Summary:
“He never knew what he really needed was a man.”
Eric Steiner is one of the top major league baseball prospects in the country. He was drafted #10 out of college and assigned to an A-level minor league team as a stepping stone to the big leagues. All of the pieces were falling into place except for personal relationships. Eric’s teammates think his most intimate connections are with his catcher’s mitt.
“Why are you sending me to Madison, Wisconsin? Was it something I did?
Sports photographer Theo Bachman is no stranger to the vagabond life. In fact, when he was growing up, he went to eight different schools before high school graduation. Now, he only sets down roots long enough to complete the latest assignment. It could be Toronto, San Francisco, or New York City, but Wisconsin? Theo thinks he’s been demoted to a second class assignment until he meets the Madison Pintails catcher.
When Eric Steiner finds out Theo Bachman has been assigned to him for a sports journalism profile, something about the name rings a distant bell. When the pair finally meet, the connection is electric. Soon they are creating heat in the bedroom and trouble for their careers.
Summary:
“The perfect game, when it happens, is the only perfect thing in baseball.”
Lincoln Kirby has accomplished nearly everything a major league baseball rookie can hope to accomplish. He even won Rookie of the Year honors. Unfortunately, that one perfect thing, the perfect game, eluded him. He pitched one in high school with his father as coach, and his father hopes to see one in the big leagues. With that weight on his shoulders, Lincoln Kirby returns home at the request of the new coach.
“Those who can’t play, coach.”
It’s a cliche, but for Hudson Wiley, there is some truth. He was always just one step away from real success in baseball. Now he has taken on a high school team with a legacy as its new coach. The team produced the current Rookie of the Year in the major leagues.
“I’m not good at relationships. In fact, they may be my Achilles heel.”
Lincoln Kirby returns home and can’t take his eyes off the new coach. He checks for the ring, and then he checks for more key details. Hudson Wiley is a real prospect, but does he deserve the roller coaster ride of a relationship with Lincoln Kirby?
The Imperfect Game is the second book in the Pitchers and Catchers series. It includes characters from Catching the Pitch and has a happily ever after ending.
“Baseball was my life…and then I grew up.”
Like thousands of kids, Nathan Buchanan played baseball into high school, but the gap between his skills and the average minor leaguer was just too much to overcome. Catering events for the local major league team was as close to a real baseball player as he thought he was ever going to get.
“Who would have thought, in the belly of the rival team’s beast…I would meet him.”
Drew Garza agreed to take part in a special event for needy children taking place in the home city of his team’s arch rivals. He thought his agent was crazy until he met Nathan.
“The obstacles are just too much.”
Sparks fly when Nathan meets Drew, but they both think the obstacles are too much for more than a weekend fling. That’s when Theo Bachman, with his partner, major league catcher Eric, and best friends Linc and Hudson, step in with a scheme, a cabin in the woods, and some holiday magic to break down the barriers for a most deserving couple.
Home Run Holiday is a steamy 30,000 word romance novella with a happy ending. It is set in the world of the books Catching the Pitch and The Imperfect Game.
Catching the Pitch #1
1
Eric
"The kid's really not into women. I think he's mostly just into his glove." Weaver reached his right hand above the table, closed his fingers into a fist, and gave a stroking gesture as he stared into my eyes. The rest of my Madison Pintails teammates seated at the big round table laughed in unison.
"Knock it off, Weaver. At least I've got something to keep me company at night..." I smirked in his direction.
"Ouch, man." Chad Weaver, my roommate, dropped his hand and his chin.
He had broken off a six-month relationship just days before. The time a minor leaguer had to spend away from home had proven too much for her just three weeks into the season. She saw the writing on the wall and bolted.
I successfully deflected the attention away from me, but I felt horrible about it. I wrapped my arm around his shoulder while he reached up and ran his fingers over his buzzed head. "Aww, you know I don't mean anything by it."
He looked up with a huge grin on his face and those green eyes sparkling. "And like I give a fuck. The chick doesn't know what she's given up. Just wait until her future husband clicks on ESPN and my smiling mug is staring back at her."
Guerra spoke up. "Is that when hell freezes over, Weaver?"
Weaver pulled away from me and pounded his chest. "You all know how to hurt a man." He looked down again in mock mourning.
In all seriousness, Weaver's chances of ever making it to the major leagues were dimming quickly. He celebrated his thirtieth birthday in July. In most cases—except in the rare situation when the team might need an emergency infield fill-in down the stretch—he will probably be overlooked in favor of younger guys. If they are called up instead and make a big splash, they have a longer, more productive career ahead.
Weaver's best hope is to be a mid-roster journeyman in the majors, but that's unlikely. He plays third base for us and he's kind of the smart-ass big brother. His brash confidence and a strong, muscular build with sandy brown hair and intense green eyes gains plenty of attention from the women who hang out near the team bus. They listen to his stories, and I'm convinced at least half of them believe him.
On the other hand, I still dream almost every night of seeing my name, Eric Steiner, at the top of the fantasy trading list; seeing jerseys on fans with Steiner 12 across the back; and holding my hand over my heart while the national anthem plays at my first All-Star Game. One night I even dreamed about a pile of boxes of the bobble-head doll in my likeness. I'm only twenty-three, and was drafted first round, tenth overall, out of college and got sent to Madison, Wisconsin. I'm starting at a Class A-level minor league team to kick off my rookie year in the system. I'm one of the top young prospects expected to make it to the big leagues by next year.
When I was six, our next-door neighbors convinced my parents to let me play T-Ball with their son Martin, and I've rarely slept without my catcher's mitt nearby since. If flames were licking at the door, there is no question that it would be the first thing I grab. I'm nothing without that mitt. Except I don't use it the way Weaver implied.
Weaver and I got thrown together by management as roommates on the road. The theory there is that his eight years of experience in the minors will help the rookie settle in. That would be a good theory if Weaver didn't have the mindset of a perpetual rookie. In all likelihood, I'll be the one keeping an eye on him and making sure he shows up for batting practice on time.
Gritch, the top of our starting pitching rotation, threw in a question across the table. "When's the last time you've had a chick in your bed, Steiner? Did you bag a bunch of 'em in college?"
I gritted my teeth to control my blush. The truth is I'm not a virgin. There was that night after I was named the college conference MVP as a sophomore, met a girl later in the night, and fucked at 3 a.m. in the moonlight on the fresh-mown grass in the outfield of our practice diamond, but I can count the girls I've dated on one hand. I only went out with one of them more than twice.
My last date was two years ago during junior year in college. I tell myself over and over that the dream is just too important right now. I'll get to relationships in time, but for now, every one of my dates was just kind of boring. Even fucking in the moonlight could have been better. I kissed her and the Gold Glove catching stats ran through my head like a stock ticker. I didn't really know how to answer Gritch, but my teammates quieted down waiting to hear the answer.
I decided to use the disgusted private guy strategy. "Damn, isn't there anything a guy can keep private?"
Weaver spoke up for me this time. "Leave the kid alone, ace. You want him to call a good game for you tonight?"
Gritch grumbled to himself. Every pitcher knows that it takes that man behind the plate for him to throw his best game. Look at the best pitching rotations in the majors and they also have one of the best catchers. I took hold of my beer glass and sucked down the last quarter of it, trying hard not to laugh.
We're twenty games into the season, it's late April, and we're closing in on the end of the first month of the season. I haven't performed up to my full potential at the plate, but batting .285 isn't bad at this point in the season for a rookie. Our batting coach helped me straighten a couple of things out a week or so ago, and the hit production is up with more of them for extra bases.
The Pintails pitchers are pleased. It doesn't take me long to size them up and help bring out the best in their game. Our team WHIP—that's walks plus hits per inning pitched—is top in the league so far. Gritch knows that, and Weaver just reminded him to not put it in jeopardy. This is the start of Gritch's second season in Madison, but the rumors keep floating that he won't be here much longer. Double-A or the big time loom just around the corner.
Tonight's game is in Lansing, Michigan. We got here in the wee hours of the morning on a late-night bus ride from Indianapolis. We're seated at a huge round table, ten of us, sucking down pizza for lunch. The team is springing for it, but I had to pitch in my own cash for my beer. I'm on the family subsidy plan, meaning my parents are still tossing in a few bucks extra to supplement my $1000-a-month salary. I'm a little more fortunate than some of my teammates, having received a reasonable signing bonus. It was enough to spring for an attic apartment in Madison.
Gritch is up for his fifth start of the season. His last time out he would have racked up a no-hitter if our manager would have left him in. The fans booed and stomped when he came out in the bottom of the eighth, but the manager takes his marching orders directly from the top of the organization, and if they say save the pitcher’s arm, he saves the pitcher’s arm. It's fun to see a no-hitter, but it's a lifetime memory if it happens in the big leagues.
I've got a hunch tonight will be another big night. I'm not really sure in what way, but the palm of my left hand, my catching hand, has already started to itch. That's my nearly foolproof signal of a good game coming up.
During batting practice the hitting coach walked up to me and said, "Steiner, you're moved to clean-up tonight. And crouch just a quarter inch more. Make that adjustment and they'll be out of the park."
I was no stranger to clean-up in college, but playing for Madison they started me out batting sixth, and a week ago I got moved to third position. Now I'm in the power slot, number four. I've only knocked two balls over the fence so far this season, but someone behind the scenes is confident I can do better than that. I tried that extra quarter inch crouch and the coach was right. Those balls had more lift and they started sailing out of the park in practice.
I high-fived Guerra when I dropped down into the dugout. He watched my practice swings. He's a shorter, compact infielder with those dark Latin good looks. Madison women swoon over him, but he has a fiancée back home in Mexico. He grew up in Mexico City with a silver spoon and got sent to a boarding school by wealthy parents. He was raised bilingual, and his English is nearly as good as his Spanish. "Big game ahead, Steiner. I can feel it."
A massive grin spread across my face. "You can feel it, too?"
He nodded. "Drop a couple over the fence and you can dazzle 'em with those blue eyes on the evening news."
We went three up three down in the first inning, so I had to lead off for the second. I dug in by home plate, twisting my cleats to get a good grip in the dirt. I watched the first pitch go by. It was in the strike zone, but I knew their pitcher wasn't going to give me anything to hit on a first ball, so I let it go by. I wound up the bat and dug in for the second pitch, giving that extra quarter inch of crouch. The man on the mound was a tall, skinny guy. He was at least six feet six, and might have played basketball if he had a little more meat on his bones. The next pitch sailed toward me, and it was far outside. The ump called the ball, and I stepped out of the box.
The next ball flew down and outside, too. Now it was time to get serious. The pitcher needed to make sure he got the next ball over the plate. That meant he was likely to loosen up some, and I just might get the big fat red-stitched cream puff I wanted. I wound the bat up again and gave the extra crouch. Their catcher thrust his mitt out just behind my right knee.
The ball left the pitcher's grip, and there it was. I took a powerful cut, and I could feel it. That ball was jacking over the fence. I tossed the bat out of my hands, smiled and barreled toward first. I saw our first-base coach fling his hands into the air goalpost style just as the crowd groaned. With that one swing I put us up one run to none.
The good news didn't stop there. Gritch wasn't working on a no-hitter this time, but strikeouts and a shutout were his thing for this game. By the fifth inning he had racked up nine K's. We were up five to zero and sailing along. He fired two more strikeouts to bring the total to eleven, and he jogged up to my side as we headed for the dugout.
"Damn, Steiner, you know how to read their batters. Are you sure they aren't your college buds?"
I laughed. "Just doing my job, Gritch. Just doing my job."
My second time at bat I grounded out. I chased a bad ball low and inside and golfed it to the shortstop. Heading to the plate for a third time with guys on first and second, I vowed to myself to keep my eye on the ball. We really didn't need the runs, but the minors are a game of personal stats. We're all looking to get noticed in the offices higher up where guys go cross-eyed staring at numbers on a screen.
I could see a hint of pain in the pitcher's eye. He was having a bad game, and his manager was leaving him in. That meant his stats were going in the toilet over a bad game. He would need at least three more good starts to live this one down. I know pitchers, and I was pretty sure his mind was already out of this game. He could already taste that post-game beer that would help drown his sorrows.
I crouched down, ready to jump on the first ball if it was one I wanted. It was a beauty. He threw a fastball right down central. It was my pitch, and I launched it over the fence in center field. Guerra was waiting for me on the top step of the dugout. "What'd I tell you?" He slapped my ass as I headed to the bench. "Nice work bud!"
In the late innings, I bounced a ball over the right field fence for a ground-rule double to finish off my best minor league game at the plate so far. Gritch was going to be noticed, too. He left the game in the eighth with fourteen strikeouts and still protecting a shutout. We all headed back to the hotel with a 10-0 win in our back pockets.
Later that night Weaver decided he was going to do something to try and help me celebrate. I was hanging out with Guerra and his roommate in their hotel room, winding down and watching a Marvel adventure movie on the TV. My cell phone buzzed. I looked and discovered a message from Weaver that read:
Got something for you in the lobby kid. Get down here in five minutes.
I wasn't much in the mood for being told what to do, but I didn't want to create some sort of scene either. I typed back:
Give me five.
Excusing myself from the group, I said my roomie needed me for something. Collins, another rookie, piped up, "Maybe he needs to use your mitt." They all laughed in response.
Weaver was sitting at the bar with a woman on each side of him. When the elevator door slid open, he turned and caught my eye. I sauntered over, shaking my head slightly. He meant well, but I wasn't really looking for a date for the night. He stood up from the barstool as I approached. The two women stood as well. They both giggled.
Weaver slipped his arm around the slim waist of one of the women. She had long dark hair that ran to the middle of her back. For some reason, her blood-red fingernails caught my attention first.
"This is Rachel, Eric, and you can't have her." He laughed at his own joke, and the women cracked fragile smiles. Weaver turned to face the other woman. She looked like a nice girl. She had light brown hair cut in a bob to frame her face. She reached a hand out to me just as Weaver said, "But you might have a better chance with Jana here."
I wanted to respond with, Thanks, but no thanks, but my parents raised me in southern Minnesota to be polite. Instead I took Jana's hand in mine, shook it lightly, and stepped up to plant myself on a stool to her right. I leaned toward the group asking, "Did Chad say he's buying this round?"
To my surprise, he nodded yes. "After that game you turned in tonight roomie, I owe you one. Just don't think I'll make this a habit."
I opted for a beer. I like whiskey drinks, but I'm very, very selective of when I drink them. My college coach pounded into me that being a baseball player is a very public profession, and I should be fully aware that I don't need to start a resume filled with public comments I want to forget. Instead, one or two beers to keep things social is my usual limit. Weaver, on the other hand, was already pretty loose and laughing really loud when Rachel whispered in his ear.
Jana leaned toward me so that her shoulder touched mine. "This is just your first year?" she asked.
I nodded. "First year in the minors, yes, but I've been playing baseball since I was six."
Her mouth opened wide. "Wow, that's a long time. You must really like it."
I wanted to say, It's my life, and that's why you really don't have any chance with me tonight, but I decided to stay on the polite track. "Yep, I do, and I hope one day soon to have a regular spot in a major league lineup."
Jana smiled. "Chad says it usually takes at least four or five years before they even seriously consider you for the big leagues. After eight years, he says he's right on the edge. He said we shouldn’t get used to seeing him come through Lansing."
It was a good thing the bartender hadn't delivered my beer yet. Otherwise, I might have spit it out all over the bar after Jana's comment. I had to give Chad credit for telling stories. I didn't want to pull his rug out from under his feet, so I just nodded a thoughtful yes. "So are the two of you both from Lansing?" I asked.
She shook her head. Jana was pretty, but I wasn't so sure there was a whole lot there behind the attractive smile. "We're from Kalamazoo, but we both love baseball...and the players." Jana started to blush. I wondered if she thought she was husband-hunting. Her hand crept a few inches across the bar and touched mine.
I looked over Jana's shoulder. Weaver was giving Rachel a little peck on the lips. I hoped that didn't mean I would be going to bed late because he brought a woman back to the room. I really wanted a good night's sleep. We had our fourth consecutive day on the field coming up. I looked down to see Jana rubbing my thumb. I needed to come up with a way to turn down her heat.
The bartender slid my beer across the bar, and I reached out for it with my left hand even though I'm right-handed. That gesture successfully pulled my thumb away from Jana's grip. I sipped the beer and looked into her dark, slightly vacant eyes. Setting the beer down and wiping the foam from my lips with the back of my right hand, I asked, "Has Chad told you much about me?"
She shrugged. "Not much I guess. He said you were the hottest young player on the team. I assumed he was talking about your talent." She giggled and held her right hand up to cover her mouth.
I did appreciate Weaver's compliment, but Jana's giggle made my stomach churn. "Well, I guess he told you I pretty much sleep with my glove."
I saw genuine confusion on her face. "You wear gloves in the summer?"
Laughter was not appropriate. It would look derisive, but I needed to exit soon. I pointed at my left hand with my right index finger. "The catcher's mitt. It's called a glove. It's what I catch the baseballs with behind home plate. I sleep with it next to me in bed." Then I shook my head mournfully. "No place for anybody else at my side. Just the catcher's mitt."
The Imperfect Game #2
1
Linc
Istared with steely-eyed concentration down into that catcher's mitt behind home plate as I began my windup. The mitt was the focal point. It was the only thing I saw. I shut down my peripheral vision and could see only the target. It's the center of the padding in the mitt. I don't aim for the webbing or just trying to get the ball close so Eric, my catcher, can catch it. I aim for the dead center. I didn't care who the batter was. I didn't care how he was standing. Eric took care of all of that. It's his job to sweat those details. He gave me the target. He gave me the sign, and I nodded in agreement. All I needed to do was deliver.
I reared back and then, with all the power and momentum provided by the intricate mechanics of a six and a half foot tall body with longer arms than average, I fired that little, white, red-stitched ball toward the target. It was just about an inch off target, but Eric compensated with a tiny movement of the mitt and the umpire barked, "Strike three!"
With a sheepish grin on my face, I opened my arms wide as Eric rushed the mound and jumped into my arms. It was the final game of an amazing season for both of us even though our team didn't make it to the playoffs. There will be plenty more seasons for that. One advantage of missing the playoffs in my rookie season was that I had something to look forward to in the future. It is possible to burn out like a comet shooting across the night sky. I want to be a long-term orbiting planet.
I laughed hard when Eric barked, "OK, lemme down Kirby." The rest of the team gathered around us and high-fived and slapped us both on the back. Two impressive rookie seasons came to a close, and, according to the writers, Lincoln Kirby, that's me, and Eric Steiner, my catcher, were running neck and neck for Rookie of the Year honors.
Then that voice whispered in my head, "But you missed the perfect game."
A perfect game, when it happens, is the only perfect thing in the game of baseball. I know. I pitched one in high school. It was early in my senior year, and my dad was the coach. We were all on pins and needles for the last three innings. My dad, the rest of the team, and the coaching staff, and many of the people in the stands were all holding their breath with every pitch. No one had pitched a perfect game on my high school team since 1938.
For those who don't follow baseball, a perfect game happens when a pitcher goes through all nine innings without allowing anyone to get on base. That means no hits, no walks, and no errors from his teammates. Strikeouts aren't necessary, but every batter must be called out before reaching first base safely. Perfect games are a little more common in high school baseball, but in the major leagues, they are so rare that they have only happened 21 times since 1900, or one every five and a half years or so.
At the end of both the seventh and eighth innings, my dad just clapped me on the shoulder and said, "Good job, Linc," as I trotted down the steps of the dugout to take my place on the bench. The silence around me was deafening. It's notoriously bad luck to say anything about a perfect game while it is in process. The superstition is that one word will cause it to all crumble into dust.
In the ninth inning, the weight of the world was resting on my broad shoulders. I was already six foot four in my senior year. I added two more inches later in college. My body was all arms and legs. In junior high, when it became obvious I was going to be tall, school coaches tried to convince me to play basketball, but baseball was the family game. My dad was high school coach, and my uncle played five years in the minor leagues. Baseball was my birthright.
There I stood on the pitcher's mound in the top of the ninth inning in front of a home crowd. I took down the first two batters of the inning with ground balls. I was three strikes away from the perfect game. My catcher was excellent. He was all-conference three of his four years in high school. I don't know how a pitcher can be any better than mediocre without a great mitt behind the plate.
My curve wasn't that strong, and I shrugged off that suggestion for the pitch. Instead, I delivered a change up, and the batter swung way too early. He looked bad, and a roar of approval erupted from the stands. As I set myself for the second pitch, a hush fell over everyone again. I ignored it. I was concentrating on the signals and then on the catcher's mitt. We agreed on a blistering fastball, and that's just what I delivered. The batter was confused. He expected it to be a throwaway pitch, and the ball went right past him without a swing.
That second strike brought the crowd to their feet, and it increased the chatter from my teammates. There would be no hush before the third pitch. Everyone was hungry for history, and I was in the position to give it to them. They roared and stamped their feet. My catcher shifted his mitt slightly to his right and set himself for a ball low and on the outside edge of the plate. There was a risk of it being called a ball, but if the batter swung at the ball, chances were good he would miss.
I set myself and tuned out the din from the crowd. Later, I was told everyone in both dugouts leaned forward toward the field. As I set myself and then rolled into my windup, everyone held their breath. I fired in toward home plate, and I knew it was a good pitch. I could tell the moment that I released the ball it was on target. It takes less than a second for that ball to reach home plate, and then just another second for the umpire's call. The batter swung, the ball hit the catcher's mitt, and the umpire called strike three. I did it. I pitched a perfect game.
My team piled out on to the field and the crowd in the stands went nuts. The biggest hug of the night came from my dad, my coach, and his comment has stayed with me ever since. He said, "Can't wait until you pitch one in the big leagues, Linc!"
I knew he was watching at home that night I almost threw one in my major league rookie season. Only two rookies have pitched perfect games in the major leagues, and I came close. I carried it into the seventh inning. Eric was right there with me. He did his usual amazing job of calling the pitches and framing every ball for the umpire's benefit. Then I hit a guy. After the game, both Eric and I thought the batter probably stepped into the ball, but I'm still willing to believe it was an accident. If you don't want to hit the batter when you have a perfect game on the line, you shouldn't throw close to him.
I finished up the game with a no-hitter and shutout. Those achievements still put me in rare company. I was only the 23rd rookie pitcher to accomplish that feat in the past 115 years of major league baseball, but it wasn't perfect. I called my dad later that night when I made it back to my apartment. I stared out at the lights of the city while he said, "Congratulations Linc! You've made us all proud back here at home. I only wish your mother were here to see it. I'm sure somewhere she can see it. I just wanted to hug her and see those tears in her eyes when you struck out the last batter."
The tears were rolling down my face as he said it. It was a very emotional comment for my dad. He did his best to hide it. He does it so well that it's hard to show the emotion when he really wants to. The only time I've seen actual tears on his face was when he was holding mom's hand in the hospital and kissed her goodbye for the last time.
I'm not as bad as he is, but my teammates rib me for being so stoic. Eric explained to me one night that they don't call me Beanpole just because I'm tall and thin. "You're kind of rigid and unemotional sometimes too, Kirby. I'm not criticizing, but that's where it comes from."
I said, "I love you Dad," and I hung up the phone. He didn't say it, but I knew he was still thinking about that perfect game. It was on my mind, and I knew I would deliver it for him someday. That night playing against Cincinnati just wasn't the night."
The season was over, and I was exhausted. The night after the last game, I had plans to go out with Eric, my fellow rookie and my best friend on the team, and his boyfriend Theo. When we set the date, I was planning to bring James. I dated James through most of the season. He is a fantastic guy, but in the end, the ups and downs of dating the mercurial Lincoln Kirby were just too much for James to handle.
It's not that I'm a bad guy. I just have tunnel vision for baseball or whatever I'm focused on at the moment. It's an Achilles heel, and it's one of my greatest strengths. That made the dates and sleepovers with James amazing, but he grew frustrated when he found out that baseball time was only baseball time, and nothing else could intrude. At some point one too many early practice dates or late conversations with the pitching coach in the locker room broke the camel's back. Or maybe it was that I was too late turning the cell phone back on after road games. James has a flourishing career helping at-risk kids, so he couldn't travel when I was on the road. Eventually it was just too much just like my relationship with Tim in the minors.
Eric and Theo were already at our favorite table at the restaurant when I arrived. The steakhouse is perched atop one of the tallest buildings in the city, and they serve the best steaks in town. It's also a destination for local celebrities and their wealthy friends, so baseball players don't get bothered for autographs. As soon as I sat, Theo reached across the table and poured me a glass of red wine. He then held his glass aloft and waited for the other two of us to join in. "To amazing rookie seasons!" Theo declared.
Our glasses clinked and I downed the first swallow of wine. It felt good going down. I was eager for the light buzz to settle in. I don't know if it will work out this way in the long run, but Eric and Theo look like the perfect couple. Eric is a classically good-looking guy. He's blond and blue-eyed with a solid build. Theo is a photographer, and he's thin but has a dense head of wavy dark hair with thick facial hair. He looks a little like the lumberjack's little brother. Dressed in suit and tie, I couldn't help but think of the couple on the top of a big six-tiered gay wedding cake.
I took another sip of my wine and leaned back. "So what is planned for the two of you? A week of indoor sports?" I winked across the table.
Eric spoke up. "We're not getting married...at least not yet." He glanced knowingly at Theo. "But we're taking what we're calling our honeymoon."
"Honeymoon?" I asked.
"It feels like we've done nothing but work since we met. We've not had more than a day or two off here and there, so we're going on a trip."
I took another sip of the wine. Inside I couldn't help but feel a bit jealous. I would have loved to be going off on a trip with a good man at my side. "Where are you going? Mexico? A cruise? Sonoma?"
Theo grinned. "Europe."
I smiled. "Wow!"
Eric continued, "Neither of us has ever been to Europe, so we thought, why not? I need to be back in a couple of weeks to start training, but we're just going to go and explore."
It was a good dinner. Both Eric and Theo are good company, and they are great friends. They would do anything for me, but the later it got in the evening, the more obvious it was to me that I was alone. I stared across the table and watched them each take bites off the slice of cheesecake they shared for dessert. I had my berry crumble all to myself. As I dug into the warm, sweet berry filling and savored the contrast of the sweet, crunchy topping in my mouth, I knew that I needed to find someone. I would be training soon, too, but, as I watched Theo laugh when Eric stole the last bite of cheesecake, I decided my off-season project was finding a man.
"Are you ok Linc?" asked Theo.
The question brought me back to earth. "Yeah, I'm fine. I think I'm still letting down from all the tension of the season. My mind drifts off sometimes."
Theo nodded. "Perfectly understandable."
I stood up. "I need to go for tonight, but the two of you don't need to feel like it's time to go. I've got a few messages to answer when I get home. I should get to those before I'm so tired I just decide to give up."
The happy couple both stood, and they each gave me warm hugs in turn. Theo said, "We'll get together just as soon as we're back in town, and be sure to follow the trip on social media. I'll be posting photos."
I did my best to give a big, toothy smile. "You two be safe. We can't have anything happen to our star catcher....and his personal photographer!" I gave Theo a wink and then turned for the exit.
When I said that I had messages to answer, I wasn't making things up. My agent put me in touch with an online virtual assistant to handle e-mail and social media connections with fans. Her name is Penny, and I've never seen a photo of her nor talked with her over the phone. All of our interaction is through e-mail. She mostly thanks fans for their support and reaching out to me and then sends them on their merry way. Every few days she will forward a message she thinks I might want to see. It might be a lengthier, well-written piece of praise for my skills on the field, or it might be a special request for an autograph or communication with a sick child. I had three of the autograph requests to handle. I planned to send a personal e-mail message and Penny would follow up with the glossy photo via snail mail.
I rented an apartment downtown on the twentieth floor of a gleaming new building. It's not large, only one bedroom, but the view over the city is stunning. The building has a topnotch gym, a rooftop garden, and all the conveniences a resident might want including a car wash and dry cleaners. It's comfortable, and I've promised myself, if the next two years go well, I will buy a house with room to stretch out.
I don't own a car, at least not yet. There wasn't time after I was called up for something as mundane as shopping for a car. My agent and my dad both offered to pick one out for me, but with so much time on the road and the time at home filled with batting practice, workouts, and promo appearances, I had no use for a car. In the off-season, that was going to change.
Suits and ties are not my friends. I feel constricted by both the tie and the jacket. As soon as I closed the front door, I tore the tie loose from around my neck and shrugged the jacket off on to the sofa. The laptop lay open on a chair near the floor to ceiling windows of my living room where I left it. I tapped the keyboard to wake it up and heard the tone of the computer coming to life.
Checking my e-mail, I noticed that Penny had forwarded one more message from a fan. Her note was, "You should definitely take a look at this one, Linc."
As I scrolled down, it was immediately obvious the message wasn't from a run-of-the-mill fan. The message wasn't addressed to Linc, Mr. Kirby, or #27. Instead it began with my formal given name Lincoln. My mom was the only person who called me that. I read further and a grin crossed my face when I realized it was a message from the new head coach of my high school baseball team. My dad retired early in the spring at age 57. His doctors encouraged him to make the choice to reduce stress in his life. Once he retired, my dad left it all behind. I heard nothing from him about the replacement who had been hired.
The new coach asked me to make an appearance and give a speech at the school. He was certain it would be an inspirational event for the entire town. The message was signed, "Thank you in advance, Hudson Wiley."
I got up and headed for the kitchen. I was impressed by his confidence that I would respond. Mr. Wiley even sounded like he thought I would say yes. Now I needed to decide whether or not I would prove him right.
Home Run Holiday #3
1
Drew
I would never give him the satisfaction of hearing it from me, but Lincoln Kirby was arguably the scariest presence on the pitcher's mound in the major leagues. He was as tall as a basketball player with an arm that reached a few extra feet closer to home plate. A batter's reaction time was shorn to its bare minimum while the ball barreled to the plate at nearly one hundred miles per hour.
It was the top of the ninth inning, my team down six, and I was set to be the final batter of the final game of the season unless I could somehow make it to first base safely. There was no postseason in the picture for either of our teams, only the bragging rights of having broken our win-loss tie for the season.
I'm Drew Garza, and in the course of the season I managed to develop a friendship with both Lincoln Kirby and Eric Steiner, the catcher crouched behind the plate. Gay players are still relatively rare in major league baseball, and yes, we did all know each other. The friendship only made their determination to strike me out that much more acute. My rookie season was winding down, and Linc and Eric were both among the most promising young stars in baseball at the close of their second seasons in the big leagues.
Our two teams battled in a rivalry that stretched back nearly one hundred years. The winner of the epic final game would avoid finishing last place for the season. That meant the game was epic for those of us on the field but probably for few others, even our hardcore fans.
With the score standing at six to none, the outcome was probably already decided, but, as they always say, the fat lady wasn't singing quite yet. I was determined to strangle the notes in her throat. I twisted my back foot into the rear of the batter's box and dug in my cleats. I could hear Eric muttering behind his catcher's mask, "This one's for you, Garza." I braced myself for a slider low and away from Linc. If I had a serious weakness at the plate, it was that low outside corner of the strike zone.
I glanced back at Eric twisting my mouth into a smirk before I pumped the bat back toward my right shoulder readying myself for a hit. I stared out at Linc and tried to forget the scowl on his face. He felt it necessary to glower at batters as if his arm wasn't fearsome enough. The pitch was the one I feared. It was a classic slider looking like it might run the center of home plate before tailing to the outside. I considered a swing, but, in a split-second decision, I held up. The umpire bellowed "Strike one!" loud and clear.
Eric's fist slapped into his mitt while he said, "You're not gonna get one better than that."
I mumbled, "I just might jack it out of here." Then I bit my lip realizing my words were qualified with a "might" while Eric was certain of the outcome. I waited for the second pitch and Linc gave me another sneer. He shook off the first signs from his catcher, and then he smirked when he liked what he saw. Linc pulled the ball into his glove and began his wind up.
From my experience facing Linc earlier in the season, I expected his second pitch to be a throwaway. He would either try to brush me back off the plate with an inside fast ball or convince me to chase a fat change up just outside of the strike zone. I crouched and waited. Unfortunately, my reasoning was flawed and the umpire thundered, "Strike two!" while the bat rested on my shoulder. I watched a beautiful fast ball go past right down the center of the strike zone.
I gritted my teeth imagining Eric's grin behind the catcher's mask as he barked, "I'll still buy you a beer after the game, Garza. We're all friends again once you go down in flames."
I pounded my bat in the middle of the plate. Without a response to the taunting, not even a glance backward, I planted myself in the batter's box, crouched down, and stared at Linc's glove. This time I thought I saw one side of Linc's mouth twist up into something like a half smile. It was worse than the scowl, and my shoulder trembled slightly in response. The psychological edge to his game reminded me why Linc was already being talked about as a future Hall of Famer after only two seasons.
That long, wiry arm was one of the most powerful weapons in baseball. I watched it stretch toward me looking like the ball was already halfway to home plate before he let go. I swung and expected to feel and hear that satisfying crack with the ball looping into short right field. Instead, all I heard was the thwack of the ball hitting Eric's mitt. The umpire bellowed, "OUT!" and the season was over.
The half-full stadium roared its approval and Linc, with a gentle smile replacing the scowls, trotted toward home plate accepting high-fives and slaps on the shoulder from his infield teammates. I glanced back at Eric and shook my head. He tipped the catcher's mask back showing off his piercing blue eyes. He said, "Sorry, Drew, tough way to end that rookie season, but you know we had to do it."
I pounded the bat one more time in the center of the plate and growled. "Yeah, you just HAD to."
Linc gave me a good natured slap on the back. He said, "Welcome to the big leagues. Last place isn't so bad. Look at it this way. Next year, there's nowhere to go but up." I watched him kick at the dirt in front of the plate. "Actually, second to last sucks even worse. I already have my goal for next year. I'm going to pitch in my first postseason game."
Eric interrupted the game talk and asked, "Hey, Drew, are you in town for a day or two? Or are you headed out with the rest of the team?"
"No, neither of those. I am leaving first thing in the morning, but I'm heading back to San Diego to see the family. I promised to go see them all now, so that way I can avoid the holidays."
Eric reached up and wiped the sweat from his brow leaving a dirty smudge across his forehead. "You don't want to be with them at Christmas?"
I sighed. "No, we still have a few bigots in the family. I can't insist they don't show up, so I do the next best thing and avoid them altogether."
Eric said, "I was hoping you could join me, Linc, and the better halves for brunch in the morning. I don't know if you've ever met Hudson, Linc's boyfriend. He's a great guy."
"Sorry, wish I could, but I have to be to the airport by six." I scratched my head and remembered a discussion with my agent earlier in the week. I said, "But I'm coming back here just after Thanksgiving. I got rooked into that charity thing your boyfriend put together."
"You're coming to Hit One For the Kids?"
I said, "Yeah, I am. I think my agent's a little nuts, but he said Theo wanted players from multiple teams. He agreed to it before he even asked me. Just promise me I won't get booed out of the place."
Eric laughed. "No, our fans are better than that, but why don't you plan for a few days out here when you come back. You can hang out with us, and we'll show you the city."
I smiled. I didn't have many good friends yet in the majors, and it looked like Eric might soon be one. "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. I'll be in touch in a couple of weeks with details. You know, that boyfriend of yours is turning into the ultimate baseball wife. The guys on my team even talk about him."
"Yeah, he loves doing stuff like that, and the actual wives love him for it."
Linc pointed toward the wall between the backstop and the first base dugout. "There's Theo and Hudson now." He flung his long arm around my shoulder. "Why don't you come with us and say hi?"
"I'll do that, but then I've got to run. I'm already gonna get razzed in the locker room for consorting with the enemy."
Hudson and Theo contrasted strongly as they leaned over the edge of the wall toward the field. They were similar in height, but the parallels in appearance ended there. Hudson, with his broad shoulders, brushed back sandy brown hair, and easygoing smile, still maintained the gentle grace of his southern California surfing background even after a year in the Midwest. Theo was wiry with cropped, nearly black, hair and neatly trimmed full beard and mustache. A vibrant, restless energy seemed to emanate in waves from his body.
As the trio approached, Theo leaned far over the edge to grip Eric's face in his long, nimble fingers and share an intimate kiss.
I growled, "Sheesh, get a room already."
Hudson laughed. "You're just jealous." He leaned over the wall and offered me his hand. His grip was firm, and for a second, I imagined him wrapped in Linc's long arms.
I said, "Honestly, yeah, maybe a little."
Linc squeezed my shoulder saying, "Keep your eyes open. Mr. Right could be hiding in the strangest places."
"I hope he's not too well hidden. I may never find him." I held out a hand to shake with Theo. He let go of Eric just long enough to respond. I said, "I wish I could hang around, guys, but I've got to head to the locker room. Thanks for making this rookie feel welcome in the big leagues...at least until that last out."
As I turned to jog toward the dugout, Linc said, "Yeah, next season we don't have to be nice anymore." A slight shudder swept through my body wondering if the statement held any truth.
Declan Rhodes is an author of gay romance. He is fascinated by exploring male/male relationships in a world changed by worldwide progress in lgbtq civil rights.
He is based in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and loves men, cooking for friends and family, travel, and long walks along the shore of Lake Michigan not necessarily in that order.
Catching the Pitch #1
The Imperfect Game #2
Home Run Holiday #3
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