Page 20 of The Battery

Leo

T he second game against the Stags did not go well for me. After spending half the summer lecturing Cody about distractions, it seemed I had removed them from him and taken them all upon myself.

The heat of mid-July didn’t help matters.

The moment I put on my gear I broke into a sweat.

Nothing new there, but it did add a pinch more irritation that I would normally ignore.

The stadium was only a third full. Harrisburg wasn’t a rival by any means, but they were a decent team and would put up a fight.

I had hoped to put on a show for them, but…

By the second inning, I already felt annoyance prickling my skin like a sudden bout of hives.

The starting pitcher was a solid guy. Reliable, like I liked.

Me? Not so much. I missed a steal attempt at second base due to a late throw.

The runner safely advanced and it sent a wave of anger that undulated through me.

Totally unnecessary. I loathed allowing runners to steal.

I had my eyes on everyone at all times and the fact that one snuck by would irk me for the rest of the game.

The rest of the game. I had to let it go.

A pitch in the dirt got by me. I swear I just watched as it sailed right by and my body had zero reaction to it.

I scrambled after it, fumbling maladroitly like a baby giraffe.

A runner made from second to third while I scrambled in the dirt to get that damn ball.

We ended the top of the second without allowing any runs, which was the ultimate goal.

However, I already failed myself and I needed to make up for it.

People left me alone in the dugout while we were up to bat.

I knew how to exude not only a look of piss off , but an air of it, too.

I already knew that the previous catcher, their beloved Hiroshi, could shuck off the irritation and energize bad energy by pep-talking with each player.

That was now Romo’s job. I had no interest in doing the same.

As I sat at the end of the dugout, forearms on the railing, my eyes scanned the field and targeted the bullpen. Cody was in a similar stance as mine. He could have been looking directly at me, or he could have been looking at the players in between us. It was anyone’s guess.

I regretted my words to him. Deeply. I said them out of anger so that someone else could feel the pain that I never let show.

The look he pulled after my excoriating diatribe continued to haunt me.

I had said similar things countless times to other teammates to snap them out of their malaise.

This marked the first time I genuinely cared about how the person reacted.

I couldn’t let that rule me. I couldn’t. Whatever budding feelings I had for him needed to be squashed. Already it clearly demonstrated to me that it would not serve my main goal. My promise.

Ask for forgiveness , the insipid decent man in me whispered. Seek absolution and this will all go away.

Like hell.

Third inning wasn’t any better than the second.

I struggled with pitch framing, the way in which I can make it look like a ball is really a strike.

The ump called several pitches on the corner balls that I usually framed well enough to be strikes.

Nothing career-ending but enough to continue to add cuts to my wound accumulation.

I allowed two walks because of my lapses in judgment.

Then a muffed a catch. I dropped a routine pop-up foul ball. That was humiliating because it was an easy task that I botched like it was my first day on the job.

Again, no runs for the Stags when we finished the inning.

Our starter was pleased. Management was pleased.

The players were pleased. I, however, fixated on these minor mistakes like someone hung a neon sign next to each one letting the world know how awful I was.

Once more I stewed in my misery at the end of the dugout where no one came to bother me.

At the fifth inning, I called the wrong pitch, which led to a hit.

Fastball, when it should have been a slider.

I could blame the pitcher for not disagreeing with me, but I ultimately took the blame on that one.

I got into a light spat with the ump after he called a ball that, I felt, was clearly a strike.

My voice went up, as did his, and he gave me one of those looks that dared me to test him.

I itched to throw a fist at the idiot. That’s when I had to take a second for myself.

Sure, hitting an umpire had crossed my mind before, but for a moment, I had actually considered it.

The seventh inning came after what felt like a year of catching.

A bunt down the third base lined wasn’t field quickly enough and the batter reached first. Another pitch in the dirt got past me—yet again—and a runner on third scored because of it.

I dropped an f-bomb with that one and wanted to flog myself right there in front of the entire stadium.

We were still up by three, but still, I would take a hit to my stats for the dumbest of reasons.

I found solitude in the coolness of the corridor rather than the dugout during the seventh inning stretch.

On the field, “Midnight Rider” by the Allman Brothers blasted over the speakers while a minuteman charged down the warning track on a black horse.

I faced the wall and popped off my hat to press my forehead against the cool concrete.

“You okay?” a voice asked me. I didn’t need to look to see who. We always seemed to bump into each other. Ships in the night we were not.

“Yeah.” No. My uncle skipped another meal. He’s dying in front of my eyes. I’m sorry I’m taking it out on you. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Blind ump out there. Par for the course, right?”

I slowly rotated my forehead along the concrete and shot him a stare. Did it look like I was in the mood for banter?

Cody held up both hands in surrender, backed up, then turned and walked back to the bullpen.

Two more innings to go. Then I could crash into the world’s deepest sleep and forget about the day.

*

Romo had me cornered after the game. He got me alone in a conference room, sheltered by soundproof, frosted-glass walls.

A table stretched between us. Romo stood there, arms crossed, an easy smile on his face.

He’d been through the wringer in his personal and professional life when he officially came out during a press conference.

I could never take the scrutiny of the public eye that he had gone through and still act normal. I don’t know how he did it.

So when he asked me his particular question, I wanted to drive my fist through the glass.

“Come again?” I asked, brow up.

“I said, did he break up with you or did you break up with him?” Repeating the question seemed to amuse him more, which only served to deepen my glower.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Romo shrugged his shoulders with his arms still crossed. His grin grew lopsided. He knew. He knew that I knew that he knew. The man just had to wait.

I cracked. “It wasn’t a breakup.”

“Well, it was something because you played like crap tonight.”

“My uncle is dying, you asshole. It’s been on my mind.”

“Yeah, you told me that in confidence when you started,” he said, not missing a beat. “And I pray for him when I can. But it’s not just that. Stop hiding behind that.”

My chest lifted as if anger gave me wings. “The fuck? What right do you—”

“You told me back in May about your uncle. You’ve been carrying your grief like the Spartan soldier you are and it hasn’t once impacted your game. I’ve been watching you, Leo. Something was different tonight. I mean, you still killed it out there. We won. But I could tell something was off.”

“Then why the hell do you assume I had a breakup?”

“You can say his name. It’s safe with me.”

I gave him a stare that could set fire to driftwood. It just bounced off the man. “How…?”

He unfolded his arms and gestured grandly. “C’mon. Of all people? Who do you think would notice?”

I couldn’t argue that. His coming out story was one for the history books, and the upcoming winter nuptials were all over the sports tabloids. He was sharp, perceptive, amicable. He was right. Of all people who would notice, it’d be him.

“It’s not a relationship. This thing with Cody ,” I said. I kept eye contact. I felt shame, yes, but wouldn’t let that show.

“Does he know that?”

I opened my mouth for a rebuttal but stopped myself. After Cody’s date-night setting, clearly he thought to do something more. With a quieter voice, I said, “He does now.”

Romo nodded slowly. “Ah. You hurt his feelings. And you’re feeling guilty about it.”

I snorted and managed to crack a rueful smile. Mr. Perfect had many exceptional talents it seemed.

“You like him?” he asked. “I mean, like him , like him?”

I wasn’t answering that. “It’s irrelevant. I need to focus on the game.”

“Okay. I can understand that. Can you be friends, at least?”

Who did this guy think he was? How could he just brazenly ask personal questions without considering the consequences?

“I would like to be,” I answered genuinely. “I can see past my attraction. I don’t know if he can.”

“So tell him. Say what’s up.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Look, Leo, I want my players to be at their best. Hill is dynamite out there. And you replaced Hiroshi way, way faster than any of us anticipated. If I can help keep the status quo, I will. Do you want me to talk to him?”

“What? Fuck no. Romo, come on.” He smiled. White toothed, dimpled cheeks. Handsome fucker. “I can do it.”

“Do what? Tell him you just want to be friends?”

I snorted out an incredulous burst of laughter. “Yes.” He cracked me open in less than five minutes. I would have been angry about it if it weren’t so impressive.

He gave me a double thumbs-up and started for the door. “Long break for us coming up. Do fun stuff. For friends. If you aren’t back at one hundred percent afterward, we’ll have another chat.”

The nerve of him.

“Yes, sir,” I said with sarcasm. But I meant it.

This man bobbed and weaved through my defenses like a contortionist moving in a laser field. It was… refreshing. I needed to hear it.