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J.D., already soaked in champagne, watches him duck into the weight room, and he smiles. He’s only known Greinke personally for a few months, but he could’ve told you something like that was gonna happen.
In matching shirts and dark lighting, hiding behind goggles that take up half their faces, and spraying bottles everywhere, everyone is blending together. J.D. figures he could sneak away for a few seconds. So he backs up as discreetly as possible, and slips out.
The weight room seems serene and abandoned compared to the clubhouse. But there’s Greinke, in the middle of bench pressing dumbbells. J.D. walks over.
“Greinke,” he says, “what are you doing?”
He’s silent for a few seconds, then, “I’m bench pressing.”
J.D. crouches. “I see that.” He watches him lift. “But why?”
Greinke doesn’t answer.
“Okay, fine.” J.D. smiles again. “But when we win this next series, will you join the party?”
He still says nothing, but looks at J.D. pointedly. He puts the weights down, sits up. J.D. stands.
“Do you need something?” Greinke asks.
“No,” he replies. “Not really.” He stands, and bites the inside of his cheek. “But I was wondering if - when we get to L.A. - do you wanna, maybe, hang out?”
Greinke sighs, looks back at him. “Hang out.”
“Yeah, hang out.” He pulls at his shirt, sticking to him because of the champagne. “Like, maybe, in my hotel room.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing, to try and disguise the fact that it’s something.
Greinke blinks, looking tired and pretty; J.D. shivers, blames it on the air conditioning drying his skin.
He turns from J.D., looking at his feet. “Sure,” he says, low, impassive.
J.D. nods, to assure himself. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. See ya.”
He slowly walks out of the weight room, and quietly rejoins his teammates in the locker room.