Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Clever. Way to make the meaning clear without crossing a line.
I scan his name tag. Dylan. Then I let my eyes take a one-second tour of his face.
Square jaw, high cheekbones—he’s attractive. But do I feel a spark?
My body’s not flashing hot. My skin isn’t tingling. Which raises the question—is this guy my type? Or not?
Hell if I know. I’m not even sure if I have a type. Except I’m pretty certain I’m not a guy who’s into one-night stands or banging somebody in the mile-high club if that’s what Dylan is proposing.
But is that what he’s hinting at? Pickup lingo is still new to me—I spent ninety-nine percent of college either studying or playing ball.
Nah, Dylan’s just feeling me out.
And I’d probably need a few dates to see if we sparked. That won’t happen, so I find the gentleman’s way out. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” I say with a grin, and he continues on his way.
This is my MO: flash a smile. Say some friendly words. Be on good terms with everyone.
That’s what’s gotten me through ups and downs, good times and bad times, hard times and absolutely fucking hard times. When the people who were supposed to stand behind you let you down.
In the worst ways possible.
But that’s okay.
I have everything I need now that I’m twenty-two. And this arrow? It’s not only about goals and milestones. It’s protection.
Sure, things have changed in pro sports over the last several years. Some players in the NBA, NHL, NFL, and MLB are out now. The closet isn’t what it used to be in pro ball—the only place for a gay athlete. Leagues, owners, and marketers have embraced the LGBTQ sports nation.
Plus, I’m not even the only queer dude on the team.
I am all the way out, and I’m out on my terms. I don’t need a single soul whispering, talking behind my back, or speculating. I don’t like to leave it up to anyone’s best guess. My Instagram and Twitter profiles are decorated with rainbows.
But even when you’re out, people can still trip you up.
That’s why I need the arrow for protection.
From the people who let me down.
Those who have, and those who will.
I close my eyes, picturing the arrow going forward, riding that momentum to take me through the next several weeks, then, I hope, on to my first ever baseball season in the Major Leagues. Finally, finally, everything in my life feels right, and I don’t want anything to change that.
Not even the fact that I have a crush on one of my teammates.
The next day, I’m a bottle of Diet Coke mixed with Mentos. I rise before dawn, shower, get dressed, and head for the ballpark, all jitters and excitement.
I walk the half-mile from the hotel. The sign for the ballpark looms high above the gates, graced with the name of the team’s first owner.
Helen Williams Field.
The spring training home for the San Francisco Cougars.
It’s beautiful, and it beckons me.
Memories flash before me. The time I first picked up the well-worn baseball glove my grandfather gave me. When I threw a ball to him in the backyard. When he tossed it back to me and I caught it on the first try, and he said, “You’re going to be an all-star catcher someday.”
Years of practice.
Sore muscles, broken bones, heartbreaking losses.
But victories too.
High school state championships, college World Series, the Major League Baseball Draft.
As I head into the team’s spring training facility for the first time, I take it all in. The plaques, the trophies, the photographs. I’m in the presence of greatness. Just look at the pics of all these guys who’ve come before me, won rings, snagged batting titles, earned Cy Youngs.
They played here first, took batting practice out on the diamond, and fielded ground balls.
I get to do that now. It’s my chance to show my team that I have what it takes to be their starting catcher for the next decade.
Nothing will distract me. Nothing will throw me off.
I make my way down the corridor, my shoes echoing against the concrete, as I say hello to everyone I pass. I greet the groundskeepers, the janitors, the staffers, asking how they’re doing. I like to be the one people can rely on for a friendly face, an encouraging word. That’s how I fit into the team and the organization.
And with the pitchers too, since they’re the guys who have to rely on me most.
Item number one on my to-do list?
Earn the pitchers’ trust.
It’s mostly just pitchers and catchers at the complex for the first few days, working out on a practice field. I toss balls with the starters, then the relief pitchers, then the team’s closer, Chance Ashford. The man has a punishing cut fastball, and I love it.
“I’d like to say that’s your secret weapon, but I’m pretty sure all of baseball knows your cutter was forged at the gates of hell,” I tell him when he comes off the mound after a throwing session.