Page 42 of Switch Pitching

James theatrically leans his head on my shoulder, barely long enough for the photographer to snap a picture, before releasing my hand and marching into the building. I follow, dumbfounded. My hand still buzzes from his touch, and I press it against my treasonous heart that’s reading way too deeply into the whole thing.

The photos hit social media within an hour. James scours the internet as we change, seeing if anything comes up, and when he finds a post, he laughs hysterically.

“Hey, check this out,” he instructs, thrusting his phone into my face.

There, clear as day, is a picture of James holding my hand. I swipe to the next picture, and that one shows James flipping off the photographer.

“Isn’t it great?” James asks. “Now everyone is gonna think that it’s all a huge joke.”

I don’t know about that. I didn’t see any comments, but if there aren’t any now, there will be in a few minutes.

The hanger holding my jersey snaps as I yank it out of my locker a bit harder than I need to. Cursing, I pick up the pieces and compose myself. I need to focus on the game ahead of us, not this stupid, hopeless crush I have on James.

Oh shit. It’s a crush. Not one that I’m trying to prevent, but an actual, full-blown, debilitating crush. I pull my hat down low over my eyes, blocking out the locker room lights as I lean down to tie my cleats. My stomach tightens as I try to push the swirling thoughts out of my head, but they just keep coming back.

Why can’t I be friends with James without wanting something more? He’s straight, and he’s my best friend, for fuck’s sake. I shouldn’t feel this way. I know it’s not going anywhere, so why does my brain insist on going back to the impossible?

It’s not like this is new because I’ve dealt with this shit before. Hell, a ton of guys I’ve been friends with over the years almost turned into some kind of crush, but I always managed to shove everything down, ignore the annoying sparks of attraction, and move on. But with James, it’s different. He’s so damn affectionate. He’s always touching me and making romantic, flirtatious comments like they’re a normal part of friendship.

What I would give to be one of those guys who can hang out with their straight friends without falling for them.

I hate this.

I stand up and head toward the dugout because I have to think about something else.

But when James slings his arm around my shoulder and tells me that this game is going to be the best one ever, I lose my train of thought and fall even deeper into the bottomless pit of feelings I have for my unfairly hot, charming friend.

I’m so fucking screwed.

16

JAMES

The crowd is almost silent, watching me with bated breath as I step onto the mound. The park is packed for our game against Philadelphia, and it’s electric. We’re holding a one-point lead, and I hold my breath.

Ethan is out in center field, ready and focused. I glance his way and nod before turning my attention to the batter. I’m in the zone, primed and ready.

Slowly, I wind up and release the pitch. The ball sails through the air, and the batter swings and misses. Strike one. The crowd cheers, and my adrenaline surges.

Foul. Ball. Foul. Another foul. The batter is acting increasingly frustrated, and on the last pitch, he strikes out.

Ruiz from Philadelphia steps up to bat next, and he’s good. I take another deep breath, blocking out everything around me.

I throw my best pitch. Ruiz swings, and there’s a sharp crack as the ball connects. It’s a fly ball, heading straight.

Ethan’s off like a shot, sprinting toward the ball with incredible speed. The ballpark holds a collective breath as he dives, his glove outstretched. There’s a second of silence, and then the roar of the crowd confirms that he’s caught it.

I want to pump my fist in the air, but I hold back because I don’t want to get ahead of myself. One more out. We just need one more out.

The next batter steps up, and I throw a series of pitches: two strikes and then a frustrating, never-ending string of fouls.

Finally, he swings and misses. Strike three. Game over.

The crowd explodes, and my teammates rush the field. Ethan’s the first to reach me, and I pull him into a hug.

“We did it!” he shouts.

His body, warm and solid, presses against mine and it grounds me. The noise of the crowd around me seems to taper off into a dull hum, and it’s just the two of us. Still holding onto his shoulders, I pull back and our eyes meet. There’s something intriguing there, but I brush it off. The roar of the park snaps back, and my mind goes elsewhere.

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