One Last Night (4 page)

“Thanks,” I say, sitting down on the dusty
bench.

He just nods and turns to the guy next to him.
“Hey Austin, did you move into the new place yet?”

“Yep,” a guy with blond hair answers from a
few feet down the bench. “Went and bought me a couple of Mexicans
down by the Home Depot to haul the heavy stuff.”

I glance over at Austin. I’ve never heard
anyone actually say that before.

“You bring the pool table?”

“Bet your ass I did,” Austin answers. “Had to
get five guys to carry it but I’m not leaving that
behind.”

“Must have cost you.”

“Nah,” Austin answers. “All you gotta do is
slip the Mexicans some burrito money and they’ll do anything you
want.”

The first guy shakes his head. “I hired an
actual moving company last time. Not only did it cost me an assload
of money, but they sent over two blacks to do the job. Lazy
sons-of-bitches took twice as long as a Mexican would and cost me
twice as much.”

The last sentence sends a jolt through me but
I bite my lip and stare at the ground. I can’t imagine having this
conversation back home, but I have to remind myself that I’m not
back home right now and opening my mouth is only going to cause
trouble just when I’m starting to find my place on this
team.

“That’s why the blacks don’t hang out by the
Home Depot,” Austin says, spitting the shells of some sunflower
seeds onto the floor. “At least the Mexicans want to work. The
blacks just want you to float them some money so that they can hang
outside of the liquor store on East Avenue all day.”

I look around, but it seems like nobody else
is even paying attention to the conversation. My old team was
mostly Hispanic guys and anything like this from Austin and his
friend would get their asses kicked in a hot second. In this dugout
full of white guys, it seems like no big deal.

Rowan walks in and tosses his glove into his
bag. I notice that none of his teammates make room for him on the
bench either, despite the fact that he’s been here since freshman
year.

“Great pitching,” I say to him, as he rummages
for something in his bag.

Rowan turns around, a surprised look on his
face. “Thanks. You swatted a couple of good ones on me.”

“Wasn’t easy.” I glance over and see that even
though none of the guys are looking at us, every single one is
following the conversation and I wonder what in the hell is going
on.

Rowan glances behind me at the other guys on
the bench and turns back to his bag. He picks a Garvin State water
bottle up off the floor and takes a swig.

“Fuck, Adkins!” a brown-haired guy calls. He
walks up and grabs the bottle out of Rowan’s hand. “This is my
fucking water bottle. What’s the matter, you can’t read?” He points
to a name written in black pen on the side. “My name, my bottle.”
He peers into the opening. “Now you probably got fucking AIDS all
over it.” He tosses the bottle back in his own bag as Rowan shakes
his head and grabs his bag on the way out of the dugout.

“Good practice,” Mitch says, walking into the
dugout, as Rowan pushes past him. He stands and watches the guys as
they pack up their bags. “What the hell was that all
about?”

The guy with the brown hair stands up and
faces Mitch. “That fucking faggot drank out of my water
bottle.”

Mitch hikes his bat bag onto his shoulder.
“What? You’re just pissed he didn’t kiss you directly?”

“I swear to God—” The guy with the brown hair
lunges at Mitch, but some of the other guys from the team hold him
back.

“Nice,” Mitch says with a sly smile. “Rowan’s
the best pitcher we have, so get off his shit.” He looks around at
the rest of the guys. “All of you.” The guy with the brown hair
still looks like he wants to kill Mitch, but the rest of the guys
seem to listen. I don’t know why, but Mitch seems to have some
authority here—probably a good idea not to piss him off.

I hang back as the rest of the guys file out
of the dugout and into the locker room. As the last one leaves, I
stand next to Mitch, pretending to reorganize my bat bag. “Hey,” I
say. “So what was that about? With Rowan I mean.”

Mitch shrugs. “I don’t know. There was a rumor
last year that someone saw him coming out of a gay bar down in
Abilene.” He turns to look at me. “I don’t know if it’s true and
honestly I don’t give a fuck. Rowan’sa good guy and an awesome
pitcher and that’s what counts in this dugout.”

“That’s cool,” I say, swinging my bag onto my
shoulder.

Mitch turns to walk out with me. “I know
you’re not from around here, but don’t buy into their shit. Most of
these guys are cool, but for some of them, anything that’s just a
little bit different freaks them the hell out.”

I nod slowly, a decision forming in my mind
before I even realize it. The last thing I need on this team is to
be seen as a little bit different.For all they know, I’m just Tyler
Branch—straight, blond centerfielder from California with a
promising RBI and a good batting average. And I have to do whatever
it takes to keep it that way.

“Not a problem.”

***

I strip off my shirt and stand right in front
of the air conditioner that’s perched precariously in the window of
my new apartment. I’d strip down to my boxers if I could, but my
roommate Jessie might think that’s a little weird. I always thought
these things looked tacky when I drove by them, but the window unit
that wheezes cold air is my very favorite thing about this
second-story walk up, 1970’s apartment complex.

“You gonna make it?” Jessie asks, flopping
over the armrest and onto the ancient leather couch that dominates
the small living room. With his perpetually dirty long hair and
constantly present video-game controller, Jessie is basically the
polar-opposite of a jock but he put a notice on Craigslist and I
needed a room, so here I am. Plus, this place was mostly furnished
and I only brought two duffle bags with me from home.

“It’s hot as fuck out there,” I say, finally
starting to feel some relief from the 100 degree heat and 100
percent humidity outside. Now I understand why so many football
players die around here during summer two-a-day
workouts.

“This?” Jessie glances outside our window at
the ribbons of heat that are coming up from the asphalt parking lot
below. “This ain’t shit.Back home it got up to 120 last summer and
my daddy still made me go and help him mend fences.” He grabs the
PlayStation controller off the chipped coffee table. “I don’t miss
that none.”

“Summer in San Francisco means that you’d
better not forget your sweatshirt at night,” I say, walking to the
fridge to get a beer. “You want a beer?” So far, Jessie’s been cool
enough not to take my stuff without asking.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

I stare at him through the little opening in
the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room. I swear,
sometimes he talks like an 80 year-old man.

“Yes. Please,” he says, with a grin, his eyes
fixed on the TV.

I toss him a beer and go back to my place by
the window, taking long, slow sips that seem to cool me from the
inside out.My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket, even
though I knowwho it is. Hailey’s been texting me all week after our
disastrous last night together but like every other time, I hit
ignore and put it back in my pocket.I miss her, I can’t deny that.
I miss her body close to mine and the way she smelled after sex, of
something feminine and animal at the same time. I close my eyes and
picture her golden skin against the crumpled white sheets of the
king bed in her expertly decorated loft and my body responds
automatically. I wish I’d known that would be our last time
together. I would have savored every moment, marked every caress in
my memory. But I know this is what’s best. For both of
us.

There’s not much to see out our window—the
parking lot, and beyond the road a stand of trees and then just
scrub fields as far as you can see. Garvin is a pretty small town
and nature comes to lay claim to it as soon as you get out of the
city limits. There’s some movement on the sidewalk in front of our
building and my eye is drawn to a flash of red. Two girls are
wrestling with an overstuffed red chair that is obviously too heavy
for them. I can see the tall one say something to the small one,
who tilts her head back and laughs. I watch her long neck stretch
and the muscles in her shoulders move against the thin straps of
her tank top. Even from up here I can tell she’s not a weak little
girl—this is someone who works out, maybe a swimmer or a dancer,
and that her muscles are well-toned from years of
activity.

The two of them haul the chair through the
parking lot and disappear under the carport below. I’m on my feet
before I even realize it.

“I’ll be back,” I call to Jessie, but he’s so
engrossed in his game I don’t think it even registers.

I can see the two of them through the glass
door as they pull the chair up the outside steps. The smaller one
must only be a little over five feet tall, and she’s dressed in
sneakers and tight leggings that show off every perfect curve. Even
as I watch her I’m wondering what I’m doing here. I’m barely free
of Hailey and now I’m rushing down the stairs because a cute girl
might need my help?

“Hold on,” I say, and push the door open for
them.

“Thank you,” the girl says, a hint of a smile
still playing along her lips and a soft Texas twang that makes me
want to hear her say more. Her hair is up in a messy bun with
tendrils sticking to the shimmer of sweat on the back of her neck.
It takes all I have not to reach out and lift one away. She’s got
that combination of dark blond hair and deep brown eyes that always
gets me, and I look away because I don’t want her to see me
staring.

“Can I help you with that?”

“No, thanks,” the taller girl says. “One of
our friends bet that me and Jenna couldn’t get this thing home on
our own, so we’re out to prove him wrong.”

She stands on the bottom step, and Jenna picks
up her end of the chair again. I can see her well-defined muscles
as she flexes and I have a sudden, overwhelming desire to know what
she looks like naked in a tangle of sheets. Shit, I’ve got to snap
out of this.

“Are you sure?” I ask, watching them inch the
chair up the first few steps.

“It’s alright,” Jenna says. The smile she
flashes cuts right through me. “We got this.”

I turn and push my way out the glass front
door into the heat of the parking lot. Jenna. It’s the perfect name
for her—compact, soft and just a little bit different. I walk to
one of the parking spaces and sit down on a cement stop. Six words
from this girl and I feel all unmoored, like something is tugging
at me from the inside.

This is crazy. She’s just another college girl
living in a crappy apartment building somewhere in the middle of
Texas. I don’t have time for any kind of relationship right
now—this is my one big chance to make it to the majors and that has
to be the focus of everything I do. I find myselflooking up at the
building and scanning the wall of windows, wondering which one is
hers.

I stand up and shake my legs out. If I learned
anything from Hailey, it’s that I’m here for baseball, nothing
else. Besides, getting involved with Jenna would mean that I’d have
to tell her the truth about me, and there’s no way I could do that
without risking my place on the team. I take a deep breath and
reach for the door handle, hoping that the girls have managed to
get the chair inside of the apartment by now because I really don’t
want to run into them again. Jenna is bad for me and bad for my
career and I’ll just have to keep repeating that over and over
until I’m finally convinced.

As I already found out the hard way—love and
secrets are a bad mix.

***

Ty and Jenna’s story continues in the
novel ONE TRUE THING, available at fine eretailers
everywhere.

Read on for an excerpt.

One True Thing

(Ty)

“Killer game dude,” Rowan says, swatting me on
the shoulder with his glove as he passes my seat on the
bus.

“
Thanks,” I say. I can’t
help grinning. My bat is hot right now, just where I need it to be.
“You too. You’ll get the no-hitter next time.” He was so close, but
a double in the eighth blew it for him. The minute the ball left
the bat you could hear it was a good hit. It just about killed all
of us.

“
There’s always next
time,” he grins, grabbing a seat toward the back.

“
Basking in your success?”
Mitch says, sliding into the seat behind me.

“
Hardly,” I say. As much
as I like to win, I hate to talk about it. It’s embarrassing
somehow.

“
Back to back homers?”
Mitch whistles. “That’ll get you noticed. Did you see the look on
that poor pitcher’s face just before they yanked his ass out of the
game? I almost felt sorry for the guy.”

“
The last one was a lucky
shot,” I say with a shrug, hoping he’ll stop talking about it. “You
had a great couple of innings too.”