Page 17 of Hiding in the Outfield

Call me shell-shocked, but for the first time in my life, I have a good chunk of teammates whose hearts do more than just beat in their chest but also pump kindness and decency through their veins. They respect others and stand up to those who don’t.

It’s made me realize some really shitty things about myself. Like how I’ve been contributing to that harmful rhetoric. My world has gone unsteady. I don’t want to be who I’ve been anymore. I just don’t really know what I want to be—what I’m ready to be. But I do know I want to change.

There’s a pounding on our door, and I hurry back over to it. I swing it open to reveal Nebs, Michaels, Stone, and Winters.

“Hey, guys! Come on in.” They shuffle in, and I spot Barnes bringing up the rear. “Barnes! Dude, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

We clasp hands and go in for a quick hug.

“Yeah, I’m up in Providence for the summer. Doing a PT clinical rotation up here. I’m shacking up with those goons.” He points to the foursome who are now greeting the rest of the team. “Frankie offered his room in particular, but I gently let him down.” He grins.

My stomach squeezes, and I force out a laugh. I can totally see Frankie making that joke. He’s not shy in his flirting, and Barnes is a really good-looking guy. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Nebs’s brother, and knowing this guy gets a whole summer in the same house as him? Damn. Barnes may be straight, so there’s no real threat there, but, fuck, I’m jealous.

“That’s exciting, man. I hope you’ll be able to catch more Clippers games.”

“That’s the plan. Will still be pretty busy with PT stuff, but at least I’ll be up here. Almost feels like the good ole days, you know?”

I don’t. I’ve never had the kind of friendship he has with Winters. As much as the friends I’ve surrounded myself with have been assholes, I haven’t really been much better. I never became friends with them simply to be friends. I chose them because they could be my cover. Something twists deep inside my gut, and I force my lips to keep smiling.

“You any good at The Show?” I lead him over to the living room.

He scoffs. “Is that even a fucking question?”

I glance back at him over my shoulder and smile sheepishly. “Right, former baseball player. Totally a criminal offense if you weren’t.”

“There you go. How’s your shoulder doing?”

I groan. “It’s a pain in my fucking ass. I’ve got this deep ache in it. The trainer works it for me pretty much every day. Just typical dead arm, you know?”

“You doing band work?”

“Yeah, and I’ve gone even lighter on my weights.”

I go to sit on the couch, but Barnes shoves me to the floor. “Nope. Sit. I’ll work on your shoulder while we watch these idiots play real baseball for once.”

A chorus of offended heys follow.

“Excuse me, Barnes,” Nebs chirps. “But pretty sure we all got drafted, and you didn’t.”

Oooohs and oh shits fill the room, and I stifle a grin. Barnes just shoots an evil look Nebs’s way. “Someone just lost massage privileges. Don’t come crying to me when that quad is bothering you.”

Nebs’s eyes go wide. “Noooo. Maddox, you are like the most bestest baseball player of all baseball players.”

Laughter swirls around us. Barnes has magic hands. It’s not a secret on the Clippers. He’s hoping to get a minor league gig once he finishes his doctorate. He earned his bachelor’s in athletic training, became a certified athletic trainer, and is now pursuing his Doctor of Physical Therapy.

Speaking of said magic hands, they land on my shoulder, and he starts softly palpating it. “Pain?”

“Nmm-mm.” I shake my head. My skin prickles, and I glance over—and stiffen. Nebs glares at me, mouth pressed in a flat line. It’s not the first time I’ve earned that look. He clearly doesn’t approve of his friend talking to me. I quickly look away.

“Did the trainer give you any limitations?”

“Yeah, but I think I need to revamp my entire routine because the light weights aren’t cutting it.”

“I’d be happy to take a look and give you suggested changes.”

I lean my head back against the couch and catch Barnes’s eye. “Thanks. I’d really appreciate it.”

Barnes and I hit it off from day one and…I think we’re actually friends. Not for any other reason than we just vibe. I know his crew—Nebs, Winters, Stone, and Michaels—all give me the side-eye, as Nebs just proved a second ago. They think I’m an asshole, which is warranted because I know I am. But Barnes isn’t privy to that, and they mustn’t have said too many shitty things, because he seems to like me.