Page 70 of Switch Pitching

Ethan

Dude I got the delivery email like five minutes ago

Glad you like it tho

Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be just as desperate if you were in my position

No comment

Even though Ethan helped me escape horny purgatory, my issues are still numerous. I go to bed early, and the next day, after going to the hospital for even more scans, I come home to an empty apartment. Again. I mindlessly flip through all the channels on TV, scroll through social media, and read half a book from Ethan’s bookshelf, but nothing manages to distract me from the fact that I’m completely, undeniably alone.

In the five months since moving here, I didn’t make any friends outside of the team. Granted, my schedule doesn’t make it easy to socialize during the season, but maybe I should have at least tried. Then again, I didn’t think I’d get injured. Ideally, I wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.

I pick up my phone to call Ethan, but then I check the time. There’s a game now and calling him in the middle of one isn’t an option. We can’t bring our phones into the dugout, and there’s no way I’m calling the ballpark in Austin just to beg for a transfer to the visitor’s dugout. I’m not that desperate, at least not yet.

Scrolling through the rest of my contacts, I contemplate calling some university friends, but I don’t. The motivation to reach out to anyone simply doesn’t exist.

The only person I want to talk to right now is off playing professional baseball, just like I should be.

What if I never play professionally again?

I shove that intrusive, unwelcome thought out of my mind.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell myself out loud. “I’ll be perfectly fine.”

Out of options, I climb into bed, lie on my back, and try to rest. Shutting my eyes, I will sleep to come, even though I usually toss and turn and end up on my stomach. This position is completely, utterly unnatural to me, but I can’t risk injuring myself even more.

The next day is more of the same. So is the day after. Eventually, everything blurs into one. I don’t need any more scans, so I stay at home, following strict instructions to keep my broken finger immobile. My shoulder aches a little less, which offers some kind of relief, but I’m still in a lousy mood.

Then, one day, I hear the front door click. It’s Ethan. He’s home.

In the distance, Ethan’s voice calls my name, and I drag myself out of bed so I can trudge to the living room. Ethan, who’s looking effortlessly attractive and put-together, is standing next to the couch with his suitcase. Meanwhile, I’m a complete mess, and it shows.

That doesn’t seem to matter to Ethan, though, because he’s walking toward me with a massive smile on his face. He wraps himself around my body that’s been wearing the same clothesfor the past two days. I half-heartedly return the embrace with my left arm.

“I missed you so much,” he says, resting his chin on my unwashed, messed-up hair.

“Missed you too,” I reply.

“You feeling better?”

I shrug. “Guess so. I can move my shoulder.”

Fixing me with a concerned expression, Ethan rests a hand on my good shoulder. We don’t say anything because what can either of us really say? I know how Ethan has been spending his time, and from my disheveled state, it’s clear to Ethan what I’ve been doing: nothing at all. I’ve just been lying in bed rotting away because I have nothing else to do.

Ethan turns back toward me and wraps me in another gentle hug, which confuses me because I probably smell awful.

“Let go of me,” I insist. “I smell like ass.”

Ethan kisses my forehead, and for the first time in days, I get a spark of something positive.

“I don’t care,” he says. “I just want you.”

That gets a laugh from me. “Suit yourself, but I should probably take a shower now that you’re home.”

“Are you up to that?”

The buzzing warmth inside me suddenly gives way to thorny, bristling annoyance. Am I up to that? Give me a break. I’m not useless. I can take a fucking shower.

---