Page 40 of Unwritten Rules
“We’ll see each other.” And Zach pulls him into a back-thumping hug and hopes like hell that, when they do, it isn’t this season in Nashville.
Zach waits on his couch that evening for news of their roster announcements, for his phone to flash an alert to tell him where to report, the big leagues or triple-A. Waits, with an impatience he tried to quash all spring, a mounting restlessness that keeps him from concentrating on whatever movie’s playing on TV, eyes skimming the captions without comprehension, only a vague sense of plot. He reads, or tries to, but the colors of the comic book pixelate, worry overtaking his pulse.
While he waits, he recounts all of spring training: the extra hours with Johnson, fixing his tipping, his curveball, his confidence. The time with Eugenio that never really felt like work.
And if Zach’s sent to the minors or shipped off in a trade, never to see him again, except in passing, there’s a question he can’t unknot: Will it have been worth it? To sayno, to say,we can’t? To settle for the meager things baseball will definitely let him have, rather than the possibility of what he might?
An alert appears. Zach swipes at it frantically before seeing that it’s Morgan checking in to see if the team posted the roster. She sends a series of emojis when he says they haven’t.I’m not supposed to say anything but I hope you make it.
He opens the thread he has with Eugenio, the one where Zach told him tocome overand Eugenio did, bringing food, standing in Zach’s kitchen, the one he’s leaving tomorrow. And he considers what he could say in the plainness of a text message, the kind that could get leaked if someone got into his phone. About what he would say to him, if they were face to face, in the bullpen or in the safety of Zach’s apartment, a mere hallway from his rented bed.
Can I come over,he texts Eugenio.
There’s a pause, a long one. Then:Did you mean to send this to someone else?
And Zach’s hands are a little unsteady as he typesno.
Another pause. Eugenio sends his address, one to a rental complex about ten minutes away.
It’s a short drive, early in the evening, the light beginning to go. Zach could stop at one of the grocery stores along the road, bright signs advertising liquor, but doesn’t know what he would get. If he’d have the courage to keep driving in the same direction or if he’d just slink back to his rented apartment to spend one final unsatisfying night there.
Eugenio’s rental complex is laid out more or less the way Zach’s is, buildings seated in a circle, a patio off to one side. His truck is sitting in the parking lot, recognizable from a college decal stuck in its back window. Each building is divided into units, a set of stairs up to the second story, an upper porch with a railing. And Eugenio leans against one, smoking a cigarette, its orange tip glowing in the twilight, though he straightens when he sees Zach.
“Hey,” Zach calls from the asphalt. He climbs the stairs when Eugenio waves him up.
He’s standing at the corner of the railing next to the last unit, front door propped open, though there’s a screen door that’s shut. Light sifts through it onto the porch, a wedge of darkness in one corner. Eugenio stubs his cigarette out on the porch railing, before dropping the butt in a cup of water next to him.
“You were right,” Zach says, “about the thing with Johnson’s curveball.”
“I know.” Though there’s no heat to it. Behind him, the sun’s sinking, casting the mountains in shadow and it’s hard to read his expression in the half-light. “Is that what you came over to tell me?”
Zach shakes his head. “He got sent to Nashville. He did everything they could’ve asked for, and they still sent him down. And I just told him he has to live with it. I don’t know what I’ll do if they do the same thing to me. Or to you.”
Zach lets that hang there for a moment between them, trying to find the rest of the words he’s come here to say. “That’s what you asked me. If I ever wanted something so much it feels like it’s choking me. And I’m just sick of it all, of having to push down everything I want in order to play this game.”
His throat tightens, voice shaking. Eugenio stands a few paces off, an unconquerable distance away. Zach picks up one foot, and then the other, slow, like Eugenio might get spooked.
He doesn’t say anything, though, not when Zach stands, hands gripping the railing on either side of him. And not even when Zach says, “Please,” before leaning in. When Zach touches their foreheads together, when they’re breathing the same air, Eugenio’s chest against his. “I just wanted to see you.”
“Is that all you want?” And it’s low, warm, challenging.
“No, that’s not all.”
And Zach cannot kiss him, not standing out here, in full view of whoever else is staying at this complex.
Something Eugenio also registers, guiding them like they’re dancing into the shadow at the edge of the porch. “Is here okay?” Eugenio looks around, his face shaded by the evening darkness.
“Yes,” Zach says, to Eugenio’s question and to the feel of Eugenio’s hand tracing his jaw, the tilt of his mouth toward Zach’s.
Their phones interrupt them. Eugenio reaches for his as Zach does the same, pulling it from his pocket. He has to tap it a few times to get it to open, scanning down the list of names.
There’s a forty-man roster, names bolded for players who’ll make the opening-day team in Oakland. Zach’s name, in bold, Eugenio’s under it, also bolded.
Frannie isn’t listed. Until Zach sees an announcement about the coaching staff, that he was hired as a catching coordinator with their double-A affiliate in Midland.
“We made it,” Zach says. And he reaches for Eugenio, to kiss him in celebration, in relief, when Eugenio puts a hand on his chest, stilling him.
“We shouldn’t do this. Not out here.” And he opens the door, waiting for Zach to follow him before securing the lock.
