Page 5 of The Way We Swing

My pulse jumped. I didn’t know if it was the challenge or the way his hair stuck to his forehead—or the curve of his grin a second later.

Ricky shouted something from the deck, and I flinched like I’d been caught. I needed to get it together. My eyes went anywhere but on Easton. I remembered the rule I'd never broken—don't lust after a teammate. It had always been easy with familiar faces and no surprises.

I didn’t know if it was his grin, his swing, his confidence, or the way he kept looking at me. But I knew the rule would no longer be easy to follow.

CHAPTER 2

Before changing for practice, we hit for a few more rounds—ball after ball off the screen, with only my favorite sound of aluminum on cowhide.

Easton hardly spoke—just stepped in, launched line drives, and adjusted his grip like he was editing a masterpiece. His eyes never left the ball.

And, yeah…the fact he wore nothing but a pair of swim trunks as he swung didn’t exactly help me stay focused.

We arrived at the field at 5:30, giving us thirty minutes before practice. Silas and Maddux were already fielding ground balls from Coach Berrios. Easton, Zach, Ricky, and I threw our cleats on and jogged over to Coach.

He stopped swinging when he saw us. He’d been the baseball coach for over a decade, had a build like mine—a little too skinny—and might’ve been Mexican or Puerto Rican. You could guess all you wanted, but he’d say the opposite and call you an idiot. I quit asking a while ago.

“You must be Easton,” he said, extending his hand to introduce himself. “I’m Coach Berrios. Nice to put a face to a voice.”

“You guys usually get here early?” Easton asked.

Silas and Maddux were at first base, talking between themselves. While their baseball skills were similar, their builds couldn’t be more different. Silas stood a head taller than Maddux and, somehow, already had a receding hairline at eighteen, in contrast to Maddux, who had a full head of ginger hair. They looked as sturdy as brick houses, however, and I’d never seen either of them back down from a fight.

“Sometimes. Silas let a ground ball between his legs in the state playoffs a week ago, so he’s been begging me for more reps.”

“My kind of team,” Easton said.

It was the same thing as at the house—he acted like he was already a part of us. Way too fast for me, but, apparently, he was like Gavin: full steam ahead at all times, no brakes, like a runner ignoring a stop sign and trying to score from second base to tie a game.

“Do you guys need to get loose? What position do you play?” Coach asked.

“No, we’ve been hitting,” I said, “and he seems to think that he’s taking my spot next year.” I glanced at Easton. He looked as embarrassed to hear his words out loud as I felt saying them.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, then. Easton, go to short; Tanner, head to second with Zach.” Baptism by fire. Classic Coach Berrios.

Practice ran as usual. Except I kept getting distracted, trying to watch how Easton performed. He was nearly as good as he thought—the way he talked to himself after every ground ball; the way he shook out his glove before every ball in play; how smooth he was at fielding everything, the glove an extension of his hand.

At one point, I threw a ball to the wrong base, a mistake I hadn’t made in years. Silas called me out for not paying attention. He was the only player who could (or would) do that, but he was right. I needed to focus.

Somehow, I managed to get through practice—though just barely. I had my rule for a reason.

But afterward, I still offered to give Easton a ride home. It was the least a teammate could do, right? When we got into the car, Zach told him I’d pick him up in the morning so he wouldn’t have to walk. Then the two of them decided it made no sense to add an extra stop at 7 a.m. and that Easton should spend the night.

Not that I was complaining, even if I felt like I should.

We swung by Easton’s house to pick up a change of clothes before we got back to the house. Zach and Easton debated engines and horsepower or whatever. I stared outthe window and counted how many cars had Cardinals bumper stickers, trying to distract myself.

I had a pretty good idea of how it would go if I came out to my friends. I’d be a distraction. No matter how well I played, that’s all they’d see. I’d no longer be Tanner—I’d be relegated to the gay teammate.

By the time we pulled into our driveway, splashing sounds were already coming from the backyard, meaning Gavin was home. We followed Gavin’s laugh to the pool. It was a sound that never failed to make me smile—not that I’d tell him that.

Mom flipped through an insurance magazine, still obsessed after fifteen years in the business. Dad had the Cardinals game on the radio, like always. He worked in engineering and made good money. He’d coached us through Little League before handing us off once travel ball started. He said that was when the real coaches took over.

They grew up just outside Columbia, Missouri, and wanted us to as well. They loved the area, and I agreed with their choice.

When we got to the porch, Dad turned down the radio and stood from his chair, wincing slightly as his knees straightened. “You must be Easton,” he said, extending a hand.

“Yes, sir,” Easton said, shaking Dad’s hand.