Page 9 of The Way We Swing

He reached for the waistband of his shorts and shoved them down. He stepped out of them and folded the shorts over the edge of the futon. His boxers clung to him in a way that made my gaze last longer than it should have. I forced my eyes to the window, my heart ticking a little too fast for 12:30 at night.

I took off my own shorts and hopped under my covers.

“Tighty-whities, huh, big guy?”

Embarrassed, I said, “They’re comfortable. You should try them sometime.”

“Not a chance,” he said.

I looked at my ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars I’d stuck up there when we’d moved in still held strong.Childish? Maybe. But they reminded me of a time when I didn’t have to worry. When I didn’t feel the need to be on alert all the time, terrified of who was watching my actions. When I didn’t know I was gay.

Easton’s words snapped me back to the present. “Good night, bro. Thanks for letting me crash in your room.”

No, thank you for staying in my room.“No problem,” I said. “I had fun today.”

“So did I.” His voice was as soft as mine. He pulled the blanket up to his chest and settled in, facing the wall.

Eyes shut, I tried to convince myself my happiness came from just having a new teammate. It was easier to believe that than to risk the truth.

I turned onto my side, watching his shape in the glow of the streetlight leaking through the window. It was a faint outline, breathing in a steady rhythm.

It felt like the moment would disappear if I did anything to mess it up.

So, I didn’t move.

CHAPTER 3

The sun clung to the sky as if it knew it was summer vacation. Ricky and I sat in my car, parked in front of Easton’s grandparents’ place after our fifth practice of the summer. It was one of those single-story houses with tan siding and aluminum storm windows. A pair of stone gnomes sat in the garden and stared at us like they knew too much.

Easton had run inside to grab a change of clothes; Zach had skipped baseball for football practice, and we hadn’t seen him in hours.

Ricky shifted in his seat for the fiftieth time as we waited. “What’s he doing, ironing clothes with a candle?”

“He said he’d be right back.”

“Right back in old-people time or real time?” Ricky popped open his door. “I’m going in.”

“Nope.” I grabbed at his shirt. “You can’t kick open the door. They’re—”

“What? Gonna swat me with a remote? I’m being polite.”

“You’re being you. Which is so much worse.”

He was halfway across the lawn by the time I unbuckled. I sprinted after him, catching up as he raised his hand to knock.

The door opened before he touched it.

A woman who could only be Easton’s grandma stood in the doorway wearing an apron covered in roosters. Her hair was whiter than a new baseball and perfectly curled, and her back hunched as she leaned on a walker.

Ricky froze, possibly for the first time ever. “Oh. Hi.”

She squinted at him and then at me. “You're not those vacuum salesmen again, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “We’re Easton’s teammates.”

She peered at us like we were part of an optical illusion. “Teammates? Like that Forkknife thing?"

“Baseball,” I said gently.