let them?” Van asked, his brown hair sticky against a nasty cut that sliced through his eyebrow.

“No,” Coach said. “These guys don’t see the problem with using words like that because they're coached by men who don’t see the problem with it.”

“Well now they’ve been taught a lesson!” Todd hollered. “They can’t get away with it. If we can learn—”

“Let me deal with it through the right channels. Hudson will go back to Philly proud of himself for getting his team a win,” Coach interrupted whatever Todd was going to say next.

“That wasn’t a win!” Cael argued.

“It is on paper, because you’re all hot-headed…” He trailed off, looking around at us. “Where the fuck is Logan?”

We all stopped to look at who was sitting beside us, but Josh was nowhere to be found. Silas’ jaw tensed, and without a word, he was out of the locker room, the heavy blue doors swinging behind him as he went.

“Clean yourselves up, shower, tomorrow you run a double practice for this bullshit,” Coach said. “Tucker, you gotta talk to the press.”

“Don’t make me,” I almost begged, rolling my shoulders back, but I pushed from my seated position regardless because of the look he gave me.

“You’re the captain—you don’t get a choice. Come on.” He waved me over and tossed his hand around my shoulder. “You’ll be okay. You don’t have to answer any questions about the fight. Deflect them into game tactics and season projections.”

“Easier said than done,” I grumbled, but put a smile on my face as we reached the press room.

“You’re already more likeable than Arlo,” he teased, opening the door for me. The cameras’ clicking and the low buzz of reporters talking amongst themselves were enough to have me turning and leaving, but Coach was blocking the doorway. “Sit.”

There was a small chair behind the desk for me and I pulled it out, the legs grinding loudly against the concrete floor. The sound was obnoxious enough to awkwardly silence everyone in the room.

“Dean Tucker,” I said. A few of them chuckled. “Right. Guess you knew that…”

“Mr. Tucker, what was the fight about today?” The first question came from a slender male reporter with horrible posture and large teeth.

I was in the wolf's den now.

“Unclear.” I shrugged and tried to sound dismissive.

I picked at the tablecloth spread beneath my fingertips to keep myself calm.

“Noah Hudson said something to you that set off Joshua Logan. Care to elaborate?” He pushed and I knew he would, the question had the room in chaos.

“No, I came down here to talk to you about baseball, not politics,” I said just loudly enough to seem brave, but my legs were shaking under the table.

“Baseball is politics,” the reporter sneered. “Did the fight have anything to do with your activities outside the game?”

“If you’re referring to my private life, no,” I said, the lie was tight on my lips.

“So your pitcher, who has a violent past, jumped a Philly player for no reason?”

“Do you have any questions about the game?” I said.

“Listen, kid—”

“It’s Captain, ” I corrected. The word kid slipped past my defenses, and I could hear my brother in the back of my mind, teasing me for being too slow, or too stupid to keep up with him. “We went out and played hard. What happened wasn’t a result of anything the Hornets did or didn’t do; at the end of the day, we can’t control what other players bring to the game.”

“So he did say something?” Another reporter got louder.

“You’ll have to watch the Philly conference to find out.” I shrugged. "Do you have any questions about the season?” I asked.

The room went quiet.

Until one reporter near the back stood, I recognized him immediately. He was the reporter who wrote the piece on Ella after Cael’s accident. A reporter who would do anything he could to manipulate a narrative for a rumor mill piece. Whatever came out of his mouth next would be said with the intent to rattle me. I pushed my feet into the soles of my cleats and tried to breathe.

“The team seems to be struggling after your rough season last year? Does it have anything to do with the shoddy dynamics now that Arlo King is gone?” He asked.

Shoddy dynamics. Great.

“The team is solid and ready to work towards a successful season,” I answered smoothly. “Today was a hiccup, but that’s what exhibition games are for.”

“It's apparent that there’s animosity among the team after Cael Cody’s accident. Has this created more strain between the players?” He asked.

He was trying to find loose threads to pull.

He wanted me to unravel.

“We’re finding our groove, and if you give us a few days, we’ll prove just how well we work together,” I said, ignoring his probing about the accident.

“So you and Cael Cody are on good terms?” He asked.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

I could feel the panic building, I could see the path he wanted to take with his story, and it all ended with public humiliation and my name at the forefront of it.

“We’re fine.”

“Did the fight have anything to do with your romantic relationship with Cael Cody?” He asked, and my throat tightened. My muscles seized as my heart started to race.

“I—” I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out as more reporters stood, and the room erupted into more questions I didn’t know how to answer.

“Mr. Tucker.” He stared at me like I was enemy number one; his impatience was clear. “It was rumored that last season, the reason Cael broke down was because of you. Because of your complicated history with one another. Is that true?”

My throat felt tight, and I shook my head.

“It’s not true?” He probed.

“The reason behind the accident—”

“Isn’t true, or…” He continued to cut me off, and the more he did it, the more frustrated I became. It was sitting on my chest like a thousand pounds, and there was nothing I could do to control the narrative unfolding in front of me, short of flipping out on the entire room of reporters. “Mr. Tucker, are you capable of answering a single question?” His tone was harsh.

“The accident had nothing to do with Cael and me,” I said, and it ripped from me in a clumsy bark that made Silas flinch in the corner of my eye.

“So the rumors are true, you were in a relationship with Mr. Cody, you are homosexual.”

Bile rose, and my hands flexed on the tabletop, just needed something to grasp onto before I completely lost control of myself. Head was spinning violently from the accusation… but it wasn’t one, it was the truth. I was gay. But…

“What—” I meant to say yes, to say no. To give them anything that might just get them to leave me alone long enough for my heart to stop thudding painfully in my chest. “I—”

“Cat got your tongue, Mr. Tucker?” the reporter smiled. That broke down whatever confidence I had left.

I opened my mouth to talk again, unsure what would come out, but it wasn’t going to be good. “Fuc—” My breath was stolen from my lungs, the anxiety stealing everything I had and making me numb.

Coach was at my side and pushed me from my chair.

“Go,” he whispered and I didn’t hesitate to listen. "Interviews over gentleman," he snapped. The echoes from the press boomed down the hallway as I jogged down toward the locker room. But the noise from inside was just as loud and it made me freeze.

I couldn’t breathe.

They’d all see that news.

My reaction would be posted everywhere come morning.

Fuck.

I pressed my hand to the door, I knew that behind it they’d all be waiting for updates and that they’d have my back no matter what happens but it was…overwhelming and suffocating. I veered left toward the visitors' locker room—empty, dirty from Philly’s quick departure. The silence hit me like a warm blanket.

Tears were streaming from my face but I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop them.

I stripped my jersey off, barely bothering with the buttons and threw it away. I just needed to be free from the restricting, itchy fabric. I walked toward the showers, just needing to shock my system with the frigid, harsh water pressure.

“Shit,” I stopped, my whole body coming to a halt seeing him there. He was drenched, still wearing his ball pants, but they were soaked through as he ran a sponge over his torso. He didn’t notice me in the doorway, too busy scrubbing his skin raw under the scalding water.

Every other problem in my life was muted by the sound of his sobs.

I stepped forward slowly, watching the water pour from his dark curls against his chest, dripping down and diluting the stream of blood from his nose.

“Josh,” I said. He didn’t hear me over the water, so I moved closer. My fingers brushed over the sponge, ghosting his skin, and his head snapped up as he pressed himself against the cold shower wall.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, his eyes fluttering closed and his breathing harsh and shallow. Like I didn’t even interrupt him, his hands returned to their scrubbing motion.

“What are you doing?” I asked him, trying to be gentle, curbing the need to yell at him or break him from the trance.

Again he ignored me, and continued to scrub frantically like he was trying to remove permanent marks, but there was nothing on his skin except for a few bruises, the cut that split through his bottom lip and the one that bit into his cheek. I knew getting in his face wouldn’t work, he barely wanted me there when he was coherent. And whatever he was going through, he wasn’t himself.

I stepped into the hot water, wincing at the temperature as it burned my unprepared skin, and I reached out for the sponge for a second time. He held onto it tightly, his fingernails raw from the grip.

“Trade me,” I said, pulling on the sponge.

“Go away, Tucker.” He squeezed tighter, and I could see beneath the sponge that he had scrubbed the skin so raw it was bleeding under his assault.

“No,” I shook my head, trying again. “You helped me today,” I swallowed, “which means I owe you, remember? We don’t do charity,” I reminded him. “If you don’t let me help, then you’re no better than me.”

“Shut up,” he growled and stepped closer. The water ran slick down his features and when he turned his face up toward me I could see the shame raging behind those brown eyes, pupils still flared and angry.

I stared back at him, raising my hands at a torturous pace so as not to startle him before I pressed them against his jaw on either side. His whole body tensed under the contact, but I felt him lean into the touch and breathe. It was ragged and heavy, releasing whatever pain he was clutching to, and he closed his eyes. His lashes were soaked with water and made him look so sad as he broke down a little further.

“Let me help,” I gritted out, just trying to convince him that I wasn’t there to hurt him. My thumb brushed over the cut on his cheek, and he didn’t say a word, but his brows pulled together in pain. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, suddenly very aware of how close he was to me. I could feel the heat that radiated from his body, and I could smell the sweat and blood that tangled with the hot steam that rose around us.

His eyes opened at the sound of my apology, and he grabbed my wrists, his nails digging into my skin. Josh’s bottom lip trembled as he brought in another strangled gasp of air and moved us in a rough motion. He slammed my back against the tiles, staring at me with bloodshot eyes that screamed for help.

“Take it back,” he growled.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. I wouldn’t. I was sorry. He was here, like this, because of something I did… I just know it. I could feel it under my skin, picking at my muscles. There was guilt there, I just didn’t know why.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped and dug his nails deeper.

“Like what?” I whispered over the running water, his lips were so close to mine that I could feel the shaky exhale that came, it was cold compared to the heat of the water and fanned down my skin, kissing my overheated body.

“You aren’t allowed to feel sorry for me,” he said, his eyes flickering across my face.

“I don’t,” I lied.

“You do, I can smell the pity on your skin and it’s driving me nuts,” he groaned. “Just don’t.”

“Alright,” I said, just trying to understand what was going on behind his eyes. “What do you want then? Because whatever you’re doing isn’t going to work, I won’t let you—”

Josh didn’t let me finish, he surged forward and captured my open mouth against his. The force slammed my head into the tiles, but the sting was drowned out by the hungry way his tongue pushed into my mouth. I allowed my hands to drift back through his soaked waves of hair and gripped him tightly. The kiss was needy, it was hot and full of hatred, but he was kissing me, and much to my surprise, I was enjoying it.

Teeth clashed as he fought for dominance, but I didn’t care; he could have whatever he wanted. I was completely at his mercy, in a trance under his harsh touch and painful grip. I wanted every mark he planned to leave in his wake. It was all I could think about as his fingernails scraped against the soft skin of my wrist, leaving little raw lines that proved I wasn’t dreaming.

I closed my eyes and sank into the kiss as he leaned against me, but as quickly as he had initiated it, he was gone. I felt his touch dissipate, and when I opened my eyes, he was already gone. Leaving the shower room without another word.