Page 87 of Unwritten Rules
It rained earlier; the courtyard smells like grass and water. Eugenio kisses the way he had in Cincinnati, in Oakland, that first night in Arizona when he brought Zach into the safety of his apartment and the shelter of his bed. Now, standing here under the shine of the halogen yellow lights, the night-flying birds are their only witnesses, crying out to the city beyond the courtyard walls as if bearing news.
“That was a good piece of hitting.” Zach says, a few minutes later, reluctantly pulling back.
“Well, you did throw me one right up the middle.” Eugenio is smiling, bright as the courtyard lights behind him, Zach feeling equally lit from within.
“There’s a reason I’m not a pitcher.” Sounds begin to intrude, the city around them reasserting itself. Zach pulls his phone from his pocket, checking the time. “It’s probably late. I don’t know if they’re gonna care you were out.”
“It’s fine as long as I show up to play,” Eugenio says. “But I should probably get back. I wouldn’t want you all to go forty-five and sixty-one. Then we might really have something to worry about.”
“Um, do you mind if—” Zach pulls out his phone. “I just don’t have a lot of pictures of us.” They squeeze together, Zach extending an arm to aim the camera, their faces reflected in its screen. He hands the phone to Eugenio to review after he’s taken a burst of them. “Any of these look okay?”
“This one.” Eugenio holds up the phone and snaps a picture of them, kissing Zach’s cheek, glasses against his cheekbone. A glancing playful kiss, both their faces fully visible. “I mean, if you’re okay with it.”
“Do you want me to text it to you?” Zach asks, and he does when Eugenio nods.
They go back into the restaurant, where Vladimir is sitting at one of the tables, smoking a cigarette and looking over a pile of receipts. “I haven’t paid,” Zach says.
Eugenio looks a little guilty. “I gave him my card when you got up earlier.”
There’s a brown grocery bag next to Vladimir. In it, two clear plastic takeout containers, slices of cake sitting on white paper doilies. Vladimir says something to Eugenio in Spanish and then waves his hand, shooing them out.
“What’d he say?” Zach says as they’re getting into his truck.
“That I should let him know the next time the Gothams play here, that he’ll come and make us better food than we can get in New York.”
“I thought he might have seen us, when we were—you know.”
“He also said for you to work on your vitilla skills for when you play in the winter league. And that you can’t strike out so much.”
“I’m really trying not to,” Zach says.
Eugenio laughs as Zach navigates his truck into the road. It’s late enough that there isn’t much traffic. Zach doesn’t bother to pull up directions, one hand on the wheel, the other on his center console. He wraps his fingers around Eugenio’s, not knowing how to bear being even a cup holder’s distance apart. Won’t know how to bear it when Eugenio leaves, flying to wherever the game takes him next.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Zach says, when he drops Eugenio off at the team hotel.
Eugenio doesn’t remind him that they’re playing against each other in less than eighteen hours. “See you tomorrow.” He kisses Zach goodbye, once, then again, before getting out.
Zach drives back to his apartment, rolling down the back window, admitting the warm night breeze. And even though he’s a few miles from the beach, he still can smell the ocean.
Chapter Twenty-Five
They play the next night, and it’s a blowout game, the kind that goes to shit quickly and never recovers, Miami’s starter pulled after three innings, a succession of progressively worse relievers there to clean up the mess. The Gothams hit and hit and hit, eighteen hits in total, and Zach counts them from where he’s sitting on the bench, having been rested for the night and not volunteering to go in when it’s clear the game isn’t worth the effort.
Eugenio’s behind the plate for the Gothams. He calls a good game—not that it matters against Miami’s limp bats—and Zach waves off the beat reporters’ attempts to cajole an answer out of him other than that you win some and lose some and that’s baseball.
There’s a text waiting on his phone when he gets done showering, one that just says,Ready?and another that says,Hungry?and Zach replies that he’s both.
“You’re in a hurry,” Womack says as he’s leaving. Zach shrugs and doubles his pace. The entrance to the players’ parking lot has one of those curved mirrors for seeing around corners. When Zach looks up at his reflection, he’s smiling.
Eugenio’s already there, less dressed up than he was the night before, jeans and a T-shirt that shows off his body, one that’d be obscene in Indiana and that’s conservative in Miami.
Zach hugs him, a longer hug than the day before, long enough that Eugenio says, “Some of us actually played today and are missing the postgame spread.”
“I figured we could order delivery or something.” Zach pulls away reluctantly. “What’re you in the mood for?”
And Eugenio laughs and says, “Zach, get in the truck,” and they drive out of the lot together, Zach’s windows unsealed to the night breeze.
It’s a short drive back to Zach’s apartment. They’re almost there when he turns off the main road, up through his neighborhood and into the parking lot of one of the marinas lining Biscayne Bay. There’s a park across the street, walking paths and manicured trees, the bay lapping beyond it, streetlights spilling on the dark water.
