BROLOGUE
RYAN
This whole mess began with two boys, a smelly old catcher’s mitt, and a boner.
Isn’t that how it always starts?
Enter boy number one: Stefan. He was the cockiest, loudest, and fittest kid on our Little League baseball team. He wore his baseball cap backward with a flip of his short, light brown hair poking out of the front. He was lean as a cat and fast as a pistol to its bullseye on the field. All the other kids knew it, too; Stefan was the golden boy in every way—a born-and-bred athlete.
And I couldn’t stand it.
I’m boy number two, by the way. Ryan Caulfield. The skinny thirteen-year-old with acne and a mop of black hair that covered my ears. Every game, I had to endure the look of pride on that pompous kid’s face—the kid who all the other boys admired. “Whoa!” they’d shout as his bat cracked into every ball pitched his way. The balls never seemed to touch the ground again.
I would just sit there and glare. For nine games, the whole spring and into the summer, I hated him more and more. He didn’t even have to try, not like I did. He just strutted up to bat, swung, and miracles sang across the field as he soared over the bases like lightning.
We won every damned game, and still my stubborn animosity flourished like a fever. Why didn’t I like the kid? What was my problem? I had no real reason to hate him.
Not until after the tenth game—the first one we lost—when the smelly old catcher’s mitt hit my face in the boy’s bathroom of the baseball field we were at. “The hell is up with you, Caulfield?”
It was Stefan who threw the mitt at me. I caught it halfway to my lap and turned my startled eyes to him. Seven other boys in the bathroom were busy cleaning up or changing back into their clothes like I was, dejectedly griping about how awful the game was. No one seemed to be paying attention.
Until I marched across the bathroom—in just my boxers and blue-and-white baseball socks—and shoved the mitt into Stefan’s chest. He was still fully geared. “You’re a cocky shit, that’s what’s up with me!”
The bathroom fell silent. Stefan was so taken aback by my words, it was like he’d never been insulted in all his life. I was the first one to ever not praise his godlike athletic ability.
Despite the force with which I came at him, I felt my resolve shrinking inside. Maybe it was the attention of half the team watching us now. Maybe it was my fast beating heart.
Maybe it was the intense way Stefan was staring at me.
Then: “What did you just call me?”
His words were icy and sharp, piercing my chest and causing my breath to stop. I tried to say something back, but found my mouth filled with invisible pretzels. Extra salty pretzels.
Extra salty for the extra salty little shit I’d become.
Stefan wasn’t finished. “You’re the reason we lost, Caulfield. You swing the bat like a girl.”
If my sister had heard that, she would have shown him just how strong a girl can swing—hard enough to knock those words right out of his mouth.
I couldn’t just stand there in front of the world in my boxers. I had to say something back.
And naturally, I picked the worst possible insult that a proper thirteen-year-old could muster: “Shut up, faggot!”
Stefan’s eyes flashed at once. He was rendered speechless as a murmur of shock chased its way through the bathroom.
Sweat gathered in my pits. My legs shook. I was queasy.
I couldn’t believe I’d said it. My words kept ringing over and over in my muffled ears—muffled by the scandal that still echoed off the bathroom tiles from my teammates’ gaping mouths.
Stefan tackled me so fast, I didn’t see it coming. I made one worthless effort to grip a nearby sink, then felt all of his weight as he crashed against me and took my body to the cold, hard floor. The back of my head hit the tile so hard, the world shattered into multicolored stars and circles for an instant.
The team was hollering all around us. I couldn’t tell if it was cheers of excitement or screams of fear.
Fear is all I knew. I was terrified of what I’d said, and I was even more terrified of what Stefan was going to do about it. My life was over. This was when I would die.
My eyes met Stefan’s. His teeth were grinding in his sharp, angular jaw, and his eyes were seething and fierce. The only thing I could see in Stefan’s eyes was my imminent end. He was going to beat me until there was nothing left but sweat and cleats.
Yet he didn’t. He only held me there in a schoolboy pin, his face hovering over me and his furious eyes burrowing into mine.
He still didn’t move. The world stopped and it was just us—me wondering what he was about to do, and him breathing heavily over me, every breath of his crashing over my fearful face.
Then it happened. The mortifying thing. The worst possible result from a boy crouching over me, pinning me to the ground as I was. The most humiliating humiliation a thirteen-year-old could experience in a bathroom full of other boys.
He felt it before I did. The anger in his eyes seemed to deplete at once, and then it was a sort of confusion that took him over instead.
He was sitting on it—but he felt it. It was there as certain as his hands were holding down my wrists, as certain as our gazes were locked on each other, as certain as breath still circulated between our heaving bodies.
Yes, it was as hard as a big steel bat.
And now, I would like to present a boner soliloquy:
Thank you, boner. I will never, ever forget this terrible time you chose to make your stately entrance—a particularly far more terrible time than any other known to teenkind in the history of ill-timed erections. The Eiffel Tower doesn’t know steel this hard. A million knights fought and died with swords hardened by the fires of forges that hold no match to yours. Couldn’t you have, perhaps, waited until tonight when I’m alone in my bedroom to visit me instead of arriving right here in the middle of a fight with the world’s cockiest shit pinning my wrists to the ground by my head while straddling me in front of half of the baseball team? Maybe next time, you might think to supply me a little warning before springing into action while I’m trying to spring into a different sort of action. Ring a bell, perhaps. Or write me a memo on penis-pink parchment paper and mail it via carrier pigeon to my overworked secretary. I would be most appreciative.
Sincerely, the mortified thirteen-year-old you’re attached to.
The coach was upon us in the next instant. He pulled Stefan off of me so fast, I nearly came off the ground with him. The good news was that we were now separated, and Stefan wasn’t going to plant knuckles into my cheek.
The bad news was what Stefan’s departure now revealed.
“Holy crap!” shouted one of my teammates, Parker, as he pointed at it. “Caulfield’s got a stiffy!”
I kicked off of the ground as fast as I could, squeezed my legs together, then bolted from the bathroom amidst an eruption of laughter and jeering and mockery. My face was so red, I could feel the blood boiling on my cheeks.
It was the worst day of my life.
Which was followed by the second worst day of my life: the very next morning when my dad sat me down on the couch for a little talk. “Ryan, the coach told me everything.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” I was already in tears. “P-P-Please. I don’t want to play ball anymore. It’s stupid. I suck. I never want to see any of those boys ever again.”
“I don’t raise quitters,” my dad spat back. “Oh, and you will be seeing them again. All of them. And you’re starting with Stefan.”
“NO!” I cried out. “I can’t see him! I won’t!”
“You don’t have a choice, Ryan. I’m taking you to his house right now, and you will apologize to him.”
I gaped, my dad’s face made blurry by the sheen of tears that still filled my eyes. “But he’s the one who tackled me!”
“After you called him a name.”
“He threw a catcher’s mitt at my face!”
“Ryan, I won’t hear any more.” He rose from the couch, then nodded down at me. “Get your shoes on. We leave in five.”
The car ride that followed was emotional agony. I shook in my shoes the whole time. Just the thought of facing Stefan for the first time since our “incident” had me pissing my pants with ghost pee. I had sweated straight through the pits of my t-shirt before we even left my neighborhood.
How could I possibly face Stefan after what happened? He had me in a schoolboy pin, straddling my waist with my wrists held to the ground on either side of my head. I was completely at his mercy, underneath the star of the team … and then my own little “star” decided to show up.
The whole scene had to have replayed in my head fifty times on the way over to Stefan’s house. I had no way to explain what happened. I didn’t even know what happened. I wasn’t a homo. It was just the friction in my boxers, or the pressure of him sitting on it, or the adrenaline. I was definitely, totally, not at all turned on by him. Just the thought had me angry all over again.
Before I knew it, I stood in front of his door with my dad at my side. My dad tapped the doorbell.
I waited for three eternities, sweaty, breathing jaggedly, and tapping my shoe on the ground.
When the door swung open, Stefan’s mom appeared, her long tangles of light brown hair cascading to her shoulders. She had a sharp, movie star jawline and bright blue eyes, just like Stefan.
The parents exchanged some annoyingly polite and sweetly apologetic words. Then we were invited inside. Stefan’s house was big—much bigger than mine—and it was blindingly white and clean. I don’t know what I expected, but it surely wasn’t this.
I noticed a toddler on the living room floor looking like he’s trying to suck the red off of a jumbo Lego. He glanced over at me.
“Upstairs,” his mother prompted me. “Third door down.”
My dad lifted an eyebrow. “You go and make this right, Ryan.”
I gritted my teeth and nodded, my face already throbbing red with humiliation. “Yes, sir.”
The stairs went on forever. Then the hallway went on forever. And then I was standing in front of a half-opened door, knowing that Stefan waited for me on the other side. My hands kept balling up into fists, then releasing, over and over again.
I realized I was angry. I hated that I had to apologize to him. Why wasn’t he coming to my house to make the apology? Instead, I would have to humiliate myself again, face the pompous kid, and watch his face as he decided whether or not to accept my apology.
I wasn’t going to like this one bit. But I had to do it. If I didn’t, I’d probably be grounded for life. Get it over with, I told myself, then put my palm to the door and pushed it the rest of the way open.
Stefan sat on the end of his bed with an Xbox controller in his grip, playing a game on a giant TV that sat on his dresser across the room. He wore a loose white tank top and black gym shorts that only came halfway down his thighs.
He didn’t even seem to notice me. He just kept playing, even though I was clearly in his line of vision.
“Hi,” I forced myself to say.
“Hey.” He kept playing, totally ignoring me.
I swallowed once, then straightened up my back and leaned against the wall right by his door, refusing to take more than one tiny step into his room. I folded my arms and stared at the TV screen. Even though I was watching him play, I wasn’t really processing what I was seeing; I was too busy being scared out of my mind and feeling like I could pass out at any second.
“So?” he prompted me, drawing my attention back to him even though he never pulled his own eyes from the screen.
I smirked. “So … what?”
“Why are you here?” he asked, mashing his thumbs into the controller as he played.
“I’m, like … supposed to apologize to you. Or something.”
“For what?”
“For calling you a name.”
“Alright. Go ahead.”
It was infuriating, how snotty and cool Stefan was acting. He wouldn’t even afford me the decency of looking my way, his eyes glued to his game like I mean nothing at all to him.
I took a deep breath. This wouldn’t be easy, but I was going to do it. “I’m sorry,” I grumbled, annoyed.
“For?”
I rolled my eyes. Really? “For calling you a faggot.”
“Alright.” He kept playing his game.
I was ready to throw my own mitt at his head if I had one. “That’s it? ‘Alright’? That’s all you got to say to me?”
“Yep.” His arm muscles kept dancing as his fingers worked the controller, mashing and twisting and tilting away.
I sighed and unhooked my arms from my body, over it all. “So are we cool? Can I go now?”
The explosive sounds of war coming from the TV ceased at once. Stefan set the controller down on the bed next to him and, for the first time since my arrival, looked my way. “Are you one?”
His question threw me. “What?”
“Are you one?” he repeated.
I frowned. “One what?”
“A fag.”
Coldness lanced my insides from one end of my bowels to the other at the sound of the word. I’d almost forgotten about the boner. And now we’re going to address it. “No!” I blurted out.
“I’ve never seen you with a girlfriend.”
“So?” My heart raced its way up my throat. My fingers tingled with fear. “I’ve never seen you with a girlfriend.”
“We’re going to the same high school next year.”
His shift in topic threw me yet again. What was he getting at? “Huh?”
“Morris High.” He lifted his eyebrows. “We’re gonna see a lot more of each other.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is, we have to get along. We’re teammates, and we have a bunch of games to get through before we try out for the high school team.”
Was this guy crazy? He actually thought I was going to face all those guys again after what happened? “I’m not on the team anymore,” I stated as if it was the most obvious thing.
“We need you.” He leaned back on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. “You could use some time in the cages, but with a little work, you might turn out to be a decent player. I’ve seen your swing, Caulfield.”
I frowned. “Yeah. And you think I swing like a girl.”
“You’re not the only one who should be apologizing.” His eyes flickered with discomfort. Apologizing was clearly an effort for him. “I’m … sorry I threw the mitt at your head.”
I found myself staring at the floor suddenly. I couldn’t look him in the eye. I didn’t even recognize this version of Stefan.
“And said things like … you swing like a girl,” he went on. “And that you’re the reason we lost. It isn’t true, anyway. And I’m sorry I tackled you.”
I pressed my lips together tightly and felt my face going red again, except it was a completely different kind of embarrassment I then felt. I was never on the receiving end of such a thorough, detailed apology.
“Alright,” I finally mumbled uncomfortably. “Can I go now?”
“Are you still on the team?”
I lifted my eyes from the floor to meet his again, incredulous. “Are you serious?”
He hopped off the bed, then lightly trod across the room. He was suddenly in front of me. Very in front of me. “Yeah.” His voice was low and serious. “So? Are you?”
I swallowed. My back was pressed against the wall. “I … I can’t face the others again. I—”
“If any of them say anything about you, I’ll throw a mitt at their heads,” he stated boldly, his chest puffing up.
And for once, I was thankful for his cockiness. For once, his boastfulness felt less like a weapon and more like a shield. With just those words alone, he won me over.
“Alright.” I nodded once, surrendering. “Yes. I’m still on.”
“Good.” He grabbed my shoulder and gave me a strong, quick, approving shake before letting go. “Then we’re good, Ryan. And your apology’s accepted.”
Ryan. He used my first name. “Thanks, S-Stefan.”
“Steff-in,” he corrected me. “Not Stiff-on.”
“Steff-in,” I echoed, my pronunciation of his name corrected. We only ever seemed to throw last names at each other, the coach included. I had never properly heard his name before. “Thank you, S-Stefan.”
He picked up his controller again and hopped back onto his bed. “Now what’re you leaving in a hurry for?” he asked, his words sounding almost annoyed. “You ever played this game?”
“No,” I answered automatically. “I … I don’t have an Xbox.”
“Come here. It’s easy.”
The next moment, I was sitting on his bed. Stefan Baker’s bed. And he showed me how to throw grenades. And properly aim a rocket launcher. And reload my napalm.
For an hour at least—who knew what our parents were doing?—we played Xbox. I wasn’t the scrawny kid on the baseball team. He wasn’t the conceited little dick with the upturned nose. We were just two awkward boys brought together by a catcher’s mitt—and something else.
“I don’t care, by the way,” he said suddenly.
“About what?”
“If you are one.”
“One what?”
Then a battle exploded into action on the TV, and the pair of us were drawn to the game, all thoughts of our conversation lost to the music of war. Soon, Stefan was cheering when my grenade exploded a mob of enemies, and I shouted victoriously when he fired the winning shot. We were teammates again.
We were bros.
And I knew, from that day on, that Stefan Baker was going to be the boy who would ruin me.