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“Watch out,” I warn him.
Another ball flies toward him, which he quickly dodges, and then he gets back into position for the next one, raising his bat and sticking his butt out. I stifle my smile as I study his pose, from his flexed thighs to his rigidly straightened back to the super tight form of his arms.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Ryan hasn’t softened at all, despite his inability to hit any of the balls. All I see when I look at him is strength and determination. That always mattered more to me; the will to hit the ball is as vital as actually hitting it. Some hit the ball on their first go. Others try and fail ninety-nine times, and the hundredth swing sends the ball soaring to the moon.
“Maybe in college,” he finally answers.
I lift my eyebrows in surprise. “Really? That late?”
“It’s common, actually. Very common.” The ball pitches. He swings and makes contact, but only barely—practically a bunt.
“I just figured you knew back in high school. Like, when we knew each other.”
“Oh yeah? You think I was checking out your ass from the dugout every game or something?” He swings. Another sad bunt.
I laugh dryly at that, then catch my eyes drifting down to his ass. I wonder if he did check out my ass back then. I guess I never noticed because all guys look at other guys. I don’t care if you’re gay or straight; we all notice each other. It’s how we know who to look out for when the competition for girls gets serious. It’s also how we size each other up on the field.
“I think I always knew I was attracted to guys,” he goes on after another swing and miss, “even when I was little. I just didn’t realize it meant I was gay.”
I don’t know if it’s how he says it or just what he says, but I laugh before I can stop myself. Ryan turns and gives me eyes just as the next ball is pitched, whizzing past his knees. I freeze mid-laugh and go quiet. “Oh … You’re not kidding.”
“No.”
I squint at him, confused. “You knew you were attracted to guys … yet didn’t know you’re gay? You serious?”
“Well, look at yourself.” He points his chin at me, then turns back around for the next pitch, which comes soon after. He swings and hits it—his first hit—and then he readies himself for the next, encouraged. “You can look at another guy and tell if he’s sexy or handsome. Right?”
“Well, yeah. Obviously.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re gay,” he finishes. “I know when a girl’s pretty. I just didn’t—don’t have that extra desire to do anything else with her. No one told me that how I felt about girls or guys was different than anyone else.” Another pitch. He swings and misses. “So yes, I didn’t know I was gay, and yet I … I knew what I felt when I was around an attractive guy. It was more than I ever felt around a girl. So … I knew that I was attracted to guys.” Pitch, swing, miss. Ryan huffs. “Even you and I never talked about girls. Ever. We didn’t check them out together, either. You just seemed to have an opinion about every girl I dated.”
“That’s just two girls, by the way,” I tease him.
He slaps a hand to the button, stopping the machine, then turns to face me, the tip of the bat digging into the dirt at his feet. “I guess it just took me getting away from everything to … see anything.”
His words and the look in his eyes remind me so much of the weird, ringing clarity I felt when I first found myself in a college dorm, ready to pursue my baseball dream. “I can get that.”
“Can you?” he prods.
I nod. “Sure.”
He nods slowly, deciding to take my word on that. Then he nods at the machine. “Your turn yet? Want to show me how shitty I am by hitting a homerun with every swing?”
“Tell me about your ex,” I say instead.
He freezes and stares at me like I just grew a halo out of the top of my head. “No. We’re not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m not there yet.” At my continued staring, he shakes his head and repeats himself. “I said we’re not doing this.”
“I’m just curious, dude. Indulge me. Pretend like I’m asking about your ex-girlfriend, if that helps. Shit. I don’t care. I just want to know what you’ve been up to other than getting a fancy degree and hitting up Beebee’s every weekend.”
“Okay, for the record, that’s not an every-weekend thing. My coworker Dana practically forced me.”
“Lucky she did,” I throw back.
That freezes whatever his next words were halfway out of his mouth. Something in his eyes change. He squints challengingly at me, then tilts his head. “Alright. You want to hear about my ex?”
