Page 9 of The Road to Home Base
“You have a game tonight, right?”
“I do. First pitch is in… three hours.”
Alex nodded. His hands reached forward as he typed something on his keyboard set underneath the phone. “Can I say good luck? I think sometimes you guys don’t like hearing that.”
I didn’t believe in luck itself, but I believed in the sentiment behind it. “You can say it.”
“Okay, well…” His eyes squinted as he stared at his monitor. “Buona fortuna.”
My mouth dropped open but no sound came out. My lips then curled into a smile as I shook my head. “Grazie,” was all I could say in response. He butchered his Italian, but nevertheless, I understood it. “Grazie mille.”
He looked back down from his monitor, complete elation onhis face as plain and apparent as a neon sign. “I think I have a sports channel on my TV. I’ll be watching while I edit.”
“Glad to hear it. Okay, I’ll let you get back to your editing. Thanks for texting me so quickly.”
More typing. Then, “Prego. Oh, like the sauce? That means ‘you’re welcome’?”
I guffawed, a barking laugh that sounded like a donkey. “Yes, like the sauce. Hey look at you. Before you know it, you’ll be walking around Italy like you were raised there.”
“Maybe. One day. I’ve never been. I hear the Amalfi Coast is a photographer’s paradise.” A knock came at the door to the room. A teammate was winding his finger at me, telling me to wrap it up. Alex noticed the interruption. He said, “Oh, sorry, you’ve got pregame stuff, that’s right. I won’t distract you.Buona fortunatonight and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Can’t wait. “See you then. Bye, Alex.”
“See ya, Rome.”
Chapter Three
Rome
MYHAIRNATURALLYcurled the longer it grew. Any amount of gel or product I lock into it flees the moment I get sweaty on the field. Getting ready for Hiroshi’s birthday party, and knowing Alex would be there, I was sure to get my hair freshly cut with a hard part and faded sides. At home, I put in enough product to slick the top to give it a little volume while keeping it straight. Not a stereotypical dago like how my father looked, but still Italian enough to be unmistakable. I wore a loose tank top and short shorts to show off all the hard work I put into my lower half. I wedged flip flops on my feet, knowing they would eventually come off at some point. Lastly, I put on cologne—the expensive stuff my agent bought me.
I checked myself in the full-length hallway mirror. Was it too much? Too frat-boy? I always liked to be as comfortable as possible when we didn’t have a game. I wondered if I should put on a nice t-shirt or longer shorts. Golfing attire, perhaps?
My phone chimed and I pulled it out to see a text from Alex.
Alex:Forgot to ask. Is this like a formal thing?
My eyes browsed over our previous texts. He had sent me an apologetic text last night after the game concluded (we lost, oneto three). He attempted to sound like a fan, to say we played good defense, which made me smile. I didn’t message back until the next day—this morning. Another part of my ritual to keep myself separated, to wind down, to bifurcate my life so that I rested, especially after a loss. He didn’t seem to mind, as he responded almost immediately after I texted back. And now here he was again, looking for information.
Me:Definitely not formal. There’s a pool, too. Bring your suit if you aren’t shy ;)
Alex:Pale Irish skinny guy amongst professional athletes? Hard pass.
Me:lol shorts and t-shirt are good. Don’t be late!
Alex:There’s a joke here about roads and Rome, but I think I might be beating a dead horse.
Me:Trust me, that saying never gets old.
Alex:Then I’ll turn off my GPS and just drive until I arrive ;)
Me:One pale Irish skinny guy, coming right up.
He laughed at my last text, and I stuffed my phone back into my pocket. When I looked up at myself in the mirror, I saw a stupidly big grin plastered on my face. My belly did flips as if I went through a loop-de-loop on a rollercoaster. How could I be simultaneously dreading a negative encounter but excited to interact with him again? Those two couldn’t coexist in my mind or my body.
I paused when I reached the front door of my house. This duality inside me, the fear of screwing this up, the excitement of getting it right, had only happened on sparse occasions in the past. All of them going the way of the dodo. The market of men I required was a very niche one. I was out to my family and closest friends and had zero interest in going public. But discreet men were impossible to find and it was even harder to sift through the sycophants or would-bes who googled me and wanted fame andfortune.
Would Alex be the same? He still seemed cautious, even after my call and the texts we exchanged. And if hewascautious, why? I hadn’t explicitly come out to him, hadn’t held a sign for him to read to say, “I’m gay, but please keep it a secret, also please date me in secret.” He appeared to live his life out and proud. Would he want to change that for someone he barely knew?
