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As you step into the locker room, you are hit with the smell of dirty socks, used gloves, and, surprisingly, soap. A couple of “hey”s are thrown your way, and you simply nod, making your way down the room quickly.
Billy looks up at the commotion, a flash of recognition reflected in his eyes. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Oh.
“I was going to surprise you,” you say, a little more hurt than you expected. “But I guess I’m going.”
Billy doesn’t answer, just finishes tying his shoes. Gus stares at him, mouth agape.
“What was that all about?”
“Boundaries.”
“Billy.”
“Gus,” he deadpans.
“A girl as pretty as that, you just let her walk away?”
“First of all, she’s a woman. Second of all, I told her to meet me at the entrance. Thirdly, stop being such a noisy shit.” He pauses. “You know what, I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
Gus shakes his head. “You’re a dick, Chapel.”
“Don’t you know it,” he replies, not quite believing the words leaving his mouth.
Billy grabs the rest of his gear, says goodbye to everyone who’s still around, and quietly makes his way down the hallway. He’s hit with the smell of laundry detergent and instantly flooded with the pleasant memory of pressing you up against the door in the laundry room. It makes him pause for a second, already mad at himself for reacting the way he did when he saw you a few moments ago.
As he exits the building, he says hello to a few fans waiting outside and signs a few things for them. One person even asks for a selfie. That’s the moment he realizes he’s getting old, because they have to explain it to him.
He finds you sitting on a bench overlooking the ballpark. Arms crossed, face down.
Yeah, you fucked up, he thinks.
He scans the area. There are still a few kids looking for autographs, some parents. All in all, not the crowd he was hoping for while having a private conversation.
“I considered going home instead,” you say, “but I was wondering what you had to say to me.”
“We are not doing this here.”
“Why not? Huh? Tell me why we’re not doing this here, Billy. Seems like the perfect place for it, doesn’t it?”
“Would you please lower your voice.”
“You can’t control me.”
‘’Please, don’t.
‘’What is it with you and control?’’
‘’I’m not trying to control you,” he says, clipped, careful. “I’m trying to keep this from turning into something it doesn’t need to be.”
You let out a short laugh. “That’s funny. Because from where I’m sitting, it already is.”
He glances past you again, eyes tracking the movement around the park. People are looking their way. He hates the audience. Hates variables.
Instead he sits down next to her and tries to grab her hand. She pulls back, unable to meet his gaze.
“This isn’t the place,” he repeats.
“Then when?” you ask. “Because there’s always a reason to wait with you. After the game. After the season. After everything.”
His jaw tightens. That one lands.
“You don’t get to decide when I’m allowed to be upset,” you say. “You don’t get to freeze me out and then tell me it’s about privacy.”
“I didn’t freeze you out.”
“You told me I shouldn’t be there.”
He exhales, long and slow, like he’s resetting between pitches.
“Because that’s my workspace,” he says. “That’s not—” He stops. Reframes. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“See what?”
“Me like that.”
You don’t look away. “Like what, Billy?”
He hesitates. Just a beat. Long enough to notice.
“Out of rhythm,” he says finally. “Off-balance.”
You frown.
He sighs, scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That room’s the one place I don’t have to think about anything but what’s in front of me. Grip. Release. That’s it.”
“And I don’t belong in that?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” He shakes his head once, frustrated. “I just… when you walked in, it pulled me somewhere else.”
“Somewhere else how?”
His jaw tightens. He looks out at the field, not at you. “I missed a beat. And when you’re pitching, missing a beat is how things get away from you.”
You cross your arms. “So I’m a distraction.”
“No.” That comes out sharper than he means. He reins it back in. “You’re not a distraction. You’re… leverage.”
That makes you blink.
“Everything else in there, I can control,” he continues. “But when you’re around, I don’t get to pretend nothing else matters.”
You stay quiet.
He finally looks at you then. ‘’I don’t want to share what we have with them yet.’’
‘’What do we have then?’’
‘’Fun.’’
‘’Fun?’’
‘’Yeah, fun. I like who I am around you. You take up most of the space in my head. I can’t compartmentalize you.’’
You turn towards him. ‘’I’m very confused, is this a compliment or break-up?’’
He focuses on the park in front of him.
You watch him for a second, then ask softly, “Why?”
He frowns. “Why what?”
“Why am I worth throwing you off like that?”
He freezes.
You shrug, like it’s a genuine question. “If I mess with your head that much, why let me get this close at all?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at his hands instead, flexes them once, like he’s checking for feeling.
“Because it’s not a risk,” he says finally.
You tilt your head. “You just said it was.”
He exhales, slow and steady, like he’s already bracing himself.
“No,” he corrects. “It’s a trade-off.”
“For what?”
He finally meets your eyes—and doesn’t look away.
“Because I love you.”
You blink. “You do?”
“You deserve better than me,” he says quietly. “But here we are.”
You tilt your head. “Can we go back to that thing you said?”
“What thing?”
“The you love me thing,” you say, like it’s obvious.
“Oh.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “That. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”
“Like you’re trying to fix an argument with emotional blackmail?”
He chuckles, hand resting on your knee. “Yeah. Exactly that.”
You cup his jaw, guiding his eyes back to yours.
“Communication really isn’t your strong suit, is it?”
“I thought I’d been clear about that,” he says. “I mess up all the good things.”
You pause, thumb brushing his cheek.
“You didn’t mess this up.”
His voice drops. “I… didn’t?”
You shake your head, slow and deliberate. “No. You scared me a little. You frustrated me a lot.” Your thumb traces the line of his jaw. “But you didn’t mess this up.”
He swallows. “You should be mad.”
“I was,” you admit. “I still kind of am.” A small smile tugs at your mouth. “But now I know why.”
“Knowing doesn’t fix it,” he says quietly.
“No,” you agree. “But it explains it.”
He watches your face like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “And that’s… enough?”
“For tonight,” you say. “If you’re willing to talk instead of shutting me out.”
He exhales, shoulders dropping just a fraction. “I can try.”
You lean in before he can overthink that answer, brushing your lips against his. It’s soft, but it still knocks the breath out of him.
He freezes for half a second, like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
Then he kisses you back.
His hand comes up to your waist, tentative at first, then firmer when you don’t pull away. The kiss deepens, like he’s relearning something familiar. His forehead rests against yours when you part, breath warm, uneven.
“I don’t say things right,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“I don’t always know how to make space for you.”
“I know that too.”
He presses another kiss to your mouth, shorter this time, like punctuation. Then one to your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your lips again, lingering.
“But I meant it,” he says quietly. “What I said.”
“I know you did,” you whisper.
His thumb brushes under your eye, gentle. “You don’t make me worse,” he adds. “You make it harder to hide.”
You smile at that, leaning into him. “Sounds like a you problem.”
A huff of a laugh escapes him, and this time when he kisses you, it’s warmer — sure of itself. He pulls you closer, arm wrapping around your back, grounding.
The noise of the park fades around you.
When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. “Come home with me,” he says. Not a demand. An ask.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He presses one last kiss to your lips, it's deliberate, like he’s committing it to memory, before standing and offering you his hand.
This time, you take it.