Page 112 of Diamond Ring
Next to him, Alex huffs a laugh. “Pretty fucking hard. Glad we avoided that.”
“Yeah, probably for the best.”
The Gothams pitcher comes set, then delivers a pitch down and away that just nicks the corner of the strike zone. An unhittable pitch. Except Gordon hits it with thatcrackthat every person in the game knows: the sound when a player just misses the sweet spot of the bat. A fly ball high to left center field that should make for an easy out, the end of the inning.
Maybe it’s the wind, the scream of the crowd, the flash of lights. Maybe it’s the reverberations Jake put out all those years ago when that ball went careening off Alex’s wrist. Maybe it’s just what baseball runs off—sheer, dumb luck with no greater meaning than that. But whatever it is, the Gothams fielder doesn’t snag the ball, and it skids away into the corner of the outfield, allowing the runner to score.
An insurance run, a two-run lead that Jake carries as he jogs to the mound to finish the game after the top of the inning ends. Around him, Gothams Stadium is no longer an ocean. A calm comes over him, an assurance like the tap of Alex’s knuckles against his, like he could be in a ballfield like any other in the city, with a half-cracked home plate and memories worn into the base paths. Like he’s fully housed within his body, himself to the tips of his fingers and ends of his hair.
He’s here, so he’s here, in a continuous humming present, the game slowing until it matches the steady beat of his heart. Alex, set up sixty feet away, like his shoulders could carry the world.
Jake throws. Distantly, the umpire calls a strike, another, another. One out. A Gothams batter dribbles a ground ball at their shortstop, who makes quick work of it. Two. Then Morales hits a shallow fly ball, easily caught.
Three outs, a simple game of catch. A silence, the briefest pause of a conclusion, then a groan emanates from the stands.
The Gothams lose. Which means the Elephants havewon.
Jake expects a certain dizziness that comes with big moments, a distance from himself. Instead he gets a sharp, grounded clarity, like something clutched to his palm. This ishisand Alex’s and theirs together—and no one can ever take it. The moment expands in his chest, against his ribs, the press of champagne bubbles against a cork. They’ve done it, all of them, and him with them. Joy unfurls like a pennant, something that will fly and fly and fly.
A feeling that escalates with Alex running at him, full-tilt, mask thrown off, leg guards clapping, until he’s picking Jake up in a hug and yelling “I fucking love you,” for all of New York to hear.
So Jake discards his glove and whatever hesitancy he has and yells it right back.
The rest of the team joins in, screaming more or less the same thing, an on-field wave of celebration that carries Jake like a tide. Some guys are shouting and some are racing through the outfield with their arms out like planes and some are crying and wiping their eyes with their palms.
Alex appears next to him, trying to say something, though it’s impossible to hear what, and so Jake finds himself being dragged to the mostly emptied dugout.
“You were incredible,” Alex says. “Incredible.”
“You put this team on your back,” Jake counters.
Alex smiles. “Yeah, we’re both pretty good.”
And fuck, Jake wants to kiss him, a want he’s felt since the first day of the season, for ten years before that, since Alex scowled his way into Jake’s life, then was kind to him for no other reason than that’s just how he is.
It occurs to Jake that they can, here, under the shaded roof of the dugout. A kiss that the media might make a circus of or attribute as the particular exuberance of celebration, and Jake doesn’t care either way so long as he can kiss Alex right this minute, and the world can go figure itself out. So he leans down.
Alex’s hair is damp, his expression open, his lips parted in question. “Yeah?” he asks, as if Jake could say anything else.
It’s always awkward, kissing under the brim of a baseball cap, but they manage it, Jake held in the sweaty press of Alex’s arms. A kiss, another, like a pop of fireworks, like reaching up and grabbing a handful of stars from the sky.
Noise interrupts them, the squeak of a microphone activating for an on-field interview—the team sideline reporter standing with Charlie. “What does this moment mean to you?” she asks.
“Indescribable. This is what you dream of when you’re a kid.” The rote answer, the baseball answer, and Jake is about to turn back to Alex when Charlie gets a look that Jake hasn’t ever seen him wear before, rolling his shoulders like he’s gearing up to say something.
“I wouldn’t be here if not for so many people. My family: my parents, Christine, who’s my best friend in the world. And”—a swallow, another squaring up, a slighteff youof a grin—“my fiancé, Reid Giordano.” Then adds, “He, uh, told me it was okay to say that.”
A statement followed by a long, ringing silence, then Alex’s quiet “Holy fuck.”
It takes a minute for that news to fully register, rippling through the crowd like a stone dropped into water.
“Did you know?” Alex asks.
No, Jake starts to say, though that doesn’t feel quite right, the wayyesdoesn’t feel right either. A series of occurrences throughout the season now slide into place: Charlie’s nerves before each start like there was something riding on them besides a win. The book he was studying on the plane, wanting to knowkiddushfromkaddish. Giordano, in that Texas hotel hallway and the casual affection ofHey, baby, I forgot my key. “I guess I knew he had stuff going on,” Jake says.
Alex ascends the dugout steps, glancing around at the crowd, now engaged in discordant whispering interrupted by the occasional yell. “Guess everyone else knows too.”
“The press conference is gonna be something, huh?”
