Page 105 of Unwritten Rules
“Zach, you’ve been coaching for years.” Eugenio wipes his hands on a dish towel. “Of course you’d be good at it. Probably have guys all over the league asking to work with you. The guy who fixed Will Johnson’s curveball. Hell, the guy who mademe.”
“Yeah, I hear you’re pretty good.” He laughs when Eugenio taps him on the arm.
“But if you want to keep playing, you should,” Eugenio says. “I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret. Fuck ’em if they can’t deal with you as you are.”
“Oh yeah? That’s how that is?”
“You think no one ever says shit to me about my nails? Or about flipping my bat or doing the hundred other things that make the old boys’ club angry? That I don’t know what they mean when they talk about ‘playing the game the right way’? That they’re still surprised I know how to read a scouting report, like my parents don’t both have PhDs? And even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter.” He shakes his head.
And Zach considers how many times he saw that happen in Oakland, the grim line of Eugenio’s mouth pressed into neutrality when some umpire called him hotheaded, or a reporter mispronounced his name, or he got forced into being an interpreter because the team was too cheap to get one.
“Henry says I need to be prepared for people not to be cool about this,” Zach says. “For people to take time, or to cut off contact. That some guys might not want to share a clubhouse with me. That the team might look for reasons not to renew my contract.”
“Some of that happened when I told the Gothams. But less than I thought it would from the other players. Some of the older coaches were assholes, but it turns out, when your star player doesn’t want to work with you, you have to figure your shit out.”
“I’m not exactly a star.”
“You were an all-star this year. It was fairly memorable.”
“Being a good player on a bad team isn’t the same,” Zach says. “Besides, there’s not a huge market out there for aging catchers.”
“It’s more a question of what you want.”
“I want this,” Zach says, quickly, easily, gesturing between them. “I’ve seen what the other side of it looks like. I know what’s important to me now. I don’t want to break any more promises to you. Or to myself.”
“Promise me you’ll think about it.” Eugenio says it with unexpected ferocity. “That you’re not just going to let them win.”
“Let who win?”
“The Union. The league. New York sports media. Any of them.”
“It’s not really my choice.” But that feels wrong too, the same kind of powerlessness he felt in Oakland, overmatched by the team and the league and his own fears. “But if it’s a problem, I won’t be quiet about it either. If not to the public, at least with other players. Guys should know about the kinds of teams they’re signing with.”
Eugenio kisses him then, a lingering kiss. His mouth tastes like the tea they drank. He wraps his hands around Zach’s forearms, and he squeezes once, again, before releasing them. “You know, I think we waited a couple years to have this conversation.”
“We did,” Zach says. “I wish I could have figured this all out sooner.”
Eugenio leans in, kissing him again, this time with more intention. “Come to bed.”
“The dishes—” Because Eugenio has opinions about going to sleep with plates and glasses still in the sink.
“They’ll wait. I’m done waiting.”
“Yeah,” Zach says, “me too.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Before we, uh, get started,” Zach says, “I wanted to mention something.”
It’s midafternoon, in mid-September, and he’s in a conference room high up in Union Stadium with Maritza, Stephanie’s video-call displayed on the large monitor.
“Okay,” Maritza says, though her eyes are narrowed. On screen, Stephanie’s making the same face at him.
“Hypothetically speaking,” Zach says, “if the team found out that a player was, uh, not exactly straight, what would happen?”
“Zach,” Stephanie says, “if you don’t want to have this conversation here—”
Maritza interrupts. “Hypothetically? Nothing.”
