Page 68 of The Way We Swing

Pepper nodded thoughtfully, then shifted his notepad, and I felt a twitch in my stomach. “Now, if I could, I’d like to get more personal.”

“Okay,” I said slowly.

“Some fans were telling me about an article you wrote for the school paper. About yourself. Can we elaborate on that?” He had avoided mentioning the topic of my article outright, but I could tell he knew what it was about.

“I’d prefer not to talk about that,” I said. My jaw tightened. My hands curled into fists. I swayed in place, eager to leave but not wanting to be rude.

“Our paper would love to run your story, if you were open—”

“That’s enough, Pepper.” Coach Berrios’s voice cut clean through the air as he stepped between us. “Get on the bus, Tanner.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I couldn’t hear what was said, but, from the volume of Coach’s voice, I was glad I wasn’t Pepper. I nearly sprinted to the bus, happy to let the chirping of a victorious team hide my turmoil.

We got home before the sun went down. My parents had invited Ricky and Easton to dinner and were making spaghetti for all of us.

While it cooked, we wandered down to the cage. Gavin was already there, cracking balls off the tee with the quick, coiled swing of his. Easton took his spot at the bucket, feeding Gavin balls one by one. Zach and I stretched out in the grass, the sun still warm on our backs. Ricky sprawled out nearby with a book in his face, the same one he’d been reading on the bus ride.

I stared up at the sky, my fingers fidgeting with a rough patch on my chin. I pressed into a zit just for something to do as Easton gave Gavin a pointer on his swing.

“Why would he ask me that?” I muttered, picking at the zit. “I don’t get it.”

“He was out of line for sure,” Zach said.

“I just want to play baseball. We’re one win away from a state title, and all that asshole wants to know is if he can print my story.”

“Definitely bullshit,” Zach said.

There was a soft thwap as Ricky bent the corner of a page and closed his book. “I think you should let them print it,” he said.

“Shut it, Ricky,” I said.

“I’m serious.” He didn’t flinch. “It’s important.”

“It’s not. I wrote it for me, okay? Just…to get the weight off.”

Ricky sat up, hugging his knees, his eyes steady. “That’s exactly why the story matters. How long did it take you to come out?”

“Not relevant.”

“It is.” He waved a hand at the yard—my family, the cage, the house. “You said it in the article. Not everybody has this.”

I let his words consume me. “So what? That doesn’t mean it’ll help anyone.”

“You don’t know that.” Ricky leaned forward, voice low but sure. “Some kid—twelve, thirteen, whatever—reading the paper before school. Maybe he’s stuck in the middle of nowhere with no one to talk to. Then he sees someone like him hit three doubles in a state semifinal and didn’t hide from being gay. That could change something.”

I looked over at Easton. He wasn’t facing us, but his hands had stilled in the bucket. The silence was its own signal.

“I wrote that just for me.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t be for someone else, too,” Ricky said, opening his book again like the conversation was done.

“I’ll think about it after the game on Monday,” I said. “Not before.”

Ricky gave a little nod without looking up.

I caught the title on the front of his book, printed in bold white letters:Going the Other Way.

“What are you reading, Ricky?”