Page 40 of Tagging Bases

Then it was teenagers who wanted me to sign their hats or jerseys, gushing about how they wanted to play college ball someday, and hoped to be as good as I was. Even grown adults—parents and grandparents, and everyone in between—came up to shake my hand and congratulate me on a game well played.

“And the team”—Daniel grabs the bar of soap from my hands and rubs it over his muscular chest—“has your back, no matter what. You’re our ace, and we’ll follow you anywhere.”

A lump forms in my throat, and I have to blink back the sudden moisture in my eyes. I try to tell myself it’s the shampoo, but who am I kidding? These guys are more than my teammates. They’re my brothers. We’ve been through so much together, on and off the field.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I say, my voice rougher than usual. “Any of you.”

Daniel claps me on the shoulder, his hand lingering for a beat longer than necessary. “You’ll never have to find out because we’re in this together.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “And the scouts? Do you really think they liked what they saw?”

Daniel scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Charlie, they loved it. I overheard a couple of them talking after the game. They were throwing around words like ‘can’t-miss prospect’ and ‘future star.’ Trust me, you nailed it.”

Relief, as warm and comforting as the water, washes over me. “Thanks, man,” I say, slapping Daniel on the ass and leaving behind a big soapy handprint because why not? “For everything.”

We finish showering, grab towels from the rack by theshower entrance, and wrap them around our waists. As we walk down the hall that takes us past Coach’s office to the locker room, I ask, “Do you think Harrison’s mad at us?”

Daniel scratches his head. “For what?”

“For not making a greater effort. To see him, I mean. After that night at his parents’ place, we kinda went MIA on his ass.”

“We’ve been busy,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’m sure he gets it.”

The locker room is as much a frenzy of horseplay and half-naked manliness as the showers were. Joe Bryce, our first baseman, has fashioned a victory crown out of tin foil—where the hell did he even find that?—and is parading around like a deranged baseball king. He’s converted his towel into a cloak, and his bat is now a scepter.His real bat, not his…

“Hear ye, hear ye!” Joe Bryce proclaims, pounding his baseball bat scepter against the locker room floor. The hollow thud of the aluminum reverberates around the room. “I hereby declare Charlie McManus as this week’s most valuable player!”

My face flushes as the entire team erupts, slamming their hands against the benches, the locker stalls, even their thighs. Daniel puts his fingers in his mouth and lets out an ear-piercing whistle that nearly bursts my eardrum.

“Speech! Speech!” someone calls out from the back. Others quickly take up the chant. “Speech! Speech!”

I hold up my hands in a futile attempt to quiet them down, but it only makes them cheer louder. I’ve never been much for public speaking, constantly stumbling over my words and turning red as a tomato. Talking to the press is fine because I’m discussing sports. But this? Talking about myself? I’d rather end up onFear Factorand eat bull testicles.

Clearing my throat, I step up onto one of the benches, wobbling slightly as it cracks under my weight. “Okay, I hear ya. Settle down.” I wave my hands, and the noise diminishes to a low murmur. “First of all, I want to say thank you. To all of you. I couldn’t have done what I did today without your support.”

“Damn straight!” someone shouts, and laughter ripples through the room.

“Seriously, though. You guys are the best. The way you had my back out there today, the way you always have, means everything to me. I know I can be a head case sometimes”—more laughter—“but you never let me fall too far into despair. You pull me out of my funk, dust me off, and remind me of what’s important—this team.”

I pause for a second as emotion clogs my throat. Around the room are a bunch of nodding heads and solemn expressions. They get it.

“So, yeah, I might have thrown a few decent pitches today”—someone scoffs loudly at that, and I grin—“but it was a team effort. We won this gametogether. And whatever happens next, whether the scouts liked what they saw or not, I know we’ll win the next one. And the one after that, and the one after that. Because that’s what we do. We win. As a team.”

For a beat, there’s silence. Then Daniel starts clapping. Slowly at first, then faster, until it spreads like wildfire.

“McManus! McManus! McManus!” they chant, pumping their fists in the air. Some whip off their towels and twirl them in the air as if they’re spectators at a hockey game.

As for me, I do what I do best. Join them in their shenanigans, whipping my towel off, helicoptering my dick, and then chasing Joe Bryce down the hall when he tries to goose me with his bat.

And this time, I’mnottalking about the real one.

“Areyou sure you can’t come to the party, even for a little bit?” I ask Daniel, even though I already know what the answer is going to be.

He sighs and focuses on some distant point down the hall. “We’ve been over this already, Charlie. I can’t. It’s an anniversaryparty for my parents’ best friends. Ihaveto be there. You know how it is with that crowd. If I don’t show up…”

I nod. “It’ll reflect poorly on your parents.”

The New York socialite scene is a different planet, as far as I’m concerned. Growing up in Bomont, the fanciest event I ever attended was my cousin’s sweet sixteen. We didn’t have galas or soirees; we had barbecues and birthday parties at bowling alleys. We didn’t wear tuxedos and dresses, either; we wore party hats.

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