Page 16 of Diamond Ring
Jake shoves at his shoulder, high enough that he doesn’t disturb Alex’s steering. “I just get sick of people acting weird about it.”
Alex nods and doesn’t ask the question sitting at the back of his tongue. If he’s beenweirdabout it, though probably not if Jake invited him along. “Yeah, I guess it’s the same with my aunt. People ask if she does witchcraft or whatever.”
“She doesn’t?” Jake does that faux-wide-eyed look he gets when a reporter asks a question that he pretends not to understand rather than answer. His eyelashes catch the noon sunlight.
So Alex laughs and shakes his head and focuses on the cars in front of them as they navigate back to the ballpark.
Jake’s up to pitch the following day. Clubhouse code says don’t disturb a pitcher on the day of his start. Normally something Alex also abides by, but Jake puts on his necklace like he’s daring guys to say something to him. A frown begins to etch its way between his eyebrows when no one does.
“You might get hit in the face with that thing.” Alex says it mostly to razz him, but he also doesn’t want Jake to chip a tooth mid-game.
Jake’s eyes go wide—actual surprise, not his put-on for reporters, mouth parted slightly. “Shit, I didn’t think about that.”
“Here.” Alex reaches for his jersey. Jake normally leaves the top button open, claiming claustrophobia, though in all likelihood it’s because there are a bunch of thirsty posts online about the exact dimensions of his collarbone. Not that Alex reads those. Or agrees.
He runs a finger under the chain—the one he has a strange sense of ownership over, even if it’s around Jake’s neck.Especiallywhen it’s there. Jake has a tan line between the dip of his jersey and the low neck of his undershirt. Alex has seen him shirtless, naked, almost every day of his big-league life, and this feels different. The way meeting Jake’s cousins felt different.
Alex slips the chain around a button, then buttons it. “Now it won’t fly up.”
Jack looks down at his own chest, where Alex’s hand is still resting against the placket of his jersey. “Huh, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
“Our guitarist cut his lip during a gig. We started pinning his necklaces down.” Which Alex did, exasperatedly, practically, and without the low pull in his gut that says he should remove his hand from Jake’s chest.
“Wouldn’t that look pretty sweet for a punk band?” Jake asks.
“You’d think. Mostly just gross.”
Jake makes a comical face.
Alex finally, finally compels his hand to move. “Wasn’t sure if you wanted the pendant out or in.”
“Out’s good. That’s kinda the point.”
Alex looks around at their teammates. “You think someone’s gonna say something?” He probably wouldn’t punch any of them. Well, he wouldn’t punch Gordon, mostly because Gordon wouldn’t say anything. Which is sort of self-fulfilling.
Still, he shadows Jake to the outfield to get warmed up. No one says anything: Not in the dugout. Not as Jake does his stretches. Not as he and Alex and the bullpen guys stand, hats off, for the anthem and presentation of colors.
Jake has on hisWe’re in front of a crowdsmile, a flash of orthodontically straightened teeth—and Alex has seen the embarrassing high school photos to prove it. He shifts his shoulders like he’s trying to catch his pendant in the outfield lights.
Alex decides to help him out. “Hey, Fischer, careful you don’t put someone’s eye out with that.”
Jake laughs, delightedly, then grabs his cup, adjusting it with an enthusiasm that makes Alex roll his eyes. “I’ll be careful where I swing it.”
“Ambitious,” Alex says, mostly to watch Jake crack up, then begins the long trudge toward home plate.
“Hey”—Jake jogs beside him, sounding slightly breathless even if Alex’s seen him do wind sprints that would put their outfielders to shame—“thanks.”
And Alex drops his catcher’s mask down over his face so that Jake’s the only one who can see him smile.
After the game—an easy win where Jake mowed through the Bluebonnets’ lineup—reporters cluster around Jake’s stall. He answers their questions, stripped to his low-necked undershirt, necklace against his sweat-slick collarbone. Alex mostly is fine with beingfriendsand nothing else, but Jake’s red-mouthed, slightly disheveled. Overheated. Or maybe that’s Alex.
“Let’s go out,” Jake says, when the reporters have all gone wherever they go after haranguing answers out of them.
Jake changed into an actual collared shirt, like he doesn’t want to go to their usual bar. Something nicer than the T-shirt Alex has on, though Jake adds, “That shrink in the wash, Angelides?” in a way that doesn’t sound like a complaint.
They end up at a bar in downtown Oakland with exposed brick, purple lighting, and a soundtrack Jake twice describes asbumpin’, even after Alex laughs at him the first time.
Jake gets served immediately, possibly because the bartender recognizes him, possibly because of the smile he throws at her. He hands Alex a beer then drinks from his own gin and tonic, grimacing at it.
