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“You’re not,” he meets me in the doorway, pressing a soft kiss to my lips before pulling me into the room and down onto the bench beside him. He resumes playing and watching him up close is a thing of beauty. I’m mesmerized by his fingers moving across the keys, and the sound that comes from the piano is otherworldly. When he stops, he rests his fingers on the keys.
“I know you sing,” He says, his breath against my neck as he scoots closer to me on the bench until our legs are pressed together. “Do you play, too?”
“I know that this,” I reach across him and plunk on a key that sounds slightly out of tune, “is middle C, but that’s the extent of my knowledge.”
“This,” Max moves my finger up two white keys, gently pressing down, “is middle C, Duckling.”
“I thought it sounded wrong when I played it, but it was too late.”
Max laughs, burying his face in the ticklish spot near my collarbone, his whole body shaking with laughter, and I can’t help but join him. The sound – rare, full throated and warm – is contagious. Soon we’re both laughing and he’s wrapped an arm around me, bracketing me between the keyboard and his body as he plays a few notes of a song I recognize but can’t quite place.
“You should probably get some sleep,” Max softly kisses my cheek, “I won’t be responsible for you being off your game tomorrow.”
“You’re no fun,” I turn and claim his lips in a brief kiss. “Butyou’re right.”
After a night of restless sleep, Max greets me with a cup of coffee and a toe curling kiss that makes me want to drag him back upstairs instead of going back to work today. After breakfast together on the deck, I grab my bag from where I left it by the door last night and kiss Maxwell goodbye.
We wrap up a homestand this afternoon and then hit the road for a week, and it seems strange to think that I’ll be going on this road trip without Max. Sure, there’ve been several times during our overlapping time in Seattle that Max has been suspended and hasn’t traveled with the team, but not since we became an us. Even if it’s an us that can’t be broadcast to the team.
As I step into the team entrance I’m greeted by Livvy Montgomery. She’s doing arrival photos today, offering a glimpse of players and staff as we come into work. Apparently these are a hit on social media, so I give her my best smile as I pass.
“Great to have you back, Coach.” She smiles as I pass, the click of her shutter echoing in the concrete tunnel.
“Good to be back.” It’s nottechnicallya lie. Iamglad to be back, but there’s something missing when Max isn’t here. And I really did enjoy a few days without all ofthis.The tunnel echoes with thumping music and steady drum beats. Voices carry out from offices and both clubhouses as our players continue to arrive and attendants get ready for the visitors’ bus to pull up.
I duck into my office and am greeted by a gorgeous flower arrangement and a card that simply readsWelcome Home.I take a few minutes to sit in the silence of my office beforechanging into uniform, lacing up my cleats, and tapping out two short knocks on the door that leads to the clubhouse. The music dies down and so do the voices as the door cracks open just a smidge.
“Come on in!” A muffled response is called through the door, and the music switches to a gritty, dark – if pop can be dark – song from one of my favorite artists. AWelcome Homebanner hangs over a bank of lockers, and the guys slap me on the back as I enter the clubhouse.
“Coach!” Luca approaches with a gift bag in his hands and I’m immediately suspicious. “We got you a little something.”
With a nervous glance around the room, hoping Charlie isn’t lurking nearby just waiting to shut us down, I open the bag and have a good laugh when I lift out a mouth guard and pair of MMA style gloves.
“For your next brawl,” Luca gives me a lopsided smirk. “Don’t worry, Coach. We’ll teach you hownotto get suspended.”
“Get out there on the field, Phillips.” I school my features and do my best to keep a straight face. “I’ve been watching from home, and it seems you and I have some work to do.”
Luca nods, chuckling, amid a chorus of ‘oh burn’ and‘oooohs’as if we’re in a middle school classroom, and I can’t help but join in the laughter as I get ready to take to the field with my team again. I step up to the backstop with my tablet open as Luca steps in for batting practice and Nico sidles up next to me.
“Gladyou’reback, too,” I nudge him with my shoulder. “Sorry you got swept up in all of that.”
“Don’t apologize. At least Max and Ideservedto be suspended. Yours was a power trip.” Nico falls silent, glancing around to see if anyone might be listening. “How is Max, by the way?”
“He’s…”
Warm. Loving. Militant about making sure that I’m hydrated and eating safe foods. He makes better lattes than most cafes in town, and is so quietly affectionate that sometimes I wonder if I do enough to reciprocate.
But I can’t say any of that.
“He’s good,” I settle on a safe answer. “Ready to get back.”
Just before the first pitch, the crew chief for the team of umpires approaches the dugout stairs and points an accusatory finger in my direction.
“Isshegonna be a problem today, Galligher?”
“Are you gonna see the strike zone today, Hernandez?”
“Consider yourself warned.” The umpire walks away, crossing the field to the visitor’s dugout and likely issuing the same warning to them.
