12
STEFAN
I wake up to the crackling sizzle and intoxicating aroma of bacon being cooked.
That’s about the best damned way to wake up, if you ask me. And there’s many ways. Like a blow job, for instance.
Bacon always beats a blow job wakeup, by far.
I’m out of the bed and tramping down the hall. In the kitchen, Ryan is hard at work making us a big breakfast all over again, just like last Saturday morning.
I could get used to this.
Better not get used to it. After how you acted and what you said last night, there’s no telling how soon you’ll have overstayed your welcome. Just a few days is what I told him—and it’s already been a week.
I watch him for a while, since he hasn’t noticed me yet. He moves his hips a bit while he cooks. It’s like he has a song with a decent beat going on in his head that no one can hear but him. I catch myself smirking as I watch him move, fighting an urge to go over there and scare the shit out of him by giving him a hard smack on his dancing ass.
See, now that I know he’s gay, everything’s different. All those times I’d tease him, or grab him, or play some silly joke on him, it meant something different to him. I’d get such a kick out of it, my heart racing as I would rush up behind him and lock him into a standing full-nelson, then feel as he struggled against me to break free, grunting and laughing and squirming. Maybe Ryan liked being trapped in that hold against me more than he let on.
I sure as hell enjoyed it every time.
And I’d enjoy it right now—or, at least, if he didn’t have our hot breakfast at his disposal in front of him. He’d probably fling burning-hot eggs at my face if I tried.
Whether it’s because I breathe too loud or Ryan’s sixth sense kicks in, he turns around suddenly, spots me, fumbles with his spatula, and a sausage patty takes a dive to the floor.
“Fuck,” he spits out, going for the sausage, then he tosses it into the trash with another muffled curse word. “Morning,” he calls out irritably over his shoulder as he returns to the counter.
Hmm. He doesn’t seem happy to see me.
And for that matter, he barely saw me. One tiny glance and a prickly greeting.
His fretfulness shoves me off the chipper path I was walking. Is he pissed about last night? Is he acting weird because I finally called him out on the gay thing?
So naturally I don’t give him any space and, instead, pry. “Morning there, Chef Caulfield,” I greet him, then drift up to the counter and lean back against it, arms folded, and watch him cook. “You got quite a breakfast feast in the works here.”
He glances back at me, then sighs as he returns his attention back to the eggs he’s scrambling, patties he’s flipping, and bacon sizzling on a griddle. “Are you always going to insist on wearing next to nothing whenever we eat?”
“Shit. You’re actually complaining?” I smirk. “You’re getting to see the goods for free.”
“So that’s a ‘yes’, then?” he throws over his shoulder.
“I like eating with my balls out. What can I say?”
“Remind me never to take you out to a restaurant.”
“Don’t pretend like you aren’t enjoying it,” I taunt him, eager to get a rise out of him.
He keeps flipping sausages and poking at the bacon on the griddle, ignoring me.
For some reason, I just can’t let all of my thoughts from last night go. I’m staring at the back of Ryan’s head and I’m still trying to picture all the little moments from our childhood fit into this new idea I have of him. It makes me wonder if certain things meant more to him than I realized.
Is it weird that it makes me even more protective of him?
The asshole kids who would try to bully him, or mock him, or say dumb shit … I want to kick all of their asses all over again, even if it would have landed me in three months of detention a year. It would have been worth it.
I also don’t want to push the subject too hard, considering my little living arrangement here can end as quickly as it began.
Can he really blame me for wanting to figure him out?
“I’m gonna take you out today,” I decide.
He pokes the bacon with his spatula so firmly, you’d think he was trying to kill the pig all over again. “You’re gonna what?”
“After breakfast.”
There’s a fleeting moment where it appears like he’s about to huff in frustration. Then, just like that, it’s gone, and his posture relaxes. “Sorry, can’t. I have work that needs to get done.”
“So do we.”
As if I said nothing, he keeps poking the bacon, flipping the sausages, scrambling the eggs—methodically, controlled, and with great purpose behind his every jab and twist. The toaster dings, saving him from having to say anything, and then before I realize it, everything’s on a plate and being carried to the table. He left the toast, so I swipe that dish off the counter and join him at the table, taking my spot and going straight for the eggs.
The knowing smirk on Ryan’s face isn’t missed.
My love for his spicy sriracha eggs is no secret between us.
In another hour, we’re in my truck on a back road with the hot sun baking us through the windshield.
Yes, Ryan gave in. He always gives in when it comes to me. Maybe now I know why.
“Where the hell are we going, anyway?” he gripes from the passenger seat.
“Suck it up, Ryan. I’m back in your life now whether you want me or not,” I taunt him as I push my foot into the pedal.
“I don’t have a problem with you being back in my life, Stefan, provided you don’t speed and run us into a speed limit sign.”
“Wouldn’t that be ironic?”
“No. It’d just be plain dumb.” He slouches and glances out the window. “Damn, I haven’t been on this back road in years.”
“Triggering any memories for you yet?”
“Nope.” He squints and leans forward in his seat. “Wait a sec. Is that—?”
“You bet your sweet homo ass it is.”
He shoots me a look.
I lift a brow at him. “What? Too soon?”
“Too soon?” He scoffs. “Try: not ever. Just because you’re my friend and know I’m gay doesn’t mean you get a free license to call me a homo when you want.”
“Hey, if I recall correctly, first term of endearment you used on me was ‘faggot’. I think that gives me the right to call you what I want for life.” I throw him a look of my own. “Tell me I’m right.”
“Like hell,” he retorts, but I see the hint of a smile on his lips.
I pull into the dirt parking lot and kill the engine. After jumping out, I grab my bag of bats from the backseat and sling them over a shoulder, and then the pair of us head over to the old wooden kiosk in the front. The young messy-haired dude manning it looks like he’s running on one hour of sleep, but when he gets a look at my face, he comes to life, and then he seems to lose his ability to blink entirely. “Cage four,” he timidly tells us, handing us a couple of helmets in a daze. “Do you need any bats, sir?”
“Brought my own,” I answer, patting my bag. “Thanks, Jake.”
His eyes flash. “You know my name?”
“Nametag.”
He glances down, slaps a hand to it, then chuckles nervously. “Uh … right. Hah. Yeah.”
I give him a nod, thank him, then make my way down the dirt lane toward batting cage number four, which is near the end of the long aisle—and I’m pretty sure poor Jake’s unblinking eyes are glued to our backs the whole way.
The cages aren’t that busy, just two or three others occupying them, likely students from any one of the three high schools in the area. One of them is a girl with long dirty blonde hair with a boy outside the cage rooting her on. It reminds me of one of the two times I got to chat with Ryan’s sister back in the day. She’s a tough chick who grew up with dirt under her nails.
“You get that a lot?” asks Ryan when we arrive at our cage, yanking me from my thoughts.
“Get what?”
“The guy at the gear kiosk who clearly knew who you are. His eyes were bulging so far out of his face, he almost lost them.”
I shrug as I drop my bag by the door to our cage and pull out batting gloves for us. “Honestly, fewer people recognize me than you’d expect. Not like I played for the majors.” Ryan anxiously eyes the pitching machine at the other end of the cage. “Scared?”
He shakes his head too quickly. “Nah. Why would I be?”
“About to crap your pants?” I tease, tossing him some gloves.
He snorts while putting them on. “Screw you, Stefan.”
“Why don’t you go up first? Show me what you got. Here.” I pull out a bat and slap it to his chest, startling him. I love startling him; it’s my favorite fucking thing ever. “This one’s just for you. Swing away, bro. Make me proud.”
He fumbles with it for a second as he gets his grip, but when he does, it’s firm. I study him as he gets used to the weight of the bat, watching the emotion flood his face, like he’s reuniting with yet another long-lost childhood friend.
Ryan looks up suddenly, squinting in the sunlight. “Shouldn’t we use the bats they provide at the front? The huge, hard yellow balls that the machines pitch can really fuck up your nice bats.”
“These old toys?” I lift my own bat and slap the end of it onto my palm. “I got thirty of them.”
“Hey, Mr. Caulfield!” comes a voice from the left.
We both turn. Some very enthusiastic teen three cages down from us waves, then gets smacked in the shoulder with the next pitched ball. He presses himself against the side of the cage while the machine keeps pitching. After ensuring his life isn’t in mortal danger, he faces us again, face pressed to the chain-link. “I didn’t know you come here to bat!”
Ryan offers the teen a broad smile. “Hi, Chance!” He turns to me and, in a low voice, mutters, “One of my students. Honor roll. Talked to him a week ago about issues he’s having in gym class.”
When the kid—Chance—gets a look at me, his jaw drops and his bat swings down into the dirt. “A-Are you Stefan Baker?”
I give the kid a short, patient nod.
“Wow!” After another auto-pitched ball whizzes past his head—which he narrowly dodges with a quick duck—he says, “I’d totally ask you to sign my bat, but it belongs to the batting cages, and I don’t have a pen.”
“Get me a pen from the kiosk and I’ll sign a ball for you before you go,” I call out to him.
Another ball flies past him, smacking into the wall of the cage. “Oh, wow! Thank you, Mr. Baker! It was great seeing you, Mr. Caulfield!” Then he gives Ryan a brief, quizzical look before lifting his bat and swinging at the next ball. He misses, but he tried.
Ryan grits his teeth. “He’s probably wondering what a guy like me is doing batting with the Stefan Baker.”
“I want to see you crack some balls in half,” I encourage Ryan, giving his shoulder a slap and a firm squeeze, which is apparently strong enough to cause Ryan to wince slightly. “Never mind any of the other fools here. They can’t hear us, and the only thing they’re watching is their own bats.”
“Alright,” he sighs at me. “I’ll go. Just so you can humiliate me by saying how bad I am.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“Yeah. Just laugh at how bad I am. Thanks.”
“No laughter will come from my lips.”
“Liar.”
I swat his ass, making him jump, then give him a light shove into the cage and slap the door shut behind him. “Get to it, boy,” I tell him.
After shooting me a quick look, he acclimates himself inside the cage and takes a breath. I watch him gently tap his shoes with the end of his bat, then get in place. After a second of confusion, he remembers to hit the button at the side of the cage to initiate the pitching. The first ball comes sooner than he expects, and he dodges out of the way, startled. I don’t laugh, leaning against the door and watching with observant eyes, genuinely curious about how well he’ll do after so much time.
The second ball comes. He swings. Miss.
“Fuck,” he spits out.
“Just keep at it,” I coach him. “The machine’s your pal.”
He gets ready to swing again, his sweaty hands repositioning themselves on the bat. The way his fingers move and his thighs squeeze as he assumes his batting stance makes my insides coil up with excitement. It takes so little lately to transport me back to the good ol’ days when he and I were the only people in the world who mattered.
The ball comes. He swings again. Strike.
He huffs, annoyed, then prepares for the next pitch.
Suddenly, a question spills out: “So did you always know?”
The next ball flies by, but he doesn’t even swing, distracted by my question. “Know what?” he throws over his shoulder.
“That you were gay.”
The next ball comes right then, and Ryan nearly throws his bat instead of swinging it, knocked sideways by my blunt question. He spins around to face me after glancing to the cage at his left and his right—both of which are unoccupied. “The fuck, Stefan??”
I shrug, unbothered. “Just curious.”
He appraises me for a tense little while, his hazel eyes fierce.
“Watch out,” I warn him.
Another ball flies toward him, which he quickly dodges, and then he gets back into position for the next one, raising his bat and sticking his butt out. I stifle my smile as I study his pose, from his flexed thighs to his rigidly straightened back to the super tight form of his arms.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Ryan hasn’t softened at all, despite his inability to hit any of the balls. All I see when I look at him is strength and determination. That always mattered more to me; the will to hit the ball is as vital as actually hitting it. Some hit the ball on their first go. Others try and fail ninety-nine times, and the hundredth swing sends the ball soaring to the moon.
“Maybe in college,” he finally answers.
I lift my eyebrows in surprise. “Really? That late?”
“It’s common, actually. Very common.” The ball pitches. He swings and makes contact, but only barely—practically a bunt.
“I just figured you knew back in high school. Like, when we knew each other.”
“Oh yeah? You think I was checking out your ass from the dugout every game or something?” He swings. Another sad bunt.
I laugh dryly at that, then catch my eyes drifting down to his ass. I wonder if he did check out my ass back then. I guess I never noticed because all guys look at other guys. I don’t care if you’re gay or straight; we all notice each other. It’s how we know who to look out for when the competition for girls gets serious. It’s also how we size each other up on the field.
“I think I always knew I was attracted to guys,” he goes on after another swing and miss, “even when I was little. I just didn’t realize it meant I was gay.”
I don’t know if it’s how he says it or just what he says, but I laugh before I can stop myself. Ryan turns and gives me eyes just as the next ball is pitched, whizzing past his knees. I freeze mid-laugh and go quiet. “Oh … You’re not kidding.”
“No.”
I squint at him, confused. “You knew you were attracted to guys … yet didn’t know you’re gay? You serious?”
“Well, look at yourself.” He points his chin at me, then turns back around for the next pitch, which comes soon after. He swings and hits it—his first hit—and then he readies himself for the next, encouraged. “You can look at another guy and tell if he’s sexy or handsome. Right?”
“Well, yeah. Obviously.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re gay,” he finishes. “I know when a girl’s pretty. I just didn’t—don’t have that extra desire to do anything else with her. No one told me that how I felt about girls or guys was different than anyone else.” Another pitch. He swings and misses. “So yes, I didn’t know I was gay, and yet I … I knew what I felt when I was around an attractive guy. It was more than I ever felt around a girl. So … I knew that I was attracted to guys.” Pitch, swing, miss. Ryan huffs. “Even you and I never talked about girls. Ever. We didn’t check them out together, either. You just seemed to have an opinion about every girl I dated.”
“That’s just two girls, by the way,” I tease him.
He slaps a hand to the button, stopping the machine, then turns to face me, the tip of the bat digging into the dirt at his feet. “I guess it just took me getting away from everything to … see anything.”
His words and the look in his eyes remind me so much of the weird, ringing clarity I felt when I first found myself in a college dorm, ready to pursue my baseball dream. “I can get that.”
“Can you?” he prods.
I nod. “Sure.”
He nods slowly, deciding to take my word on that. Then he nods at the machine. “Your turn yet? Want to show me how shitty I am by hitting a homerun with every swing?”
“Tell me about your ex,” I say instead.
He freezes and stares at me like I just grew a halo out of the top of my head. “No. We’re not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m not there yet.” At my continued staring, he shakes his head and repeats himself. “I said we’re not doing this.”
“I’m just curious, dude. Indulge me. Pretend like I’m asking about your ex-girlfriend, if that helps. Shit. I don’t care. I just want to know what you’ve been up to other than getting a fancy degree and hitting up Beebee’s every weekend.”
“Okay, for the record, that’s not an every-weekend thing. My coworker Dana practically forced me.”
“Lucky she did,” I throw back.
That freezes whatever his next words were halfway out of his mouth. Something in his eyes change. He squints challengingly at me, then tilts his head. “Alright. You want to hear about my ex?”
“Yep.”
“Maybe five years ago. I was going for—”
“Five years ago??”
He sighs. “Are you gonna let me tell my story or not?”
I shrug and give him a surrendered nod.
Ryan sighs, leans against the side of the cage, then says, “Long story short, he was … a nice guy. Sweet. Flowers on our first date. Put a coat over my shoulders when it was cold outside. He did all the things a boyfriend should do. We never fought. Ever.”
I frown. “Sounds like a good guy. What broke you two up?”
A look of frustration creases Ryan’s features. He lets himself out of the batting cage, leans against the outside of it, then lets his eyes drift to my chest. “I guess I …”
“Yeah?”
He brings his eyes up to meet mine. “I guess my type isn’t the good guy.”
Our eyes don’t detach. He lets me see into him—the man he’s grown into, the boy he’s abandoned somewhere along the way.
Then he slaps the door to the cage. “Batter up.”