Page 59 of Honeysuckle
Ritchie bulleted past me onto second and Louis wasn’t ready.
“Second!” I barked, but instead of putting his glove up, Louis turned to look at me. “What are you doing?” I pointed as the ball ripped past him, bouncing hard into the sand and rebounding upward toward Josh’s glove.
He turned on his heel, but it was too late for Taylor on third.
Ritchie was gone, cheering and hollering from home as he scored the first run off the first bat. I shook out the frustration, slapping my hand into my glove a few times.
“It’s alright just…” I huffed and got louder for them, “talk to each other!” I ordered. Louis gave me a pained look that was more of a silent apology than anything else.
The instruction fell on deaf ears. We let in another three runs before Josh found his groove and managed to shut down batters in the box with some strikes.
The guys were frustrated, and rightfully so; Philly was mocking us with loud laughter and big smiles. They were under our skin and it showed.
“Alright, hold up.” I shoved Cael back down into the dugout, even though he was called to bat. “We didn’t come out here to let some last place team push us around. Start communicating. I don’t care if you’re screaming about the grass tickling your fucking ankles, just give something more than silence!”
“Yes, Cap.” Cael tapped his chest, his voice booming through the dugout, and scooted past me to take lead off while the rest of them swallowed the order.
With Cael’s boisterous cooperation, the team seemed to find their footing. Nerves had taken the first half of the inning, but it was clear they weren’t going down without a fight.
We scored to even the game and took the field again; out of breath and riding on adrenaline. The communication that had formed so stiffly at spring camp reappeared, and as the game went on we worked out the kinks. Cael and Josh became a single thought, contributing to nearly half the outs between the two of them.
It was in the second half of the game when things started to go downhill. Down a single run and in desperate need of a winning push, Philly started to get chippy.
Noah Hudson was up to bat, a second string shortstop with a violent attitude and a habit of running squeeze plays. With a player on third, it was clear what was about to happen. Josh flicked his dark eyes to me, and I knew he was on the same page as he leaned back and let go of the ball in a straight, fast line toward Hudson’s bat.
The bunt dropped toward Josh’s feet, but he scooped it up fast and threw it even quicker to force the ball in my direction. I caught it before Hudson could blink and tagged him out as I hurled the ball toward Jensen.
“Out!” The ump called twice, back to back, and the diamond erupted.
“Nice catch, faggot,” Hudson growled from beside me, and my entire body seized up at the sound. I had become desensitized to the word, but in sports it was everywhere. Especially when guys got angry. It was what we were raised on; our dads used it, theirs before them. It was as common as asshole and prick, but it felt worse.
Most ignored it, brushed it off, but for me, it sank deep into my bones and reminded me that they thought I was disgusting, that they saw me as nothing more than something to tease each other about. My sexuality, my life–I was a slur to them, not a human. It was the first word they went for, and there was nothing I could do against it, because if I argued it, then Iwasone.
“What the fuck did you say to him?” Josh stepped off the mound as Hudson started back to his dugout, and I remained silent. My shoulders were pinned back as I tried to ignore how the slur rolled down my spine.
“Piss off, Logan!” Hudson waved him off and kept walking, but Josh wasn’t satisfied with the answer and picked up his pace.
His hand wrapped around the back of Hudson’s jersey and tugged him backwards. “What did you say?” He snarled, as Hudson shoved him off.
“I said, nice catchfa—-”
Hudson wasn’t given the chance to finish his sentence. The word died on his lips as the sound of flesh on flesh echoed out, followed by a quick, nasty crunch.
“You’re not so tough with a mouthful of blood. Say it again, pussy!” Josh demanded as Hudson attempted a retaliation swing. The ump tried to get between them but the dugouts flooded onto the field and soon both teams were locked in a massive, uncontrollable fist fight, fueled by the chanting of a bloodthirsty crowd.
Coach was the first to interject himself, grabbing Van by the waist as Arlo caught Cael by the collar of his jersey and dragged him back.
“Go!” he barked at Cael, who had a thick stream of blood running down from his nose, filling his smile and making it red.
“Dean!” Cael yelled over Arlo’s shoulder, spitting the collection of blood in his mouth to the dirt. "Dean!” He yelled again when I didn’t move. “Get him!” He demanded and Arlo turned around to find me frozen.
“Go.” He shoved Cael’s chest, causing him to stumble back on his feet, but he listened and grabbed Baker by the jersey, pushing him toward the dugout.
“Hey, Tucker.” Arlo’s hand slapped against my neck and gripped me tightly to break me out of my dissociation. "Snap out of it, dumbass, before you get smacked around!”
I wanted to, but my eyes stayed on Josh—still looming over Hudson, still swinging, and I knew I couldn’t leave. I pushed past Arlo and shoved through the violent mess of players to get to Josh. I grabbed him roughly by the arms, hauling him off Hudson as he fought against me until he realized who it was and he kicked away, brushing himself off.
“Get off me!” He snapped, shoving me back.
