Page 54 of Unwritten Rules
Eugenio smiles, though there’s a perplexed crease between his eyebrows. He lowers his voice. “Zach, of course we’re together.”
And Zach can’t look at him for a second, instead focusing on the skyline across Bay; the fog is burning off, the city ready to admit the morning sunshine. “Oh,” he says, finally. And he’s a little overwhelmed, unsure of what to do. So he reaches for Eugenio’s forearm, wrapping his hand around it and squeezing twice. “Okay.”
Stephanie corners him after the game. It’s an ugly loss, one where Hayek and Eugenio never really got on the same page; one where Hayek and anything like pitch command never got on the same page. He walked two batters in the first inning and another two in the second, and even the best framer in the world couldn’t make what he was throwing look like strikes. The kind of ugly baseball loss that Eugenio is answering for next to his stall, reporters’ phones and recording devices stuck in his face.
Stephanie is almost as tall as Eugenio, at least in the wedges she’s currently wearing; her hair is bright pink this week. She’s also smiling. Or, Zach revises, showing her teeth. “I hear that you’re gonna be in Morales’s rookie profile.”
“I don’t need to be, if that’s a problem.”
“I think it’s a great idea. Two Oakland catchers who’re hitting the cover off the ball, one who’s maybe gonna be rookie of the year and the other whoBaseball Prospectusis busting a nut over.”
Eugenio being part of the R-O-Y chatter isn’t surprising: his performance this season is turning heads. Zach hasn’t heard anything much about himself other than that a few beat writers, and his mother, noticed his reduced playing time. “They’re what?”
“I didn’t actually read all the gory math details, but the short version is, yes, pitch framing, good. I can send you the article if you want.”
The cluster of reporters around Eugenio begins to disperse. Even though it’s only about nine o’clock, he looks like he’s going to fall asleep against his stall, un-showered and still in his uniform pants, shadows under his eyes.
“When did you say this was happening?” Zach asks. “The profile, I mean?”
“Thursday.” She amends it to, “After this series. It’s weird how you guys never know what day of the week it is.”
“I thought today was Thursday, with it being a day game and all.”
Zach’s been at Gordon’s condo maybe a dozen times during the season. Once, the first time he gave Eugenio a ride back from the ballpark, and Eugenio insisted he come up for the tour, which mostly consisted of them making out in the overdecorated living room, Eugenio’s back pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Another time early in the season Eugenio cooked for him: shredded beef with black beans, rice, and plantains, and another tarte tatin.
“I don’t actually know how to make many other desserts,” he admitted, and laughed when Zach laughed, and kissed Zach when Zach kissed him. Zach slept over and woke up to Eugenio in the kitchen, and he slid Zach a cup of coffee and a plate with leftover tarte.
“You were right,” Zach said, stomach warmed from the coffee and from the way Eugenio kissed him on the side of his neck in greeting. “It is better for breakfast.”
The condo itself is a converted loft space, big open floor plan, a kitchen that even Eugenio agrees is oversized, marble countertops and an island the size of a continent. A decorator’s sense of what a young guy with a lot of money wants a place to look like: chrome, succulents, a robust multitiered entertainment center, and an enormous television.
Stephanie encouraged Eugenio to get a cleaning service to fix the place up, which he didn’t. But when she gets there, holding two cups of coffee, both of which are for her, she looks around. “This looks great. Like a real human being lives here.”
She still insists on doing a walkthrough, pausing at Eugenio’s bedroom. “They’re bringing a photographer, so put away your bongs and whatever.”
The room is mostly occupied by a king-sized bed that Eugenio and Zach sometimes share. A few of Eugenio’s things sit out on the nightstand: phone charger, a book he borrowed from Zach that Zach hasn’t read, a tub of Vicks VapoRub he sometimes uses if his hips are sore after a game. And Zach wishes he swept his own things into the nightstand drawer, because there’s a phone charger on his side of the bed, a graphic novel that he’s reading. He stands there, feeling sweat bloom in the blast of the aggressive air conditioning, like Stephanie is going to ask about them. She doesn’t.
They sit in the living room, Zach and Eugenio on opposite sides of a miles-long sectional, while Stephanie runs them through do’s and don’ts.
“Fans love hearing about players’ friendships. If you’re out golfing together or whatever the G-rated version of picking up girls together is or whatever, be sure to mention it. Just—” she looks from Zach to Eugenio, as if expecting to be disappointed “—keep it clean.”
“Is there a set of questions or anything they’ve sent in advance?” Eugenio says.
Stephanie shakes her head. “Sorry, no canned answers. But we can run through a few things if you’re feeling apprehensive.”
“Okay,” Zach says, “um, shoot.”
She asks them a series of rapid-fire questions.
What they most admire in each other’s game. “His patience at the plate,” Zach says, as Eugenio says Zach’s game-calling skills.
What they like about playing on the same team. “Getting to plan our approach to opposing hitters together,” Eugenio says. Zach agrees, hoping his face doesn’t give away what they usually do after late-night game-planning sessions on the road.
What they learned from one another over the course of the season.
And Zach is expecting Eugenio to say something like when to call for a slider or what to do in a two-strike count. “He always has time for other players, especially the younger pitchers on our staff,” Eugenio says. “Just to have that kind of patience, especially when I’m feeling frustrated. That’s something I’ve learned.”
