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“Hey,” Sam says while they’re all gathered at the table for dinner. “Remember how Baker retired and his son took over?”
“Yes,” Eric says, because he’s an excellent listener and he cares about the things Sam tells him.
At the same time, Scot asks, “Who’s Baker?”
“At his work,” Eric fills him in. “Old guy who ran the firm.”
“Why’s it called a firm, anyway?” Scot asks.
“No idea,” Eric says.
“It has to do with etymology,” Sam says. “I know neither of you want me to explain it.” Scot and Eric both nod. Scot might care later, because he’s a nerd like Sam, but for now he seems to be letting Sam get on with what he’s saying. “Anyway, the new Baker has all these changes, which have been…” He rolls his eyes, so the changes must be bad. “But Marcy finally got the corporate softball team she’s been pushing for, and he wants as many of us to join as possible.”
“Who’s Marcy?” Scot asks.
“One of the other lawyers,” Sam says.
“Do I get to see you in baseball pants?” Eric asks delightedly, latching onto the most important part of this conversation.
“Ew,” Scot complains mildly.
“Sorry,” Eric says, ears going hot with embarrassment. He was so excited at the mental image he forgot to keep his private thoughts private.
“It’s for family members, too,” Sam says. He smiles at Eric. “Now that they know I’ve got an athlete at home.”
“They want me to play?” Eric asks.
“Yeah,” Sam says. He looks at Scot. “You too, Scot. Kids over 12 can play.”
Scot is a lot less enthused than Eric. “Okay.”
“Unless the station has a team?” Sam asks Eric. “That seems like something you guys would have. Sports guys.”
“Greg doesn’t put a team together officially. The baseball and football guys have a team with the baseball guys from CBC. But that didn’t seem fair to me,” Eric blusters. “Kind of a stacked team.”
“They didn’t ask you to play,” Sam guesses wryly.
“They didn’t ask me to play,” Eric confirms. It’s possible he’s miffed about it. He’s the only one in their office who played pro anything. Sure, it wasn’t baseball, but that shouldn’t matter. He’s an athlete, retired or not.
“Wait, didn’t they talk to you about it before?” Sam asks. He’s not teasing anymore. “I remember you mentioning it.”
“A few months ago,” Eric confirms. “I guess…they changed their minds.” He doesn’t look at Sam as he says that, because he knows why they changed their minds. He suspects, anyway, and he doesn’t want Sam realizing why.
“Ah,” Sam says, because of course he figures it out. He’s a hell of a lot smarter than Eric is. He looks at Eric until Eric meets his eye and nods. “A few months ago.”
A few months ago was before Eric came out. He came out in the meeting at Christmastime, and then suddenly the word got out. Not just around the station—around everywhere.
Greg launched an entire investigation into who leaked it. Eric didn’t mind, or at least he’s been trying not to mind, because he’s okay with people knowing. It means he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder when he’s walking down the street with Sam and Scot.
He still does look over his shoulder. Old habits die hard, but he’s working on it. Greg did his investigation anyway, because he didn’t want someone who would leak personal information like that working at the station. Eric can understand that perspective. He didn’t go to journalism school or whatever, but mostly everyone else at the station did, and that seems like something journalism school would teach them not to do.
Eric doesn’t know if Greg found out who was talking. He told Greg he didn’t want to know. Eric has no idea how he’d respond if Greg told him who it was, and he’d prefer not to face any of that. Maybe it makes him a coward, but he doesn’t care.
Either way, Eric is now officially out to the world. Putting his name into Google automatically suggests Eric McNally hockey gay. It’s as succinct a summation of himself as he’s ever seen.
He doesn’t know for sure that’s why the guys didn’t ask him to play, but it seems like a hell of a coincidence. He shrugs at Sam and Sam shakes his head. He reaches over and rubs Eric’s shoulder comfortingly.
“Oh, they didn’t want you to play with them ‘cause you’re gay,” Scot says. “That’s dumb. You played hockey when you were gay and people liked that.”
“They didn’t know I was gay when I was playing hockey,” Eric says. He doesn’t even trip over gay. He’s growing.
“Yeah, but you still were, and now they know that,” Scot says. “They’re not very smart if they can’t understand.”
“You are so right, Scot,” Sam agrees.
“You know, I don’t have any equipment for baseball,” Scot says coyly, seeing Sam’s praise as an opening. “I think we might need to go shopping.”
“You know what, Scot?” Eric says. “Any time you want to go shopping for sports equipment, you say the word. I’ll take you without complaining.”
“Let’s go!” Scot chirps.
“Okay, not so fast,” Eric says. He should’ve seen this coming. “I didn’t say we’d go right away.”
Eric needs time to prepare for a shopping trip. He wasn’t lying when he told Scot he doesn’t shop, but he’s been doing it more with Scot here. But shopping with Scot is…an experience, for sure. Eric’s used to shopping at sports stores, but Scot turns those into an ordeal, too.
“You have to do your homework,” Sam points out. “We can go this weekend.”
“Okay,” Scot says easily. He will absolutely hold them to it. He never forgets when someone’s mentioned shopping.
They go through the after-dinner dishes and homework routine. Scot only has two more weeks left of school, and Eric thinks that’s the right time to start ramping down the assignments. Ms. Paul apparently doesn’t agree. She’s going full-steam to the finish line.
“Do you want to play on this baseball team?” Eric asks Sam once they’ve sent Scot up to bed and are kicking back with their drinks.
Sam shrugs. “It’s softball,” he corrects. “But either way, it’s fine.” Sam’s not a big sports guy, despite his job, but he doesn’t mind baseball. He’d never choose to go watch a game, but he’ll go to games if clients invite him or if friends want to go.
“Playing is way more exciting than watching,” Eric says. That’s true of every sport, in his opinion, but he likes watching hockey a hell of a lot more than he likes watching baseball. The games are so long.
“Eric,” Sam says. He turns and puts his hands on Eric’s shoulders. “This team is for fun. No one from my firm is the kind of athlete you’re used to, okay? We have one summer associate who ran track in university. Marcy played softball in high school. That’s why she started the team. I think a few of the support staff played soccer or something. But that’s it. There’s no playoffs. No championship. You don’t get anything if you win. It’s just for fun.”
“You think I’m going to be too intense and ruin it?” Eric asks, wounded. He can’t think of any other reason Sam would be reiterating the fun part so many times.
“Do I have to remind you of Scot and Joey?” Sam asks.
“No,” Eric pouts. “Sam, I’ll be good. I promise. I can be fun!”
“You are fun,” Sam relents. “But…not always with sports.”
“Winning is fun,” Eric mutters petulantly, but he grabs Sam’s arm and says, “Seriously, Sam, I’ll back off. No Scot and Joey incidents in our future.”
“Okay,” Sam says. He looks at Eric and raises his eyebrows. “And yes, there are baseball pants.”
“Ooh, Sam, you are making me very excited for this league,” Eric says, rubbing a hand down Sam’s leg.
Sam’s not an athlete, but three times per week he goes out and runs exactly three miles. He doesn’t buy fancy gadgets to track his times or try to get faster. He doesn’t enter 5k fun runs and he is not interested in training plans. He does it solely for cardiovascular health.
He explained it that way to Eric nearly six years ago. Eric had asked, “Don’t you want to see if you’re better than other runners?” Sam had said he didn’t care, and they’d stared at each other like they each thought the other was being weird.
They’ve called a truce on workout related matters. Eric gets to do all the workouts he wants, and Sam gets to do his exact nine miles per week and nothing more, and they’re both happy.
And though Sam may not be concerned with getting faster or running farther, those nine miles each week are still enough to define his quads and his glutes. Which means Eric is thinking about said quads and glutes in baseball pants and he is liking what he’s going to see.
“But you have to behave yourself,” Sam scolds.
“Oh, I’m so good at behaving,” Eric promises.
Sam gives him a look. “Well, that’s not true.”
“No, I will,” Eric says. “I’ll keep my hands all to myself while other people are around.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah, I’m well aware. I wasn’t worried about PDA. I meant with not getting too competitive and sucking all the fun out of this.”
Part of Eric would like to get offended by Sam’s derision at the idea of Eric being affectionate in public, but he knows he hasn’t earned that right. He’s only kissed Sam in front of other people once, and that wasn’t public. It was their closest family and friends inside the safety of their own house, and it took him five years to work up to that.
“Well, just for that, maybe I won’t keep my hands to myself,” Eric says haughtily. “I’m going to grab your ass in front of everyone.”
Sam cracks up laughing. “Okay, sure,” he says. “You do that.”
Eric rolls his eyes. They both know he’s not going to do that. But he says, “So. Speaking of fun and sucking, huh?”
Sam laughs so hard at Eric’s idea of a sexy segue he almost falls off the bed. But he doesn’t say no, and tonight Eric doesn’t need to be competitive—they both win.
Scot’s last two weeks of school go well. He likes school, which is nice. Eric never liked school and he was always miserable. He doesn’t want Scot to be miserable. And now that Scot’s biggest bully is a friend, he’s not having any trouble with the other kids. Once they got over the initial surprise of how Scot dresses and talks and twirls around, they all grew to love him. Eric knows the feeling.
The first Saturday after school lets out is their first softball game. Scot scrunches his nose as he looks down at the team shirt he’s wearing. Baker, Baker, Martin & Fitzgerald. It’s the name of Sam’s firm. “This isn’t the best name for a team,” Scot says. “I mean, how are we supposed to cheer that name out?”
“We don’t need to cheer the name out,” Sam says.
Scot puts his hands on his hips. “Sam, I’ve been watching a lot of baseball,” he says, which sounds like a lie to Eric until he adds, “They do a lot of cheering. It’s like being a cheerleader right there on the team. We need to do cheers.”
“You can just say regular baseball stuff,” Eric says. “Softball stuff. Hey, batter, batter, swing, batter, batter,” he demonstrates.
“Personalization is always the best strategy,” Scot says solemnly.
“Okay,” Sam says with a huff. “Well, sorry. Maybe you can think of something.”
They get to the field. It’s a nice day, sunny and warm but not too hot yet. The games further into July will be sticky and sweaty, but today’s not bad. They can see people from Sam’s firm gathered at one dugout and head in that direction.
“Hey,” a guy in an ump uniform says. “I need the team captain to sign off on the lineup.”
Sam looks around. “I don’t know who the captain is.”
“I have it here as someone named Sam Miller,” the ump says. “They pointed me to you.”
Sam looks comically surprised. “Why is this my job?” he asks, baffled.
Eric and Scot leave him to it and keep going to the dugout. Eric would have rather stayed with Sam; he doesn’t want to go meet all the people from Sam’s firm on his own. But Scot loves meeting new people and there’s another kid somewhere within a few years of Scot’s age, so off they go.
“Hi,” a woman says. “I’m Marcy. Are you guys with Sam?”
“Hi,” Eric says. He does an awkward wave that he knows makes him look stupid. “I’m Eric. I’m Sam’s…uh, partner.”
The thing about coming out is that he never seems to be done. He’s been doing it in increments all along; first he told Joan, and next he told some of Sam’s friends, and he told Mildred and George when he and Sam first moved into the house and didn’t hide from the other neighbors, and he never denied anything to anyone at Scot’s school, and he stood in that meeting and told his coworkers about Erica.
But he thought putting out a statement through the station after the rumors spread was the last time he’d have to do it, and then he’d be all the way out. He thought once everyone knew, everyone would…well, know.
As it turns out, not everyone in the entire world read his statement or knows who he is. So he still has to come out all the time. Every time he introduces Sam to someone, every time he and Sam are out with Scot and someone looks between them to figure out their relationship, every time a woman in the grocery store tries to flirt with him. He still has those little coming out moments at least once a week.
Sam had laughed sympathetically when Eric brought that up to him. “Yeah,” he’d said fondly, rubbing Eric’s arm. “We should put that in the gay welcome packs, huh?”
“Oh, hi, Eric,” Marcy says. “You’re the hockey player.” She’s giving him an assessing look, so he knows she’s serious about this softball team.
No one else looks very serious. Eric’s not trying to stereotype or anything, but most of the guys he can see are looking like Grad A nerds. Sam’s a nerd, but he’s a hot nerd. These aren’t hot nerds.
“I’m Scot,” Scot says. “He’s gay.”
“Thanks for that,” Eric says under his breath. It’s not a problem that Scot says that anymore, but it’s still a bit nerve-wracking.
One of the guys in the back laughs. “Yeah, we heard.”
Eric stiffens, but it’s not a mocking laugh. It’s good-natured, and he reminds himself these are Sam’s coworkers. Sam’s worked at this firm since he finished law school, and he’s been out the whole time. His coworkers know. His coworkers like him.
They do a bunch of introductions as Sam comes over. “Hey,” he says. “Why did the ump think I’m the captain?”
“Because I put you down as the captain,” Marcy says.
“Why?” Sam asks.
“You’re the most senior partner who signed up,” Marcy says.
“So?” Sam says. “You’re the one who pushed for this team and knows about softball.”
Marcy grins cheekily. “Well, I thought we’d stick with seniority for doing all the annoying paperwork type stuff.”
Sam rolls his eyes and laughs. “Okay, great, thanks.” He looks at Eric. “Did you meet everyone?”
“Yep,” Eric says. “We are ready to play.”
Their opponents today are from a different law office. “Do you know them?” Eric asks. “Do you have a rivalry or something?”
“They’re insurance law,” Marcy says.
“Non-sports insurance?” Eric asks.
Sam and his coworkers all laugh at Eric, so that was apparently a dumb question. Sam squeezes Eric’s elbow so he won’t feel too bad about it, which works very well. For all Eric’s fears and hiding, Sam’s been using touch to calm him down for years.
They have to decide who’s playing what. Eric wanted to do a practice during the week, but Sam nixed that idea. He reminded Eric, yet again, this is just for fun. Eric gets that, but he thinks it’s a lot more fun to be prepared and win.
“Maybe Eric should stick to pinch-hitting,” Sam says. “He’s got a bad shoulder.”
“My shoulder’s fine,” Eric protests. He doesn’t want to be the guy who can’t play. Sure, it’s just a slow-pitch corporate team, but Eric wants to be part of the action. He’s an athlete. Everyone keeps cutting him out.
Sam gives him a look. “Hockey hurts your shoulder. What’s throwing a ball going to do?”
“He could take second base,” Marcy suggests. “Mostly a short throw to first, if he needs to throw at all.”
Sam looks at Eric. “Compromise?”
“Okay,” Eric sighs.
Sam gets to worry about him. Eric is, in fact, lucky that Sam worries about him. Brushing aside Sam’s worries because he’s getting an ego about a summer softball league that Sam has reminded him every day is non-competitive would not be a good way to handle things.
So Eric takes himself out to second base. The infield doesn’t get a lot of action in a slow-pitch game, since most people are able to hit it to the outfield, but there are a few kids on the other team.
It’s a moot point; in the seven innings they play, no grounders come to Eric the entire time. He hits a homerun in the third inning without even trying. “Sorry,” he says quietly to Sam when he gets back to the dugout.
“Eric, you’re allowed to play,” Sam assures him, squeezing his shoulder. “I just mean don’t get too intense with your attitude. Sorry.” He frowns and rubs his hand up and down Eric’s arm apologetically. Eric glances around once, but no one’s paying them any attention. He likes that Sam’s comforting him.
“Oh,” Eric says, patting Sam on the back. “I can do that.”
He has a lot more fun after they clear that up. He’s not playing hard enough to hurt himself, but he’s not pulling his punches, either. Marcy’s good, Sam’s decent, and there’s another guy named Matt who’s alright. Eric thinks Matt must be the one who ran track in university, because he’s fast as hell.
But no one else shows any skill in softball, and they don’t seem to care. Scot strikes out both times he goes up to bat. “That’s okay, bud,” Eric says.
“I know,” Scot says. “I don’t care.”
They do not win the game. But Scot’s cheering his heart out, and Marcy teaches him some little songs she says they sang during her high school softball days. He’s having a great time, and Eric can’t do anything but smile at that.
“How are you feeling?” Sam asks, half-teasing. He rests a hand on Eric’s back tentatively. Eric tenses reflexively, which is why Sam was being tentative about it, but Eric makes himself relax so Sam won’t move his hand.
“Me?” Eric says. “Oh, I’m great. I love losing. I really love losing by six runs.”
Sam gives him a look. “Work on that lie before you talk to Scot about it.”
Eric laughs. “Hey, he had fun. I like that.”
“Much better,” Sam approves.
The boy in question comes running up then, holding one of those ice cream Drumsticks. “Mildred brought ice cream!” he says. It’s already dripping down his hand.
“Ooh, ice cream,” Eric says.
“We never got ice cream after hockey,” Scot says, halfway between conversational and accusing.
“That’s because you played hockey in the winter,” Sam points out. “In a refrigerated rink.”
“But I still got hot,” Scot says. “You can eat ice cream all year.”
“I agree with him,” Eric says. “We should definitely be getting ice cream after hockey.”
They get their ice cream from Mildred, who says, “Well, it didn’t look like you won.”
“We didn’t,” Eric says. He looks at Scot. “But that’s okay. We had fun, right?”
“Not that much fun,” Scot says, unconcerned by their loss or his lack of fun. “I’m having fun eating ice cream now.”
“Enough fun to come back next week?” Sam checks.
“Yeah, I guess,” Scot says with a shrug. “Even though Jamie didn’t want to take my nail polish tips.”
Jamie’s somebody’s kid, Eric’s not sure whose, and is less excited about softball than Scot. Jamie is easily identifiable by being dressed in head-to-toe black instead of the team uniform. Scot’s nail polish tips most likely included bright pink and glitter, so Eric can see why that didn’t go over well.
“Can you at least wear your charm bracelet?” Mildred asks.
Eric rolls his eyes at her and Sam snorts. “No,” Scot says. “Jewelry isn’t allowed during sports. Another reason sports uniforms are so boring. I thought we’d be wearing something more like Elton John’s look at Dodger Stadium.”
“You know what Dodger Stadium is?” Eric asks, shocked. He lets the Elton John part go. He doesn’t know what Scot’s talking about.
“You thought we’d be wearing rhinestone-encrusted uniforms?” Sam asks. That must be the Elton John part.
“I think you’d lose a rhinestone here or there while you’re playing,” Mildred points out.
“That’s true,” Scot says. Eric resists the urge to say not the way you play. That would just be mean.
“You did a very good job not being too intense,” Sam praises when they get home and clean up. “Even when Jamie dropped that ball and left it there.”
“Oh, my God,” Eric groans at the reminder. “How hard is it to figure out you have to pick that up!”
Sam’s laughing at him. He leans in and gives Eric a kiss. “Did you have any fun at all?”
“Yeah, I had fun,” Eric promises. “Got to spend a few hours with you and Scot. And I got to ogle your ass all morning.”
“You definitely didn’t do that with a bunch of people around,” Sam says dryly.
“Oh, Sam, you think you know me so well,” Eric says. And he’s right, because getting caught looking at Sam’s ass would make Eric melt down to a pile of embarrassed goo. “Fine, I didn’t. But I did sneak a few peeks.”
“Well, we have to take our wins where we can get them,” Sam says.
“I love when you use sports analogies,” Eric says, pulling him back in for more kisses.
“Like you trying to make it past third base right now,” Sam says.
“I’d like to slide into home soon,” Eric confirms.
They’re both cracking up laughing. Eric’s preparing himself for a summer of frustrating losses on the softball field, but he’s finding there are a lot of wins he didn’t anticipate, too.
On Monday, Eric’s got a plan. He wants to take Scot and Sam to the batting cages. He doesn’t think he’s going to have much luck igniting a love of sports in either of them, but at least they can work on their form and make contact with the ball next game.
“Batting cages?” Sam echoes bemusedly when Eric posits this as an after-dinner activity. He puts some warning in his tone when he adds, “Eric.”
“Come on, how about some batting practice?” Eric says. “It doesn’t mean we’re getting overly competitive. It just means we’re getting ready.”
Scot thinks it over. “Okay,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind hitting the ball, I think.”
“That’s the spirit,” Eric says. He looks at Sam hopefully. “Some fun family bonding,” he wheedles.
Sam huffs and rolls his eyes, because Eric’s working his luck, but he shrugs. “Alright,” he says. “Let me change.”
Somehow, in the time it takes Sam and Eric to change their clothes, Scot has run outside and gathered up his friends. Eric wonders if he’s regaling them with stories of his softball glory. It would be a short story.
“Can they come to the batting cages with us?” Scot asks.
“They’d have to ask their parents,” Sam says.
“Mine won’t mind,” Joey says.
“Me, too,” Carla says.
“My mom tells me not to come home until it’s dark,” Ryan says. Eric holds back a snort. He doesn’t doubt it. They all pile into the car. Eric’s not sure how their house became the preteen hangout spot, but he knows it has more to do with Scot than anything he and Sam have done.
“Can’t Ryan play on the team instead of me?” Scot asks while they drive.
“I’m pretty good at baseball,” Ryan says in the nonchalant way that means he actually really wants to play.
“Oh, sorry, Ryan, it’s too late to add new people,” Sam says. He can obviously tell Ryan really wants to play, too, because he’s wincing apologetically. “How about this, though? You go a whole year without saying the F word and you can play with us next year.”
“The F word?” Ryan says scornfully. “What’s wrong with fuck?”
“The other F word, Ryan,” Eric says. He turns so he can give Ryan a significant look with his eyebrows raised. “You know what he means.”
Ryan heaves a sigh and groans. “So fucking lame,” he mutters. He tips his head back and groans again at the roof, but he says, “Fine. There’s another F word for you.”
“So glad to see your literacy is going well,” Sam says dryly.
The kids immediately run wild at the batting cages. Eric thinks he’s probably supposed to care about that, but he doesn’t. He’s still getting the hang of this parenting thing. He sends Sam into the cage first while Scot and his friends take their sweet time picking out helmets and bats.
Sam’s pretty coordinated, but he doesn’t have a good natural stance in the box. Eric was never the best at baseball, but he played up to junior high. “Here, let me help you,” he says, letting himself into the cage. He moves Sam’s back elbow up and his front elbow down and shows him which knuckles to line up.
“I thought you were going to put the moves on me,” Sam teases.
“What, wrap my arms around you and feel you up?” Eric asks with a snort. He doesn’t know if anyone does that in real life or only in movies, but he can picture it now. He could do it, except that his stomach is doing cartwheels at the idea of putting his arms around Sam in public. He glances around. No one’s paying attention; it’s mostly bragging guys trying to show off for bored girls who don’t care and a Little League team with two kids crying. Eric takes a deep breath. He can do this. Sam wants to do a silly couple thing, be dumb and cheesy and romantic like they’re kids in puppy love. Eric’s warming to the idea with every thought. “Okay, here,” he murmurs, coming up closer to Sam.
“Whoa, I didn’t think you’d do it,” Sam says, surprised. He’s looking at Eric with wide eyes.
Eric likes surprising him in good ways. He feels like most of their relationship has been surprising Sam in bad ways, letting him down. Sam doesn’t like when he talks that way, but it’s how he feels. Better to give them both examples of happy surprises.
“Yeah, well, I am,” Eric says. He’s trying to sound confident and cool and he knows he’s missing the mark. He puts his arms over Sam’s and guides his hand to the right position on the bat. “You don’t really need that much help,” Eric admits, voice soft because he’s right in Sam’s ear.
“I can get worse if you want,” Sam offers.
Eric laughs, feeling himself loosen up. Even if someone said something right now, he thinks he could take it. “No, don’t do that,” Eric says. “I’ll just feel you up anyway.”
They’re both laughing now and not doing a lot of actual stance work. “Hello!” Scot cuts in. “What are you doing?”
“It’s obvious what they’re doing,” Ryan says. “They’re being fa—” He stops and groans when he remembers his deal with Sam. “They’re being really fucking gay.”
Eric’s arms around Sam spasm for a second, but he makes himself relax. He doesn’t care what a 12-year-old has to say. And besides, Ryan’s not saying it as a bad thing. Not entirely. He can talk all he wants, but he comes to their house and hangs out with Scot and listens to Eric’s coaching on the ice.
“That’s right, Ryan,” Eric says. “We are really fucking gay.” Sam snorts and leans back into Eric a little.
“Wow, I’ve never seen their gayness,” Joey says. “Hockey Mr. LaTour usually says he isn’t gay.”
“Hockey Mr. LaTour,” Eric echoes.
He doesn’t want to focus on the other part of what Joey said, about him pretending not to be gay. Yes, he’s done that for most of his life—okay, basically all of his life, aside from some really obviously gay private interactions—but now that he’s working really hard not to do that anymore, he doesn’t love the reminders.
“What Mr. LaTour am I?” Sam wonders.
“They kissed at Christmas,” Carla reminds Joey.
Joey looks at them. “This feels gayer,” he decides.
“Way gayer,” Ryan agrees.
“Okay,” Eric says.
Sam laughs and pulls away. He squeezes Eric’s shoulder with the hand not holding the bat. “Alright, guys, that’s enough,” he says.
Ryan hits a lot of balls. Carla hits the next most, with Joey and Scot bringing up the rear. Scot could hit more if he wanted. His athleticism runs more toward his own limbs than hand-eye coordination, but he picked up passing and shooting in hockey quicker than Eric expected.
Scot just doesn’t do well at things he doesn’t care about. And their softball team obviously doesn’t make the cut. Eric has to remind himself that’s okay. Scot doesn’t have to like softball. He doesn’t have to push himself to be better if he doesn’t want to.
Though Eric thinks he could be good.
By the time they leave the batting cages, Eric’s tongue is sore from biting it and his hands hurt from clenching them. But he didn’t say anything, and Scot’s laughing and having fun with his friends. That’s what matters. Scot’s not crying himself to sleep and in a feud with his best friend.
That perspective has to carry Eric through their next Saturday softball game. Scot gets on base once thanks to a walk, and he seems to enjoy running the bases. But his fielding skills are basically non-existent. He shrieks when the ball comes near him and waits for it to drop before he’ll pick it up.
“Throw it in, Scot!” Eric calls, arms up while he waits for the ball. He’s afraid that’s not encouraging enough, so he adds, “Come on, bud, you got it!” He hopes his frustration isn’t audible.
Scot throws the ball, and his arm’s not bad. Again, Eric can’t help but notice Scot has some natural skill that could grow into real talent if he’d work at it. He shakes his head at himself. Scot’s made it clear he’s not interested. Eric hands the ball back to Sam, who’s pitching.
“Okay?” Sam checks. He has his eyebrows raised, amused because he knows Eric’s annoyed.
Eric blows out a breath. “He could be good if he tried, Sam.”
“Eric—”
“I know,” Eric says quickly. “No, Sam, I know. But I needed to say it and get it out of my system.”
Sam laughs. “Okay,” he says. “You’re doing a very good job not pushing.”
Eric nods. “Okay.” That helps. He remembers Scot’s face in the parking lot of the rink while Eric yelled at him, Joey inside with a bloody nose, and nods again. Not pushing is better.
They lose again, but Eric hits two home runs this time. When the game’s over and everyone’s milling around the dugout, Sam leans close to his ear and murmurs, “It’s kind of sexy when you hit home runs.”
“Oh,” Eric says, smirking at Sam. “Good to know.”
They’re still getting used to this dynamic since Eric came out, enjoying looking at each other in public, teasing like this. A few months ago, Sam saying that even in a whisper would’ve sent Eric scrambling, looking over his shoulders to make sure no one saw Sam getting too familiar.
Eric gets that flash of terror at first. But he’s learning to let himself relax into it, just like Sam’s touches. He likes hearing Sam say things like that. He’s always preferred actions over words, but he’s learning that sometimes words are an action. It’s fun to have Sam flirting with him, even years down the line.
And realistically, no one could’ve heard Sam. So Eric can ignore the voice in the back of his head telling him he’s going to get caught and focus on the look Sam’s giving him. It’s a good look. That look says a lot about some action in Eric’s future.
He can’t focus on Sam until later, though. They have Mildred and Nula and George Jr. over for dinner first. “How was the game, Scot?” Nula asks. “Are you liking softball better?”
“There was a bee in the outfield,” Scot says. “So I ran back to the dugout.”
“In the middle of the inning,” Eric supplies.
He hopes he sounds neutral. He’s frustrated about it, but he doesn’t want Scot to know. He does think it’d be okay to let Scot know a little. He should probably learn that if he’s agreed to do something, he should try hard. But he doesn’t trust himself on this subject, and Sam seems to think it’s fine, so it’s fine.
Mildred laughs. “Well, good,” she says. “Better than getting stung.”
“You made fun of me for running from a bee in your yard,” Eric says, offended.
“That’s because it wasn’t a bee, Eric,” she says dismissively. “That was a ladybug.”
“It was a bee!” Eric insists. He knows it was a bee. He heard it buzzing.
“I never enjoyed baseball,” George Jr. says. “But my parents made me play.”
“I only made you finish the season,” Mildred says. “Because we already paid. We didn’t get refunds back then, you know.”
“They don’t give you refunds now, either,” Sam says wryly.
“So what?” Scot asks. “You’re rich. You could’ve still let me quit.” He’s still cranky they made him finish out the hockey season.
Everyone laughs at that. “We didn’t want you to be a quitter,” Eric says. “But we don’t want you to force yourself to do things that are bad for you.” He shrugs. “Sorry, kid. We’re figuring it out as we go.”
“That’s honest,” Mildred says. “Everybody does it, but no one wants to admit it.”
Eric can’t convince Scot and Sam to go back to the batting cages that week. Sam’s in the busy season for baseball trades, so he doesn’t have time, and Scot says it “wouldn’t be fair” to go without him. He just doesn’t want to go.
But he gets a hit in their next game, which is very exciting. Sam sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles while Eric cheers. “Great hit, Scot!” Eric calls. Scot waves from first base, grinning.
They win the game, mostly thanks to Marcy striking out two batters and some good hits. Unfortunately, the win doesn’t light a fire under Scot like Eric was hoping.
“That was a great game, huh?” Eric says while Scot’s eating his popsicle in the grass. Eric's keeping his voice light, neutral. He doesn't want to push, but he wants Scot to realize he likes being good and choose to try harder.
“Yeah, it was fun,” Scot says carelessly. “Jamie wanted to talk about nail polish this time!”
Sam hides his face in Eric’s shoulder to laugh. He knows that is not what Eric wanted Scot to take from the game. No dice. Scot still doesn’t care. But that's okay, Eric reminds himself. He thinks of looking into the crowd at the rink and seeing spit flying from his dad's mouth as he screamed at Eric to skate harder, and he nods to himself. He's not doing that. This is for fun, and that's what matters.
Joan and Hank come find them. “Look at that, a win,” Joan says. “How’s that feel, Scot?”
“Fine,” Scot says. “Here, Hank, do you want the other half of my popsicle?”
“At least he’s generous,” Eric mutters. Maybe that’s why Scot has no competitive spirit. He’s too nice to everyone.
“What’s your team name?” Hank asks, flopped on the grass beside Scot now.
“Baker, Baker, Martin & Fitzgerald,” Sam says, gesturing at the names on their jerseys.
“That’s a little wordy,” Joan says. “Hard to cheer.”
“That’s what I said!” Scot says triumphantly. “But Marcy’s been teaching me some cheers. There’s one about a poor birdie getting hit in the head.”
Very few birds are in danger while they play, either from pitches or pop ups. Eric doesn’t say that. This summer is a real lesson in constraint, and he’s killing it. Unless his thoughts count, in which case he is not killing it. But he thinks it’s just about what he actually says and does.
“Hey, Scot, you want to play catch?” Eric asks on Wednesday when he gets home from work.
Scot’s spending the summer at an arts and crafts day camp. Eric and Sam both already have two pairs of knitted socks each and the kitchen’s covered in crocheted oven mitts. He’s having a blast, so Eric wears his itchy socks without complaint.
“Okay,” Scot says, hopping off the stool he was sitting on.
“Oh,” Eric says, taken aback. He didn’t expect Scot to say yes, especially not so easily.
“I’ll get my glove,” Scot says.
“Yeah, great,” Eric says.
They go out to the yard and start tossing the ball back and forth. Eric keeps an eye on Scot’s form, and Scot must notice. “Am I doing it right?” he asks.
“Yeah, looks good,” Eric praises. They’re close enough together that it doesn’t matter much, but Scot’s doing a good job.
Eric’s getting emotional here. He always said he didn’t want to be a dad before Scot came into their life, but there was a piece of him, deep down, that did want it. He said he didn’t want kids because he didn’t think it would ever happen.
How could it? He would never have been brave enough to walk into some child services office with Sam and say they wanted to adopt. Asking for things has always felt so humiliating. Asking gives people the opportunity to say no, and Eric was convinced no one would give two gay men a kid. It didn’t matter that other guys were adopting. Eric was sure they’d be the ones to get turned away. It was easier to act like he didn’t care in the first place.
But here he is, playing catch in the yard with his kid. They’re playing on a softball team together as a family, all summer long. These are things Eric never would’ve let himself think about, but they got Scot dropped into their home and everything’s changed since then.
“Do you want me to stay out here and practice for a while?” Scot asks when Eric says they should go inside. Scot’s cheeks are red from the heat and he doesn’t look enthusiastic about this prospect.
Eric’s good feelings about fatherhood disappear in an instant. Scot’s worried about this. He thinks Eric only wanted to play catch because he’s trying to force Scot to get better. Eric feels sick, his dad's face flashing through his mind.
“No, Scot, I didn’t bring you out here to—it’s not because I think you—” Eric takes a beat to get his thoughts clear before he tries speaking again. He pushes his hat back and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Scot. Listen. I wanted to spend time with you. I thought—I thought it’d be fun. I’m not trying to turn this into…” He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I made hockey so miserable you thought I was doing it again.”
“Oh,” Scot says. He takes off his glove and rubs his hand down his shirt. “Well, I did have fun, Eric. During hockey, too. Sometimes.”
“Really?” Eric asks.
“Yeah, sometimes,” Scot reiterates. Eric’s torn between laughing and crying. “You weren’t that bad, you know. You didn’t make me play hockey. I mean, I asked to play hockey so kids would stop saying I was gay.” He sighs. “That didn’t work, by the way. Now they just say I’m gay and I played hockey. Like you.”
Eric stops himself from saying the first thing that comes to mind, which is well, yeah, obviously. He doesn’t know if Scot’s gay. He’s 99% sure, but Sam keeps reminding him that Scot has to come to them with that, not the other way around. Eric doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. He wishes there were some sort of manual to tell him what the right thing to say is.
“Well, there are worse things to be than a gay hockey player.” That’s a hell of a statement coming from him, but Scot doesn’t know enough to appreciate the irony.
“That’s true,” Scot says. “Eric?”
“Yeah,” Eric says.
Scot bites his lip. He looks up at Eric shyly and says, “I’m glad we’re playing in the baseball games. I’m having fun spending time with you and Sam.”
Eric’s definitely going to cry now. He refrains from correcting Scot, because they’re playing softball, not baseball. He’s going to focus on what Scot meant, which is the important part anyway. “I’m having a lot of fun, too, Scot,” he says.
Scot smiles. They’re going to get him braces soon, but Eric’s going to miss that gap in his teeth. “Can we go shopping now?”
“What?” Eric asks as they head inside. “No. Why? Sam’s going to be home any minute and we’ll eat dinner.”
“After that?” Scot asks.
“We can’t go shopping every day,” Eric says.
“We haven’t gone shopping in forever,” Scot says.
“We went Sunday.”
“That was just grocery shopping!” Scot says.
“That counts,” Eric insists. It always counts when Scot wants to come with him or Sam.
Scot sighs. Then he grins mischievously and says sweetly, “We could have fun spending time together shopping, too.”
Eric has to laugh. Scot’s quick on his feet, he has to give him that. “You got me there.”
Scot laughs, too. “Yeah, I did get you.”
Eric rests a hand on Scot’s shoulder as they hear Sam’s car pull into the driveway, and he thinks this might be the best summer of his life.
They do not win the next game, and suddenly they’re down to their last game. It’s a good thing they don’t have playoffs or a championship series, because they’d be in trouble.
Eric knows their record, 1-3, and he’s pretty sure Marcy does, too. Sam probably knows, because Sam’s good with numbers without trying. But no one’s asking or talking about it, so Eric doesn’t, either.
That’s part of not being too intense and competitive. He thinks, anyway. He’s mostly doing the opposite of what his instincts tell him to do. If it was something his hockey coaches would’ve done, he takes a beat and lets the urge pass.
Eric’s in the station’s kitchen the Friday before their last game when Roberts and Howard corner him. “Hey, McNally, no hard feelings on the softball team, right?” Howard asks.
“Oh, yeah, no hard feelings,” Eric says. They’re not getting coffee; it seems like they tracked him down for this. “I’m playing on a different team,” he says. “I think we’re playing you tomorrow morning, right?”
“Yeah, that’s what we heard,” Roberts says. “Heard your team’s not that great.”
Eric bristles. That may or may not be true, but he doesn’t need Roberts to come taunt him about it at work. “We’re fine,” Eric says.
“Have you won any games?”
“We have,” Eric says. He doesn’t mention it’s one singular game.
“We haven’t lost any,” Howard says. “Ready to get your asses handed to you?”
“You know it’s just for fun,” Eric tries.
Roberts and Howard laugh. It’s the worst laugh, the one Eric used to hear in the dressing room after someone took his clear tape and called him Erica. The laugh that means there’s an inside joke, but he’s not in on it. He is the joke.
“That’s what losers always say,” Roberts says. He and Howard leave, both still laughing and elbowing each other and throwing Eric mocking looks over their shoulders.
Eric takes a second, alone here with his coffee, to let his shoulders slump. He was used to this kind of thing back in his playing days, especially as a kid. Sometimes he’d be part of the laughing group and sometimes he was the one getting laughed at. It happens. He was always afraid people knew, somehow, when he was getting laughed at.
And now they do know, and it’s hard not to feel like this is targeted because he came out. They wanted him on their team until he came out. They’ve always been friendly until he came out.
He doesn’t regret coming out. It was always the thing he was afraid of most in his life, but he’d gotten to the point where not coming out was scarier. He’s happier now since coming out. Sam’s happier, too, and Scot. Eric wishes everyone else was happy about it.
He doesn’t tell Sam about this encounter when he gets home. He’s told Sam any big homophobic reactions, but this isn’t big. He doesn’t know for sure they were being homophobic. He always thinks that’s where people’s minds are going, but maybe they’re not. Maybe it was just trash talk since they’re on different teams.
The thing is, Eric knows trash talk. He’s played sports his whole life, and chirping is as much a part of hockey as skating. He knows what regular trash talk sounds like. This didn’t feel the same.
But he’s not going to tell Sam. Sam doesn’t live in some fantasy world where everyone’s accepting; he knows rejection and bullying, too. He had a hard time in school for a while when he was a kid. Eric doesn’t want to remind him of that.
Saturday morning dawns sunny and humid. They’re the second game of the day, so they don’t start until 10:30. The air’s already sticky and thick. Putting on a helmet to bat sounds miserable.
“I don’t want to play baseball today,” Scot complains. “It’s too hot.”
“It’s softball,” Eric says. Everyone keeps using baseball and softball interchangeably, but they’re not the same. Marcy’s the only one besides Sam and Eric who cares about the name of the game.
“It’s the last game, Scot,” Sam says. “We get through this, and we’ll have popsicles and go swimming afterward, okay?”
“Okay,” Scot relents. He sighs and sits beside Jamie to start putting his cleats on. Sam has to go talk to the ump with the other team’s captain, some retired farm team guy from the other station, and Eric spots Greg hanging out by the backstop.
“Hey, Greg,” Eric says. “Came to watch some big-time ball, huh?”
Greg laughs. “Yeah, well, between you and Roberts’ team, half the players out here are from my station, so I figured I’d come watch. My kid’s going to be mad we didn’t have a team.”
“I think we’re going to have to make a whole kids’ team next year,” Eric says, looking at where Scot’s clowning around with Ryan, Joey, Carla, and Hank. Mildred brought the neighbor kids and Joan said she wanted to watch their last game. She and Mildred are fanning themselves while they talk.
“I guess we could just sign them up for Little League,” Greg says.
“I don’t think Little League’s in my future,” Eric says. While they look over at the kids, Scot breaks off from the group to start weaving dandelions into a flower crown, his cleats forgotten in the grass.
Greg laughs. “Well, you still got hockey, right?”
“Oh, no, we’re done with hockey,” Eric says ruefully. “Well, Scot is. I’m still coaching, actually.”
“Good for you,” Greg says. “You let me know if the team needs a sponsor.”
“Hey, thanks,” Eric says. “I’ll talk to the league organizers and let you know.”
He claps Greg on the shoulder and crooks his finger at Scot. Scot doesn’t argue, at least. He’s wearing his flower crown as he brings his cleats over to Eric, but that’s fine. Eric’s used to that by now.
“Can you tie them?” Scot asks.
“Yeah, I got you,” Eric promises. They got into a routine with Scot’s skates, though cleats are a lot easier to get on and tied. Sam’s done talking to the ump but gets waylaid before he can make it over to them by Joan and Mildred. Eric finishes tying Scot’s cleats and sends him on his way. “Don’t rearrange the bats again!” he calls as Scot runs off to the dugout. He keeps organizing them by color, which is annoying when Eric’s trying to grab the heavy one he likes.
“Hey, McNally.” Eric turns around and holds in a sigh. It’s Roberts and Howard and some of the guys from the other station.
“Hey, guys,” Eric says. Sam glances at him and leaves Mildred and Joan to come closer.
“Real family team you got here, huh?” Howard asks.
“Yep,” Eric says, not fighting the grin that takes over his face. If this is supposed to be more trash talk, it’s not effective. Eric’s proud to be playing with Scot and Sam, even if they’re not winning. It’s been a fun summer. “This is Sam’s firm.” He gestures at Sam.
“The family team’s probably more your speed than ours,” Roberts says. “We play rough. Might be too much for a guy like you.”
“A guy like me,” Eric echoes, stomach tightening.
They’re back to yesterday’s smack talking. He can’t tell if they’re being homophobic or not. He’s used to the very blatant kind from the ice. It’s not hard to question if a guy’s being homophobic when he’s calling you slurs as he shoves you head-first into the boards. There isn’t a lot of nuance there.
“A retired professional athlete?” Sam supplies neutrally. That cool tone tips Eric off that Sam thinks they’re being homophobic, too, so they probably are. Sam’s a lot better at picking up on subtlety than Eric is.
“Yeah, retired,” Howard says. He snickers. “Washed up. Delicate now, right?”
They’re all laughing at him. Eric swallows hard. He’s pretty sure this is a 1-2 punch of homophobia and…he’s not sure what else. He doesn’t know what type of -phobia or -ism it is to make fun of him for being retired. Washed up? Because he got fucking injured?
The other guys walk off, laughing and shoving at each other. It’s so familiar a twisted part of Eric almost misses it, misses somebody throwing an arm around his neck so roughly they elbow him in the chest and knock the wind out of him for a second, misses kicking each other’s feet walking down the sidewalk to try to make somebody trip.
But then Sam’s at his side, holding onto his shoulder. Much better affection than any of that. “Eric.”
Eric rolls his eyes and huffs. “Whatever.”
“Not whatever,” Sam says. “Have they been saying stuff at work?”
Eric shrugs and blows out a breath. “I don’t—just yesterday.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, Sam.”
Sam’s got his eyes narrowed as he looks at the retreating backs of those jerks. “You’ve been so good at holding back and taking it easy and not being intense.”
“Okay, thanks,” Eric says. He’s not sure what that has to do with anything right now, but he’s never going to turn down Sam's praise.
“Stop holding back,” Sam says. “Get intense.”
“What?” Eric asks, looking at Sam quickly.
“We are winning this game,” Sam growls. Eric’s stomach flips.
Sam doesn’t get forceful like this a lot; Eric saw it once during a meeting after he got injured when the team’s insurance company was dragging their feet about paying him. He and Sam hadn’t even kissed yet at that point, but after that meeting Eric got his ass in gear about chasing Sam.
“Sam,” Eric says, shocked that a just-for-fun softball game is bringing out this side of him. “You’re…” He glances around, but no one’s standing close enough to overhear. “You’re kinda turning me on right now.” He’s glad they’ve spent the summer getting used to talking to each other like that in public, albeit quietly, because he can’t possibly not tell Sam this.
“Later,” Sam says firmly. “I need you to focus now.”
Eric’s got goosebumps. “Okay,” he says. “Focus, yeah. I can focus.” He can focus on Sam, that’s for sure.
“Focus on the game, Eric,” Sam clarifies helpfully. “We’re going to win.”
“We’re going to win,” Eric echoes. A grin spreads across his face as Sam’s meaning breaks through the lusty haze in Eric’s brain. “Oh, I get to play hard?”
Sam quirks an eyebrow and gives Eric an up-and-down glance. “You tell me.”
Eric laughs. “Sam!”
“Do what you have to,” Sam says. Eric whoops and Sam grins at him, but then he goes back to his serious face.
“Last game,” Marcy says in the dugout.
“Last game,” Sam agrees. “Let’s go all out.”
“Alright!” Marcy cheers. They’re the home team, so they’re in the field first. Usually, everyone chooses together where to play based on who wants to do what, but today Sam takes charge.
“Matt, how about you and Eric switch today so he takes left field,” Sam says. “I’ll pitch.” As everyone runs off, Sam says quietly to Eric, “You and Marcy can cover for Jamie in the outfield and Matt and I can handle the infield.” The guy who plays first base, Alex, is okay, and Scot and a woman named Wendy usually switch off at shortstop. Matt’s wife, Tia, is out at third.
“You have never been sexier to me,” Eric says breathlessly.
Sam even adds a smack to Eric’s ass when they run out to the field. He’s in full sports mode now, and Eric’s flat-out giddy. He’s had fantasies about this, but the reality is so much better.
They get through the top of the inning without letting in any runs, though it’s a close call. They keep the same batting order every game, so there’s nothing to switch there. Sam gets a solid base hit and Alex smacks a hard ball to the outfield to get him to third.
“Sam’s really serious this time,” Scot observes.
“Yeah, he wants to beat these guys,” Eric says.
Scot looks at the other dugout. “These are the guys who didn’t want you to play on their team ‘cause you’re gay?”
“Well, we don’t know if that’s why,” Eric says evasively. He’s almost positive it’s why, but he doesn’t want Scot to think about that.
Scot narrows his eyes. “Okay,” he says. He nods. “I’m going to get serious so we can beat them, too.”
“Scot, it doesn’t matter,” Eric tries, stomach sinking as he remembers the other week when they were playing catch. He never wants Scot to worry about disappointing him again. “I’m not disappointed in how we play. I want you to have fun, okay? I don’t want to get too intense on you.”
“I think it could be fun to beat them,” Scot says. “They’ll be really mad to get beat by some…” He winces. “I thought I was going to be tough and say the F word, but I don’t want to.”
Eric can’t hold back a laugh. “That’s okay. I get what you mean. That doesn’t really mean you’re tough, anyway.”
“It’ll be like a movie,” Scot says excitedly. “They’re the bad guys and we’re the good guys and we’re going to show them for being mean to us. The sissies.” That’s their more acceptable version of Ryan’s favorite word.
That does seem to be a common theme in the movies Scot watches. “I don’t think I should be teaching you to enjoy making other people feel bad,” Eric muses.
Scot rolls his eyes. “Eric, I can’t get back at anyone who makes me feel bad. Let me have this. And it’s not like we’re going to kill them or something. We’re just beating them in baseball.”
“It’s softball,” Eric corrects absently. He looks down at Scot. “Kids still making you feel bad at school?”
“Not really,” Scot says. “But the kids from my old school, where I lived with my mom. I’ll never get to beat them at anything. They didn’t like me.”
“I’m sure they—” Eric stops. Scot’s a perceptive kid. He knows when people don’t like him. It’s part of why he wanted to play hockey, and it’s part of why Eric needs to make up for his early days with them. “Well, their loss,” he says instead. “Everyone who gets to know you likes you.”
Scot grins. “Thanks,” he says. “So can we win this game or not?”
Eric’s touched that Scot wants to do this for him, and he’s pissed off that Scot’s already used to kids giving him a hard time. Kids who’ll probably grow up to be guys like Roberts and Howard, homophobic bullies who taunt other guys over a slow-pitch softball game.
Unless Scot changes a lot about himself, he’s going to get shit from these kinds of guys for his whole life. Eric doesn’t want Scot to change himself. It gives him a pit in his stomach just thinking about it. He thinks about what Scot said about not getting back at his own bullies. This could be his only chance to get any kind of comeuppance.
“Let’s show them how sissies play and kick their asses,” Eric says.
Scot cheers. He even gives Eric a high-five. Eric lets him, despite how dorky high-fives are. He’s got to teach Scot fist-bumps instead.
But that’s a battle for another day. Today they have to win a softball game.
The main sports anchor from the other station is doing signs when their team is up to bat. For a slow-pitch softball game. Ridiculous. But Sam’s watching. He turns around and looks at Eric in the outfield and tilts his head left. Eric laughs out loud.
Sam is very good at patterns. It’s the third inning—he’s figured out their signs. Roberts is going to pull left to catch the gap between Eric and the line. Eric takes a few casual steps to the left and gets himself ready. Sure enough, Roberts hits a pop up to left. Eric only has to run a few steps before he nabs the ball easily and chucks it in to Cheryl at second.
They make it to the bottom of the sixth down by two runs, which is way closer than Eric expected. And they’re in the weakest part of their lineup now: Scot, Jamie, and a legal secretary named Wendy. It doesn’t seem likely anyone’s going to score this inning. If one of them can get on base, Marcy will be up after Wendy and get something going.
Scot’s up first. If Eric needed another reason to hate Roberts, he’s pitching and not going easy on any of the kids. That’s just wrong. Eric was never a big kid person before Scot came along, but he knew to let them steal the puck and score on him when somebody brought their kid to practice or there was a fundraiser or something.
Scot swings and misses at the first pitch. “It’s okay, Scot,” Eric calls. “Don’t worry about it.”
Scot turns around and looks at him. “I’m going to hit it!” he insists.
“Okay,” Eric breathes. He doesn’t know how likely that is.
“You can do it, Scot,” Sam says, nodding encouragingly.
Another strike on the next pitch. Eric wants to look away, but he won’t let himself. He doesn’t want Scot to think he’s disappointed. Eric’s not disappointed in Scot. He’s pissed off at Roberts trying to strike out a 12-year-old.
Eric’s playing harder, since Sam gave him the go-ahead, and he really wants to beat these guys. But he’s still having fun. And he doesn’t care about winning more than he cares about Scot’s feelings. He really has gotten better this summer.
“Can’t believe he’s pitching like that,” Eric mutters. “Asshole.”
“Asshole,” Sam agrees.
Scot waits on the third pitch until it’s coming down. The bat connects with a thick ping. The ball drops right in the gap between the infield and outfield—an easy base hit. Scot runs down to first base like a man on a mission.
“Alright, Scot!” Eric cheers.
“Great hit, Scot!” Sam adds. The crowd’s going nuts, mostly led by Scot’s friends. Scot waves from first base and Eric laughs.
Jamie strikes out in a way that Eric would be tempted to call purposeful, but Wendy manages to knock the ball down almost in an accidental bunt. She makes it to first and Scot runs his heart out to second.
“Okay,” Eric says. He grabs Sam’s arm. “We could really do something here!”
Marcy knocks a double clear to the outfield fence. Scot makes it home and Marcy’s safe at second, but Wendy gets thrown out at third.
Eric and Sam both give Scot high-fives when he comes back to the dugout and pat Wendy on the back. “Look at you, Scot,” Sam praises. “Scoring in a game.”
“Babe Ruth,” Eric says.
“I don’t care about baseball,” Scot says blithely. “But I do care about vengeance.”
Eric snorts. He expects Sam to laugh, but Sam nods instead. “Good,” he says.
“Sam,” Eric says. He’s kind of embarrassed. Does Sam think his feelings are hurt this badly over a little chirping that they need to go all out? Yes, okay, his feelings were hurt about it, but he can take it. He’s used to it.
But Sam looks at him and says, “Eric. They don’t get to talk to you like that.”
Eric’s goosebumps from the beginning of the game come back. He can’t think of any other time in his life when someone’s fought for him like that. Maybe on the ice, with his teammates, but that was always Eric’s job. Having Sam angry on his behalf, wanting to do this because those guys were assholes to Eric, gives Eric butterflies.
“Sam,” he says again.
“Besides,” Sam says. “When they talk like that, they’re talking about all of us. And they’re acting like our family isn’t good enough.”
“They are?” Scot asks, instantly offended.
“They are,” Sam confirms. “And they’re wrong. And we’re going to show them.”
“Yeah, we are,” Scot says. “Sissies can play baseball, too.” That gets Sam to laugh. It’s not exactly what he meant, but good enough.
Their next batter, Matt, grounds out at first to end the inning, and then they’re heading into the seventh and final inning down by one run.
Sam strikes out Howard, which makes Eric cheer louder than good sportsmanship calls for. Marcy catches a fly for their second out and Cheryl makes a great throw to first to end the top of the inning.
“Two runs,” Eric says in the dugout. “That’s all we need. We can do this!”
He’s up first. He hits it out to the grass, but he only makes it to second. Tia and Cheryl both ground out, and now Sam’s up with two outs and the game on the line.
This is the kind of situation Eric would love to be in: high-pressure, adrenaline, nerves, all of it. Sam doesn’t do this, not outside of the realm of closing million-dollar deals. But he’s more athletic than he gives himself credit for. If he can get a base hit, Eric thinks he could make it home.
“Alright, here we go, Sam,” Eric says, clapping. Sam meets his eye and Eric nods. “It’s okay.” He wants Sam to know he doesn’t care if they win. He doesn’t want Sam to think he doesn’t believe in him, but he’s not going to blame Sam if he gets out right now. Sam nods back, but he doesn’t look relieved.
He walks grimly to the plate. He’s glaring at the pitcher and Eric actually has to look away for a second. God, seeing Sam competitive is really doing something to him. It honestly might be worth the homophobia to get Sam all fired up.
The first pitch is way too high, and Sam lays off. He’s so disciplined. Eric would’ve swung for sure. He’s fairly confident he would’ve made contact, but it wouldn’t have been the best hit of the night. The next pitch is perfect, arcing down right at chest-height. Sam swings exactly like they practiced at the batting cages and the ball goes flying.
And flying, and flying, until it sails right over the outfield fence.
“Holy shit,” Eric hears himself say. Sam just belted a two-run homer to win the game. Sam stands there for a second, jaw dropped, and he looks at Eric. “Go!” Eric laughs, taking off for home. He hopes Joan or somebody was taking a video of that. Eric wants to rewatch that until the tape wears out.
The whole team gathers to welcome Sam in like a movie. Eric joins them when he gets there. Sam laughs awkwardly as he rounds the bases, cheeks going pink, and Eric can’t breathe for a second.
Sam looks so good, and he won the game, and he was being so competitive and fierce because he was defending Eric and their family, and right now Eric loves him so much his chest hurts. As soon as Sam touches the plate, Eric grabs him and kisses him.
Sam makes a surprised noise against Eric’s lips, but he kisses back and holds onto Eric’s shoulders. Eric doesn’t care who’s watching or what people might say. He’s spent five and a half years holding back with Sam in public because of other people, because of his own fears of other people. He’s done with that. Maybe not permanently, in every situation, but he’s sure as hell done with it right now.
When they pull apart, Sam looks over and makes eye contact with Roberts. He raises his eyebrows challengingly and Eric has to kiss him again, not to prove a point or rub it in Roberts’s face or anything, just because Sam’s so perfect Eric’s going to die if he doesn’t. Cocky is a very, very good look for Sam.
They don’t bother with the last out, and they don’t do handshakes. Roberts and Howard and the other guys walk off the field. Eric doesn’t even care. Let them be sore losers. Scot runs over and crashes into Sam and Eric.
“Sam, you did it!” he says.
Sam laughs. “Well, we’re a team,” he points out. “So we all did it.”
“Aw,” Eric says. “Such a good team captain.”
Their team goes back to the dugout, everybody laughing and cheering, and Joan and Mildred and the kids all start up some cheers of their own. Scot goes out to bow to his audience and leaves Sam and Eric to gather up his glove and his bag of snacks.
“So are we all coming back next year?” Marcy asks. Everybody cheers. Eric laughs and joins in, looking at Sam. Sam laughs, too.
“And everybody’s coming to the Labor Day barbecue, right?” Alex asks.
“Oh, yeah,” Eric says. He holds onto Sam’s shoulder and grins at him. “Yeah, I’ll be there.” They do it every Labor Day, but Eric’s never gone. Now he can.
“You can’t man the grill,” Sam tells him, but his smile’s soft and fond. “That’s Baker’s job.”
“Alright,” Eric says. “We’ll just enjoy the day as a family, huh?”
“Yeah,” Sam says with a little laugh. They leave the dugout to find Scot, who’s eating his after-game popsicle with the other kids. He got his cleats off by himself, which is nice, so Eric tosses his regular shoes at him.
“Maybe Scot should have a sleepover with Hank,” Eric murmurs in Sam’s ear while they wait for Scot to finish. “I need to give the MVP his trophy and I don’t want any interruptions.”
Sam’s leaning into him, cracking up. “This is a no-trophy league,” he teases.
“Oh, no, Sam, I’ve got a trophy for you,” Eric promises. They’re both laughing, despite Eric’s attempts at being sultry.
“Hey,” Ryan says. He’s slouching and not looking at Sam, but he says, “That was kinda cool. That hit.”
Sam glances at Eric, surprise and excitement in his eyes. “Thanks, Ryan,” he says.
“Whatever,” Ryan says. “Don’t get all gay about it.”
Eric nods. “There it is.”
“I don’t even care,” Sam tells him while Ryan goes off to bug Joey and re-establish his punk reputation. “That was a big deal. I’m taking it.”
Once Scot finishes his popsicle, he says his goodbyes to the rest of the team. Even Jamie accepts a hug. “What do you think, Scot?” Sam asks on the way home. “You want to play again next summer?”
Scot thinks that over. “I guess,” he says.
“What a vote of confidence,” Eric says.
“Like I said, I don’t care about baseball,” Scot says.
“Softball,” Eric mutters.
“But I did have fun,” Scot goes on without acknowledging Eric’s correction. “And I like getting popsicles and ice cream after every game.”
“Well, having fun was the point,” Eric says firmly. He has to remind them all that he knows that and did a great job at it. “So that’s good. We all had fun.”
“If we are going to play next year,” Scot starts. He stops there.
“What?” Eric asks.
“I’m pausing for dramatic effect,” Scot informs them. “Maybe we could talk to someone about having a team uniform designer?”
“Oh, of course,” Eric says.
Sam’s laughing. “I’ll talk to Marcy, Scot. But we’re probably going to have to keep the firm’s name on the shirts.”
Scot scoffs. “Fine. I guess I have a year to figure out how to make it less hideous.”
Something to look forward to in the year ahead. Eric’s not looking forward to whatever Scot comes up with for the uniforms—he really doesn’t think he can wear pink—but the fact that they’re planning this is what he likes.
They know they’re all going to be here together next summer. It’s not a question. They can make plans. They can plan their future. And they don’t have to plan around Eric’s rules or fears; they can plan as a family. To act like a family.
It’s overwhelming, but in the best way. For the vast majority of Eric’s life, hockey was his only known variable. Everything else could change, but hockey was constant. Now he’s got Sam and Scot, and that’s all the consistency he needs.
Eric has to ice his shoulder, and it’s sore for a few days. Sam doesn’t say I told you so, because he was the one who relented and told Eric to go to the outfield, but there’s a bit of judgement in his eyebrows when he sees Eric with the ice.
They go back to regular Saturdays with no softball games. And, of course, they go shopping multiple times, because Scot can’t possibly go back to school in all the same clothes as last year. He didn’t have much of a growth spurt, but Eric keeps that to himself. Growing is a touchy subject for Scot.
They’re all home and not doing anything on Scot’s last Saturday of summer. Sam and Eric are in the sitting room. Sam’s reading a book, leaning back against Eric, and Eric’s going through his notes on the latest trade news when Scot comes in and finds them.
“Are you doing something important?” Scot asks.
Sam looks up immediately. “No. What’s up, Scot? Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong,” Scot says. Sam settles back against Eric.
“What do you need?” Eric asks.
“I just wanted to know if you’re busy,” Scot says. He’s beating around the bush in a really weird way. He’s usually pretty direct.
“No, not really,” Sam says curiously, glancing at Eric. Eric shakes his head. He kind of is busy, but he’ll stop if Scot needs him.
“So…” Scot shrugs. “Maybe we could go play catch outside?”
“Yeah?” Eric says, scrambling off the couch. He can’t believe Scot’s asking him to play catch. He’s willingly going outside where there are bugs. Bugs are not Scot’s favorite. “Yeah! Yeah, we can do that, if you want.”
“It’s fun,” Scot says.
“It is fun!” Eric agrees. He’s being too enthusiastic, but he doesn’t care. He raises his eyebrows at Sam. “You coming, game winner?”
Sam laughs. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He puts his bookmark in his book and lets Eric pull him up off the couch. They go outside and toss the ball around.
Today, Scot’s not worried about Eric evaluating him or worrying that Eric wants him to stay outside and practice. He’s laughing, loose and happy in the sunshine. Eric looks at him and at Sam, the two people he loves most in the world, and he thinks no-stakes corporate softball has got to be the best idea the world’s ever had.