Page 99 of Diamond Ring
Todd slides a cup of pens toward him. “I’m going to get some water. If you want to write out a few options for how you could approach this, feel free to discard any drafts in this.” He thumps a wastebasket-sized paper shredder. “We can talk about them or not talk about them. Your choice.”
“Hey,” Jake says as Todd gets up, “you don’t suck as much as I thought you did.”
Todd laughs. “I get that a lot.”
He and Alex don’t have that conversation, not through the simulated game they play later, not on the flight to Texas. Not as Jake spends another game sitting in the bullpen, watching as the team is quietly excellent. Their bats are lively; the infield moves with clockwork efficiency; Alex calls a good game, their pitchers throwing like they have the ball on a string.
After, Jake’s lying in his enormous Texas hotel room contemplating the ceiling. A message with Alex’s room number sits on his phone. And Jake hasn’t answered yet because all he can think of is the unstated question:You sure you want to talk to me?
Though if Alex is texting, the answer isyes. Even if Jake feels like dirt for dropping that in front of Todd and not doing what he should have done in the first place. He counts down from five, then propels himself up.
The hotel hallway is mostly quiet, the only sounds the murmur of televisions and muffled conversations. Except for a vaguely familiar-looking guy with dark hair and a build like an ex-ballplayer standing outside one of the rooms by the elevator, knocking loudly. “Hey, baby,” he calls to whoever’s inside, “I forgot my key.”
The elevator button lights when Jake pushes it, a sign nearby indicating construction-related delays. The guy knocks again, rattling the door in its frame, then turns to Jake. “You don’t have Charlie’s number, do you?”
“Uh,” Jake says, trying to work out if this is some scheme to meet Charlie, obviously enough that the guy laughs and extends a hand.
“Reid Giordano. I played for the Elephants a few years ago.” Which doesn’t exactly explain his presence in a hotel hallway in Texas. “You’re Fischer, right?”
“Yep.”
“My grandma calls me every time you pitch. She thinks you’re the next Koufax.” Something Jake would bristle at—because being a left-handed Jewish pitcher means inevitably being compared withtheleft-handed Jewish pitcher, which he used to enjoy before the comparison turned critical—if he didn’t recall Giordano’s name from lists of Jewish ballplayers who occasionally get profiled.
“Little old to be Koufax,” Jake says.
“Even Koufax wasn’t Koufax until he was Koufax, you know?” Giordano shrugs good-naturedly. He raps his hand against the door again.
This time, Charlie opens the door, looking rumpled. He takes in Giordano standing there, then registers Jake as well. “Oh, um, hey.”
“I should probably get going,” Jake says. The elevator at least obliges him, announcing its arrival with a chime.
“Nice to meet you,” Giordano calls after him, and Jake nods and tries not to think too hard about what any of that was about. If that was just two former teammates hanging out before a series—which of course is what it was. If it was anything else, having a career like Charlie’s buys a lot of latitude—the kind other guys don’t get.
The elevator delivers him to Alex’s floor; he scans for the right room number before knocking. “Sorry, I got held up,” Jake says when Alex answers, though doesn’t have time to say more than that when Alex pulls him in and kisses him, deeply, thoroughly, Jake’s back against the shut door.
“Ben?” Alex asks.
It takes a second for Jake to catch on. “You must be Mike.”
Alex nods.
“Thought you weren’t really into hookups.”
“I can make an exception.” Alex reaches for the hem of Jake’s shirt, fingers skimming his ribs as he takes it off, the warmth of his body counteracting the overblow of Texas air-conditioning. He wraps a hand around Jake’s left elbow, thumb against the long latticework of his surgical scar.
People ask about it—people Jake’s slept with over the years and other players, curious or wary, hoping to forestall the same fate. Alex’s hand feels like a question, aHow’d you get that?as if they’re actually strangers to one another.
“Got hurt playing,” Jake offers. SomethingBenmight say, if he existed, andMikemight nod and change the subject, the way people do when hearing about someone else’s misfortune.
Alex blinks like he’s forgotten they’re supposed to be playacting, then strokes his thumb again. “When did that happen?” Asked casually, except for the slight shine to his eyes.
Whenhas always been the question between them: like Jake’s injury could be so neatly stamped with a time and clear causation. It’s possible that day in his neighbor’s yard was just an unlucky lottery ticket after a lifetime of overuse.
“Docs aren’t sure,” Jake says. “Could’ve been during a game. Could’ve been after.”
Another blink that from anyone else would signal impassivity, but from Alex is likely an intense rearrangement of everything that’s been between them for ten years.
“Might have been my fault,” Jake adds. “Didn’t ice it after the series. The surgeon said there’s no real way to know.” Something that’d be easy to say to a stranger, toMike. Less easy to say to Alex who might hear,It’s not my fault, it’s yours.
