Page 9 of Diamond Ring
“I guess you gotta rebel somehow.”
“That wasn’t really me rebelling.” Because Sofia drove him to shows in her ancient, rattling Volvo, and didn’t mind when he came out reeking of cheap beer and cigarettes. “Baseball kind of was.”
Jake’s eyebrows go up. He takes a drink of beer, foam decorating his lip that he licks off.
Which shouldn’t do it for Alex at all, but somehow does. He sips his own beer and gears up for this conversation. “My aunt and her girlfriend are kind of nontraditional.” He braces for Jake’s reaction. Guys can be weird about any number of things, though Jake doesn’t seem like he would be. Still, Alex waits to see if he’ll need to overturn a beer on his head or tell him to fuck off. The team probably doesn’t want Alex to deck their star pitcher, but hey, sometimes guys slip and Alex’s fist ends up in their faces.
Jake just nods and makes a vaguekeep talkingmotion.
“Baseball was kind of my way of rebelling,” Alex says. “It’d have been easier if I was a tattoo artist.”
“My parents probably would have been happier if I was a lawyer. I mean, not now. But when I first got drafted.” Jake fiddles with the box of cocktail napkins, turning it so it’s squared up with the rubber mat sitting on the bar. A shrug like there’s more to it. “Guess everything worked out how it was supposed to.” He grins, and Alex can’t help but smile back, touching his glass to Jake’s when he proposes a toast to a never-ending number of games in stadiums with upper decks.
One that’s only slightly marred when Jake says, “You know what? We should doshots.”
If Alex ends up catching their next game hungover, well, that’s a problem for tomorrow.
Chapter Three
July
Alex
Alex has been drinking. No, wait, Alex isdrunk. He needs a ride. Where’s his phone? Pocket. Right. He fumbles it out, then drops it onto the sticky-tacky bar floor. It doesn’t break. Okay, good. Step one.
He’s been drinking for a while, watching the bar’s muted TV and having a grunting insta-friend conversation with the bartender. A good night out, even if he’s there by himself. He spends all his time in a clubhouse with twenty-five other guys, half of whom are pitchers he’s supposed to boss around, only a few of whom listen.
Being out alone isn’t a problem until the floor sways. Probably because the bartender—who looks like Sofia minus about thirty years and who seems to think “You look like my lesbian witch aunt” is the highest form of flirting—insisted he do a couple shots with her.
“You’re a pretty cheap date,” she says, when he resumes his seat on the padded barstool. “I figured you would be—you know, some guys can sock it away.”
Alex is a professional athlete. His body is atemple. He slurs as much to the bartender, who laughs. The room spins again.
Right, he needs a ride. Jake’s probably up. Jake will probably come get him. He should definitely call Jake so they can talk about pitching and not how Jake’s eyelashes sometimes catch the light on fading baseball evenings. Except Alex’s fingers aren’t working or maybe his phone is broken because where’s Jake’s number?
“Could you”—he thrusts his phone at the bartender—“call him for me?”
“Who’s ‘him’?”
“You know,Jake.”
She laughs and takes the phone from him, switching it to speaker. And, shit, Jake must have been asleep because he sounds groggy when he answers.
“I got a buddy of yours who told me to call you,” she says. “Built like a square, can’t handle his liquor, talks about his aunt a lot. You know him?”
“Hey, Alex.” Jake sounds a little exasperated.
“He’s been asking for you for a while,” she says, though Alex doesn’t remember doing that.
A sigh from Jake. “What’s the name of the place?”
“Henderson’s,” Alex says helpfully. He’s met with another sigh.
Jake arrives a few minutes later, wearing sweatpants, a team T-shirt, and a puffer vest even though it’s Oakland and not even cold.
“It’s Oakland and not even cold,” Alex calls to him.
Jake rolls his eyes. “Is that my thanks for coming to pick your drunk ass up?”
