Page 27 of Switch Hitter

I type something and delete it.

He wants to talk at the game. How about we talk in his apartment, in his city, in the place where he can’t hide behind rivalry?

I’m done letting us only exist where it’s convenient.

On the flight, I don’t sleep. Not for lack of effort. I close my eyes and try, but my brain keeps running scenarios like it’s studying hitters.

What if he yells?

Fine. I can take yelling.

What if he tries to deflect with sex?

That’s the one that makes my pulse race, because sex with Sean is easy. It’s violent and feeds the part of us that’s hungry for each other.

But I don’t want easy anymore.

I want real.

If he tries to pull me into bed to avoid the conversation, I need to be strong enough to stop him and say, “Let’s talk first.”

What do I want out of this?

That answer is obvious: I want him.

Not only when one of us loses, not in secret corners. Not in a dugout with his face pressed to chain-link like he’s being punished. I want him standing in front of me, eyes open, mouth honest. I want him to let me kiss him without flinching and to stop treating me like regret. But I also know I can’t force someone out of fear.

I can only show him there’s another way.

That love doesn’t have to hurt and that faith doesn’t have to mean suffering.

That being wanted isn’t something you have to earn with pain.

My phone buzzes.

A text from my mom.

Mamá

Ya comiste?

I huff a laugh quietly, draw a few looks from the woman across the aisle.

Emiliano

Voy a comer cuando llegue.

She sends a prayer hands emoji and a heart, like she’s blessing me through the screen. I pocket my phone and stare out the window. The clouds look like something holy.

Or maybe I’m just tired.

San Jose is hotter than the devil's ass crack. Different air with no humidity, just dry, melt-your-face-off heat. I grab my bag and walk through the terminal like I’ve been here before. I have, just never for this purpose. It doesn’t matter, though; cities are all the same when you’re doing something that terrifies you.

I Uber to the team housing complex that looks too clean, too perfect, like the kind of place built for athletes who aren’t supposed to have problems. I get out, tip the driver, and look up at the building.

Okay.

This is the part where a normal person would hesitate and ask himself, “Hey, are we maybe crossing a line and considering that breaking into someone’s apartment is a misdemeanor…?"