Page 37 of Unwritten Rules
“I don’t see how,” Zach says, a little impatiently.
“Throw a fastball,” Eugenio says to Johnson, who waits as if for Zach’s say-so. And Eugenio doesn’t roll his eyes at that or do anything else, but Zach can sense the annoyance in the set of his shoulders, especially when Zach nods to Johnson, who throws a fastball.
“Now a curveball,” Eugenio says; Johnson throws one obediently. “See that.”
Zach doesn’t see much of a difference between the two—his stride or release point or the flap of his glove.
“You’re doing a thing with your delivery.” Eugenio mimes Johnson’s windup and follow-through, though he’s shorter than Johnson by about half a foot, less rangy, so the motion is truncated. “Any decent hitter will be able to tell what’s coming.” He says it in a tone that implies Zach isn’t one, enough to make Zach bristle.
“Here,” Eugenio says, approaching Johnson, “give me your glove.” And Johnson hesitates again.
“You could just tell him what to do,” Zach says.
“Sometimes people don’t believe something will work until you show them.” And Eugenio says it pointedly, more to Zach than to Johnson.
“Sometimes you gotta let people figure things at their own pace,” Zach says before he can stop himself.
“It took a half an hour for you to show me what I was doing wrong with framing, after years of people trying to tell me.” And Eugenio is looking at Zach with the kind of stubborn glare he gets when an umpire doesn’t call a strike his way. “What’s the harm in trying something new?”
Johnson’s glancing between them, turning from one to the other like he’s watching a prolonged at-bat. “Uh, here.” He holds out his glove.
Eugenio takes it, slipping it on. “Your fastball.” And he shapes the glove to his hand. “And your curve. See how that’s different?”
“Uh, I don’t,” Johnson says, either because he doesn’t or out of some misplaced loyalty to Zach.
“See, like this.” And Eugenio moves his hand again.
“Nope, don’t see it,” Zach says, before Johnson can say anything. “And even if there were a difference—and I’m not saying there is—there’s enough variation in his mechanics that no one’s gonna pick up on it.”
“Uh, guys,” Johnson says, “it’s really not a big deal or anything. We can do this tomorrow—”
Eugenio interrupts him. “You sound very sure of that,” he says to Zach.
“I know what I’m doing.” And Zach can hear his own voice rising. “Even if you don’t think I do, I’ve been at this a lot longer than you have.”
“Oh, it’s likethat?” And Eugenio steps closer to Zach, close enough that Zach’s pulse kicks up, closer than they’ve been since that time in the equipment room, chest to chest.
“I think I’ll see y’all later,” Johnson says. There’s the sound of something—the gate to the bullpen swinging closed, Johnson apparently not sticking around long enough to see the resolution of whatever this is.
“You know, you can be pretty determined when it’s something you’re sure of.” Eugenio says it almost teasingly, though his temper is up, color in his cheeks, hands clenched, like they’re gonna come to blows. And he taps Zach once in the shoulder, the blunt pressure of his fingers, a glance, a challenge, one made different from a normal provocation by the way he crowds Zach’s space. By the flicker of possibility in his expression.
“We shouldn’t be doing this out here.”
“Doing what, Zach?” Eugenio’s tone is innocent. But he looks over at the storage structure next to the bullpen, the one they keep buckets of balls and various pieces of equipment in. The one that has its doorway shielded from the rest of the complex by a low awning. “I guess we could go somewhere else.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Too bad. I did.”
“Fuck.” He should step back. Back to the safety of two feet away from Eugenio, back where every breath won’t be a reminder that Zach was the one who saidno. Even if Zach wants to kiss him, to drop to his knees, to cash in every bad decision he’s been saving up all at once.
He should step back—but he doesn’t. “Johnson might be going to get someone,” Zach says.
“You think he’s gonna tell on you?”
“No.” And he’s about to say fuck it and to tell Eugenio to get into the shadows, to find out what he tastes like, if he’ll tug Zach’s hair or tell him how good he is at that when—
There’s noise, a chatter of approaching players crossing the outfield to run drills. It’s enough to deflate the moment, Zach stepping back, Eugenio doing the same, though he reaches and adjusts himself in his shorts, the kind of unthinking motion they all do a hundred times a day, except he watches Zach watch him as he does it.
