Page 107 of The Men of Summer Collection

If I had known that negative media coverage would drive me at the plate, maybe I’d have sought it out sooner. Courted the press and taunted them with bad-boy escapades, encouraged scathing write-ups.

After Troy’s withering post, I followed my guy’s advice and tuned it out. I went on a tear during our series against the Coyotes, whacking in a home run in game one, hitting two RBI singles in the next.

My pitch calling is on fire. My pitchers move quickly through the batters, hitting their marks, clocking strikes. Declan notices too, and tells me as much in a text the morning before the third Coyotes game.

Declan:Told you to tune it out, and look at you. You motherfucking did.

Grant:Thanks to you, One-Track Steele.

Declan:I’ll be calling you One-Track Blackwood any day now.

Grant:I’ll take it.

Declan:And when I get home in the middle of the night, I’ll give you a reward. Because you deserve one.

Grant:One? One stinking reward? I want many. So many rewards.

Declan:A man after my own heart.

Grant:I was not thinking about your heart just now. Sorry, not sorry.

Declan:Don’t ever apologize for thinking about my dick. P.S. Gotta go. At the Minotaurs stadium now for BP, then I’ll be catching a flight home after the game. To see your dick.

Declan:And also you. Sorry, not sorry for wanting to see you as well as your dick.

Grant: Don’t ever apologize for wanting the both of us. We’re a package deal.

I close the thread, clutching my phone victoriously. “Take that, Weasel Face who’s not even worthy of being called a dick because dicks are awesome,” I say to myself.

This is how two guys who play the same game for a living support each other—not by cheating, but by encouraging each other to play hard.

And dick pics help too.

Since I’m helpful, I take one and send it to my boyfriend.

Grant:Here’s proof of the package deal.

Declan:I’ll make you a deal. My mouth will be on your package when I get home.

My streak continues. In our final game, I hit an RBI single in the second inning. When it’s my turn again in the fourth, the Coyotes’ starter throws the first pitch far out of the strike zone for a walk.

I don’t swing at it. The next one, though, is a fastball down the middle that’s too juicy to resist. I cut right through it, foul tipping it.

The Coyote fires off the next pitch, a high and tight fastball. I track it until?—

Crack!

My head rings. My helmet rattles, slipping off. The world goes sideways as pain radiates in my skull. I stumble backward, falling flat on my back on the diamond.

Everything goes dark.