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Blaine sits behind home plate, thighs resting on the backs of his shins and the umpire’s hand softly pressed against the middle of his back. It’s August and it’s hot, the sweat making its way through his uniform and into his chest protector. The player standing in the batter’s box, a tall left fielder from Bourne, wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the collar of his jersey. He can hear the umpiring panting behind him, breathing labored with the oppressive heat.
Blaine glances up at the mound, sees Kurt digging the toes of his shoes into the mound of dirt. He keeps his eyes on first, holding the runner to the base, before dropping his shoulders and stepping off the mound.
"Time!" Blaine calls over his shoulder and jogs out to the pitcher’s mound. Kurt’s pacing back and forth, swiping his cleats back and forth over the dirt, not looking Blaine in the eye.
"What’s going on?" Blaine asks, resting his hand on Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt shrugs the hand off and looks at the outfield, into the stands, the opposing team’s dugout. Anywhere but Blaine.
"Something just feels off, that’s all," Kurt explains, teeth biting at his bottom lip. But Blaine knows, of course he knows. He was drafted yesterday. Drafted, by a Major League team. Out of school and out of Ohio and into Single-A ball for the Rangers. He hasn’t made up his mind yet about what he’s going to do when the summer ends. Of course he wants to play professional baseball, to be able to do what he loves most in the world and get paid for it. It’s what he’s been working for since he was nine years old, since the first time he dropped down behind home plate and felt like he was at home.
"I’m good, I’m fine. Just needed a second to catch my breath," Kurt says and Blaine knows he’s lying. They’ve been living together for two months, spending every minute together at the field and at the beach. Blaine can see right through Kurt’s tough exterior, knows that Blaine getting drafted and leaving is the real reason Kurt’s curveball is flat and his fastball is staying over the middle of the plate.
"Game’s almost over. You’ve got this. Give this guy your fastball and let’s go home," Blaine says, voice filled with too much cheer and false optimism. He turns around to walk back to home plate and his heart tugs with every step. He slides back into his crouch, smacks his hand into his mitt and the umpire calls the game back in play.
Sixty feet six inches is too far away from Kurt and that’s only with grass and dirt between them. Kurt kicks his leg and fires his fastball in and before it can even reach his glove Blaine knows what his decision is going to be when he calls his agent in the morning.