Page 12 of Save the Game

“But running the bases at super speed would be allowed?”

“This is my imaginary world, Max, let me have this.”

He laughs, picking up a slice of bacon and looking at it as though he’s never seen one before. Taking the smallest bite possible, he chews and swallows, and takes another minuscule bite. It’s like watching a giant bird peck at its food. He eats the whole slice, though, and starts back in on the eggs and toast. I peek into his coffee cup.

“Be right back,” I tell him, sliding out of the booth and skipping over to grab the decaf. I top him off and grab a mug for myself, because why the hell not. I’m planning on sitting at that table with him for the rest of the damn night. When I sit back down, he’s made little headway in his food. His plate had the same amount as mine, and I’ve already finished. Never in my life have I met a college athlete—or any sort of athlete, really—who doesn’t eat like they’re starving all of the time.

“Thank you,” he says as I sit back down and he picks up the mug.

“No problem. Is your food okay?”

“It’s good. Not sure I’ll be able to finish it all, though,” he sighs, looking down at his plate in dismay. I reach over and pluck off a strip of bacon. He glances up at me and smiles. “You have an away weekend next week, right? That’s what Marcos told me.”

“Yeah. Away weekends are always fun.” I fucking love getting out of town, staying in a hotel room, and hopping on a dating app to pick up a local for the evening. Uncomplicated, no-strings-attached sex, and then I hop on a bus and head back home to real life. Perfect.

“Marcos hates them,” he confides, and I roll my eyes dramatically.

“Of course, he does! You know, if he was a ghost, he’d be one of those that just floats around moaning all the time.”

Max laughs and the sound fills the empty diner; I join in, and soon we’re bent double and struggling to breathe. Wendy pokes her head out of the kitchen, and scowls at me.

“I’m serious,” I choke out. “He never comes out with the team. No wonder he hates away games—anybody would if they refuse to leave the hotel.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “He’s not much of a party guy. Neither of us are.”

“Nah, you’re more of a diner guy.” I smile at him and he grins back. Lord, but he does have a nice face. I wish I had my camera on me—even in shitty lighting like this he would look ethereal and striking. I’ve never seen a more distinct coloring on a man.

“What?” He frowns, plucking up his napkin and wiping it across his mouth.

“Oh, no, you’re good. I was just enjoying your beauty. I was thinking that if I had my camera, I’d take a shot just like this,” I hold my thumbs and forefingers up in a square, “and adjust the brightness—the contrast—just a bit. I wouldn’t do black and white for you, though. I’d want to be able to see the color of your hair and eyes. We’d have to muss up your hair a bit though; it’s just too perfect. I liked the bedhead.”

I punctuate this little speech with a sip of coffee. Max looks struck dumb by my pronouncement; staring at me with his lips parted slightly and eyes wide. I want to grab his face and kiss him.

“You…uhm…like photography?” He asks, neatly skipping over the part where I told him he was beautiful, though I can tell he caught it by the way he’s got his hand firmly planted over the back of his neck again.

“I do. Someday you’ll have to let me take your picture, Invisible Man.”

He shakes his head, eyes angled back down to the table. “Do you have any of your photos with you? On your phone? Can I see?”

“Sure!” I pull my phone out of my apron pocket, and scroll through my pictures, trying to find some good ones to show him. “This screen is too small for you to get the full experience, but you can get the idea.”

I slide my phone over to him, watching his face as he bends over to look. He glances up at me and mimes a scrolling motion with his finger. “Can I?”

“Go for it. Don’t mind the random nudes,” I tell him cheerfully. He sends me a wry look before looking back down. I apply myself to getting a good look at his face, tracing over the lines of his cheekbones and jaw with my eyes. There is a cluster of freckles near his nose; I wonder if he’s one of those people who gets freckles instead of a tan when exposed to the sun.

“I like this one,” he murmurs, still looking at my phone. I lean over to see.

It’s one I took of our pitcher, Vince, when I spontaneously brought my camera gear to practice one day. It’s not an action shot, like most you see. He’s standing on the mound, head down and hat brim shielding most of his face. He’s looking at the ball in his hand, glove hanging limp by his side. There are a baseman and an outfielder visible in the photo, but too far away to be more than indistinct blurs. I hadn’t meant it to be, but the picture is lonely and a little bit sad. When I’d shown it to Vince, he’d stared at it for a long time before asking for a copy, something indiscernible in his voice.

“Me, too. There’s one of Marcos the Grouch, too. I caught him smiling, Maxy. Photographic proof.”

“I should hang a copy above our mantle,” he jokes, cracking a smile as he looks at me and hands my phone back. “Those are really good, Luke. Are you studying photography, then?”

“Yep.” I fidget with my phone, twirling it around on the table. I reach my free hand over the table and nudge his plate toward him with my fingertips, reminding him that he’s got food to finish. He grimaces, but picks his fork back up. “I’m not good enough to play pro ball, but I’d like to stay involved; I’m going to try and be a sports photographer.”

“Well, anybody who sees those,” he points at my phone as I slip it back into my pocket, “will hire you on the spot.”

“I need to come and do the hockey games. My collection is missing Max Kuemper and I just can’t have that.”

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