Page 86 of Unwritten Rules
Eugenio laughs, and it fills the courtyard, laughs even harder when Zach swings and misses on a bottlecap that dips so low it bounces off the grass, skidding to a stop near him. “That makes two of us, I guess,” Eugenio says.
“You want to switch?”
“Sure.”
“Okay but show me how I’m supposed to throw this first.”
“It’s just a side-arm motion.” But Eugenio comes up next to him, where Zach is holding one of the bottle caps from a pile, hand wrapped around Zach’s, the other at his waist, like Zach didn’t throw a baseball more than a hundred times tonight returning them back to the mound. “See, like this.” And he presses two fingers down, between the bottle cap in Zach’s hand and the dip of his palm.
“You’re wearing your old cologne,” Zach says.
“Yeah, I quit smoking. I don’t know if that’s a dealbreaker.”
“I was gonna kiss you. If that’s okay.”
The courtyard lights reflect off Eugenio’s glasses, and his mouth is soft against Zach’s, lips parting, hands coming up on Zach’s sides, fervent, gripping, like he might not let go. “You know,” Eugenio says, pulling back, adjusting his glasses where they went a little crooked, “you’re not getting out of pitching to me.”
“It’s almost two in the morning.”
“Well, if you’re afraid of being embarrassed.”
“Oh, it’s like that, Morales?” Zach flings a bottle cap at where he abandoned the broomstick in the grass. “Let’s do this. Get in the box.”
Eugenio reaches for the stick, shaking it to dislodge whatever Florida critters have attached themselves. He assumes a parody of his normal batting stance, stick resting on his shoulder, adjusting his hips in anticipation. “It’s the bottom of the ninth inning, game seven of the World Series, and, folks, it all comes down to this,” he says, in a fake announcer voice. “The New York City Gothams against their bitter rivals, the Miami Swordfish.”
“We can’t both be in the series. Because of that thing where we play in the same league.”
“Look, who’s the commentator here? Two-time all-star, three-time Silver Slugger finalist, and the player most likely to work for Food Network, Eugenio Morales comes to the plate. On the mound, his archnemesis—his old flame...throwing teammate, Zach Glasser.”
“I don’t get an intro?” Zach asks. “It only works if it’s a fair matchup.”
“One-time all-star, two-time Gold Glove consideration, and the catcher with the best game-calling skills in affiliated ball, the Pitcher Whisperer himself, Zach Glasser.”
“See, that’s better.” Zach picks up a bottle cap and tosses it to Eugenio, an easy flick of his wrist.
“Here’s the windup and the pitch. It’s a changeup from the look of it, and—” Eugenio swings, hitting the edge of the bottle cap, which ricochets off the stick and right into the dirt “—strike one.”
Zach tosses him another, and Eugenio swings again, missing entirely, twisting around and going to his knees. “Strike two,” Zach supplies.
“Don’t get cocky on me now, Glasser.” He resumes his batting stance, staring Zach down in an exaggerated version of the look he uses to intimidate opposing pitchers, though it’s tempered by a grin. “And it’s all down to this, the game on the line. One strike away from Miami’s improbable postseason run, from the depths of a—what’s Miami’s record?”
“Forty-four and sixty-one. We are forty-four and sixty-one.”
“Shit, that’s really bad. From the depths of a forty-four-win, sixty-one-loss season, they might ascend to baseball’s highest peaks, Morales’s bat the only thing standing in their way.”
“Can I throw now? Or do you want to keep talking?”
Eugenio laughs. “Let’s see it.”
Zach winds up, then fires the bottle cap. It flutters through the air, and Eugenio swings, swings and makes solid contact, with all the strength of a big-league hitter, the cap flying up up up and out of the courtyard, far enough that Zach can’t see where it lands or if it even comes down at all.
“He’s done it,” Eugenio says. “Tie game, tie game.”
He runs, arms up in victory, tagging a set of flower planters, then the concrete edge of the fountain, then toeing the shrubs, before returning to where he was standing at “home plate,” Zach there and waiting for him. Eugenio throws his hands to the sky, and when he brings them down, they’re around Zach.
“You haven’t won yet,” Zach says.
“Yeah, Zach, we’ve won.” And he tugs the front of Zach’s shirt, until Zach leans down, pressing their lips together, Eugenio’s tongue an encouragement in his mouth, his hands an insistence at Zach’s sides.
