Page 52 of Beyond Protection
It was too late. Saying no would require explaining why.
"Sure," I said. "Quick one."
I stepped up beside him. He angled the phone. I plastered on the smile they always wanted.
The camera clicked.
"Thanks, man. Seriously. You're an inspiration."
"Just trying to play good baseball." That was my standard exit line, the one that signaled conversation over without being rude
He grinned, already texting the photo to someone, and walked away glowing.
My heart hammered against my ribs as the crowd closed ranks around me.
How many of them had watched the exchange? How many phones had I missed? Was anyone filming?
"Mac."
Eamon's voice was low and steady.
I blinked. "Sorry." I rubbed my face. "I'm—sorry."
"How often does that happen?"
"Every time I leave the house. Sometimes multiple times a block."
"You handle it like training," Eamon said.
"It is training." I spit the words out. "Smile. Make eye contact. Sound grateful. Don't give them a reason to write think-pieces about how fame changed you or success made you an asshole."
Eamon was quiet for three seconds. Long enough to feel the weight of what I'd said.
"Every smile?" he asked.
"Every single one." I looked at him. "The only currency I have is likability. The second I stop being the happy, grateful, historically significant gay baseball player who makes everyone feel good about their progressiveness, the story changes. Then I'm difficult. Ungrateful. Not handling the pressure. And suddenly I'm no longer an inspiration—I'm a cautionary tale."
Eamon didn't answer. He started to scan the crowd again.
"He was harmless," I said.
"That's not the problem, is it?"
I looked at Eamon. He'd already figured it out.
"No. It's not."
"There's something more."
"I don't know how to turn it off," I said quietly. "The performance. Even when I want to."
Even when I'm with you.
The words were internal, but I suspected Eamon heard them anyway.
"The cider," he said after a moment. "Back at the stall. That was real."
"Yeah."
