Page 57 of Diamond Ring
“You feeling all right?” Alex asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Fastball’s looking a little soft.”
Jake’s expression tightens even further. “My arm is fine.”
“Either you’re hurt and lying to me about it”—Alex glances around to make the point that they’re not here alone—“or you’re holding back.”
He’s seen Jake fired up on the mound, annoyed by reporters, drunk and morose after their Fall Classic loss. Little prepares him for the subtle flare of Jake’s nostrils. “Yeah, I don’t exactly enjoy fucking up.” Said with anger in his voice, sparking Alex’s pulse.
And Alex wants to drag the truth out of him and his mouth across Jake’s chest. A complicated set of emotions to be having in a makeshift bullpen when it’s barely noon. “You’re pitching like you’re scared,” Alex says.
Jake doesn’t bother to hide his irritation, his pitching hand curling into a half-formed fist, nails digging visibly into his palm. “Already had to see one bullshit psychologist this week. Don’t need a second. Going max effort won’t do anything other than bust up my elbow.” He glares at Alex as he tacks on an, “Again.”
Which, fuck.Fuck. “If your arm’s getting in the way of you pitching, maybe you shouldn’t be pitching.”
Jake rocks back on his heels. “Wow, Angelides, don’t hold back on my account.”
“I just meant you should take care of yourself.”
“What do you think I’m doing? If I pitch how I want to, then my body busts out and there goes my career. If I don’t, there goes my career anyway.”
“So try something else.”
Jake laughs, an unamused laugh. “Right. Just fix myself. Got it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it? You’ve been pissed at me for ten years. Probably make your life easier if I wasn’t in it.”
“I’m not—” Alex begins, but Jake’s already tossing balls back into the bucket, even if a clubhouse attendant will do that for them.
“You can tell the team you tried,” Jake says. “Tell ’em I was being hardheaded. It doesn’t fucking matter.” And he doesn’t wait for Alex’s response before walking off, shaking his head, muttering about how he really could use a drink.
Alex doesn’t consider himself a particularly nostalgic person, but it’s hard not to feel a wave ofsomethingas he walks into the bar where Jake and he used to drink. A wash of memories that have a slightly sepia tint, even if they occurred just a few iPhone models ago. He half expects the place to look the same, as if it’s been preserved under glass, the bartenders frozen mid-pour in the time he’s been gone.
The bar has the same buffed-up surface, but a low murmur of patrons replaces its previous top-forty-and-yell soundtrack, like it’s gotten older with him. Most of what’s on tap are IPAs. Alex drank a lot of terrible beer at punk shows and in the minors, then an increasing amount of decent beer before becoming slightly a wine guy—because baseball players are wine and scotch guys. He can endure a floral microbrew for an evening if it’ll mean a good date.
Which is what this is—his first since Eric that’s really more than a check to see if the other guy’s not catfishing him or whatever.
Of course, he’s not exactly sure who he’s looking for because they haven’t exchanged photos of their faces. Alex has enough to deal with without the grief of what’d happen if screenshots leaked online, even if Ben seems trustworthy. Even if Ben sent a bunch of sex toy listings and asked in a slightly vain flirtatious way if Alex wanted to see him use them, to which Alex sent a bald, unvarnished yes.
Ben also seems similarly hesitant about sending face pictures, but said he was tall. “Like 6'4" or 6'5",” a height that’s the line of demarcation where guys stop lying about it.
And there’s also that picture, the long stretch of Ben’s torso with his hand wrapped around his own throat that’s practically burned itself into Alex’s consciousness in the past few days. For that picture, Alex can drink a beer that tastes like potpourri and tell himself he won’t be disappointed if Ben’s real-life presence doesn’t live up to his online one, a disappointment on top of the earlier argument that ended with Jake storming out.
Jake—who’s now walking through the entrance to the bar, andfuck.
They could pretend not to see each other. But Jake is possibly taller than when they first played together, especially among people not built to the scale of ballplayers. He spots Alex, nodding. An empty barstool sits next to Alex, with no others around.
Jake approaches warily, like Alex is going to restart their fight. “You mind if I sit here?”
Alex shifts over. “I’m waiting on a friend. I guess he’s running late.”
Jake’s eyebrows go up atfriend. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone too.” But he folds himself onto the barstool, signaling for the bartender. It’s possible they’re about to have the world’s weirdest double date. It’s possible Alex will be forced to undergo the same scene he did ten years ago: Jake flirting with someone who’s not him, someone with better knees and a better temperament.
“I already have a tab open,” Alex says, “if you want to put something on it.”
