Page 115 of Diamond Ring
October
Jake
The press room at Gothams Stadium is longer than it is wide, media condensed into a few confrontational rows. Jake pulls his chair back, adjusts his mic. Next to him, Alex sits, doing the same, hands steady on the tabletop. Jake gets the urge to cover Alex’s hand with his own, to interlace their fingers before a reporter has a chance to ask. Instead he uncaps a nearby water bottle. Waits.
The first question comes predictably from theEast Bay Tribune, the same reporter who dutifully printed his and Alex’s clubhouse spat a decade ago. “Given your history with the team, what does it mean for each of you to get this win?”
An easy question, even with the unspokenfinallyaccompanying it.
“Ten years is a long time to think about things,” Jake says, because why not clear that particular elephant out of the room. “I’m not the same person I was when we lost, and neither is Alex. I spent a long time being afraid of what losing meant. That I’d failed. Thatwe’dfailed. Maybe I’m being excessively sentimental, or maybe I’m just a little drunk”—that at least gets a laugh from the assembled press—“but turns out the only expectations I really need to meet are my own. And maybe Alex’s.”
He nudges Alex with his shoulder and gets the tilt of a smile before continuing. “People are easy to love when they’re winning. This game is easy to love when it’s going well. When I first got called up, I thought that’s how my life was going to be. It wasn’t.”
Another laugh, this one less easy.
“I had to let go of that. So some of what I’m feeling now is gratitude, and some of it’s excitement, and some of it is figuring out that the stuff that really matters isn’t what gets posted in the box score. Or written up in an article.” The last said slightly acidly, even if the reporter just nods.
Alex taps the mic sitting in front of him. “Jake’s always been better at talking than I am. But, yeah, what he said.”
“Angelides,” another reporter asks, “there’ve been some noises that this is your last year.”
Alex shrugs. “Seems like. Don’t think I’m gonna get quite the party Gordon is, but that’s fine with me.”
“Any plans for your retirement?”
Alex covers his mic, then tips back in his chair and turns to Jake. “We could tell them,” Alex says.
Jake expects his throat to go dry, for a wave of adrenaline to spike through his system, knowing that once it’s out there, he can’t ever get it back. Instead he feels calm. No matter what happens, when they get up and walk out, it’ll be on their own terms. With that, a slight impatience, one that Alex has had for months, to descend from the game into the rest of their lives.
The twin weights of his necklaces sit under his shirt. He reaches for them, not the desperate grab he does from anxiety, but as a reminder that sometimes things go well.
Alex still has his hand over the mic. He eases it off at Jake’s nod, smiling as Jake does the same.
“For my retirement,” Alex says, “might celebrate. Definitely gonna sleep. Then probably go wherever Jake is.” A statement met by a slightly inquisitive silence, aDoes he mean...?no one is bold enough to voice.
“Fischer, how about you?” another reporter asks.
“What Alex said.” Jake smiles, then adds, “We mean together-together.” A pause. “Uh, romantically, just to be clear.”
“Jake”—Alex sounds on the verge of laughter—“I think they get it.”
Another silence, this one of ledes sighingly being rewritten, though it’s possible the press has managed all the news they can reasonably fit: the team’s championship, Gordon’s retirement, Braxton’s announcement, leaving Alex and him a footnote. “How long have you been together?” one asks, the way a friend might over casual drinks.
“A few months,” Jake says. “This time around.”
Next to him, Alex goes a faint pink.
“I’m gonna stop talking now,” Jake adds, then immediately contradicts himself. “I know Braxton’s been thinking about this for a while. I just want him to know—for everyone to know—that he’s not alone. That there are a lot of us who feel like they can’t play this game with our whole selves for whatever reason. Putting a uniform on shouldn’t mean diminishing who we are. Gordon once told me the game could be stingy. But what if it wasn’t—not like that, at least?” He draws back. “Okay, now I’ll stop talking.”
Another elastic silence finally interrupted by a reporter. “Angelides, anything to add?”
Alex pushes out his chair, then gives the room a long look before leaning into the mic. “Yeah, print that.”
He puts out his hand, awaiting Jake’s, who slides them together.
“C’mon,” Alex says, “we’ve got a party to attend. I hear it’s gonna be epic.”
Epilogue
