Page 51 of Diamond Ring
Mike: You ever have one of those days where the universe is aligned against you?
An hour later, when he’s sent Ben a bunch of hiking suggestions—when he was about five seconds from asking him to go hiking to see if Ben was nice and funny and hot in person—Alex wastes time chasing villagers around as a goose. Ben was right; itissatisfying. He bothers a gardener for a while, flapping and honking and taking joy in tossing things into the lake.
Mike: This is good stress relief
He adds a screenshot of his goose avatar running and yelling. Ben doesn’t respond immediately. It’s late enough that their conversation has a middle-of-the-night feel, just the two of them without all the stuff Alex dragged home from the ballpark.
Mike: Maybe we could meet up and get a drink sometime? If you want
Alex doesn’t wait for a response. He gets up and scrubs his teeth and wonders if his forehead always looked like that or if a new crease is yet another sign of his getting inevitably older. A notification chimes when he gets back from the bathroom. He thumbs it open, telling himself he won’t be disappointed if it’s ano.
Ben: I’d like that.
Later, Alex falls asleep and dreams only of chasing harried farmers who all look strangely like Jake.
One out into the fourth inning, Jake starts to unravel. It’s obvious from sixty feet away where Alex is squatting behind home plate. Jake was excitable in the first inning, settled in the second, potent in the third. But now it’s the second time through the opposing team’s order, and things aren’t going well.
Out on the mound, Jake rosins and re-rosins his hands, a stiffness to his movements that Alex should check on. Would have checked on with any other pitcher a base runner ago.Fuck. He waves to the umpire to call time, then slowly jogs out.
With runners at the corners, they have to talk close to avoid being overheard, gloves up by their faces. Alex’s mitt smells like leather and the slightly acrid scent of pine tar. Something to focus on and not on the greenness of Jake’s eyes under the brim of his hat or his slightly lost expression.
“You good with going changeup?” Alex asks. Even if what he should be asking is if Jake’s all right, though it’s clear he isn’t.
“Changeup is fine.”
Easy. Too easy. “You sure?”
A shrug from Jake, shoulders rippling his jersey. “Why not?”
Like it doesn’t matter to him if the runners score or that thousands of fans are watching them or that everyone’s breathlessly recapping the last game they played together. “Don’t do that.”
Jake’s eyebrows rise minutely.
“Don’t just say you’re good with something if you’re not,” Alex says.
“You want an argument, Angelides?” At least that has some temper with it.
“Yes. No. I don’t fucking know.”
And he expects Jake’s anger or the flint of his stubbornness. Not a defeated exhale. “Changeup is fine. Maybe we can get him to ground out.” Jake blinks like he’s expecting Alex to return to home plate. He flicks his glove, a tiny dismissive motion that lacks his previous vigor in ordering Alex off the mound like he owned the place.
Alex doesn’t budge. “Nope, not gonna let you do that.” Even if the umpires are beginning to encroach, their fielders tightening inward like they want to have a full confab. Distantly, a flutter of activity on the steps of the Elephants dugout, Courtland and D’Spara preparing to intervene.
Jake’s eyes harden. “Fine. What do you want me to throw?”
Designed to get a rise out of Alex, and it does. “A changeup,” he snaps.
Jake tosses up his arms, then replaces his glove over his mouth, incredulous. “I already said I would.”
“Don’t do that.”
“If you want me to argue, I’ll argue. Just fucking tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”
They don’t have time for Alex to explain that he doesn’t want Jake to go along with him but toagreewith him.A distinction that’s hard to articulate. “That’s not...” Alex shakes his head.
“You know they’ll cut me, right?” Jake says it low, words stanched by the leather of his glove and the tightness in his jaw. “I don’t get to—Tell me what to throw and I’ll throw it.” He inhales, like he’s actually upset and not just pissed off, then scrabbles for the neck of his jersey, for the chain shimmering just below his collar. A flash of it, the slight bulge of a pendant where it’s tucked in his undershirt. A grab like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Maybe it’s any old necklace—Jake had a collection of them, minus the Phiten one Alex took from his room on impulse all those years ago. But maybe it’s not.
Alex can’t consider it further. The umpires finally decree their mound visit over, so he gives a confirmatory nod for a changeup, jogs back to home plate, and pounds his hand against his mitt. Hopes for the best and prepares for the opposite.
