XXX CHAPTER 2 XXX

Alone in his waterfront penthouse, Emmett brushed his teeth, stripped down to his boxers, sank into his cozy recliner, and turned on the TV for a distraction. Nothing on demand captured his interest, and ESPN only made him edgier. "Might've," "could've," and "one that got away" were hard enough, but when Chris Singleton named the elephant in the room, "Does McCarty have what it takes to get past this?" Emmett groaned and shut it off.

When he'd resisted as long as he possibly could, Emmett left the comfort of his leather armchair with a defeated sigh and paced across the spacious living room to his computer. He dropped his weary bones into the desk chair and wiggled the mouse to revive the screen. You know this is bad for you, he warned himself even as he typed in his password: bigMacattack69.

No longer able to pretend he didn't care, Emmett went straight to his Twitter feed. 943 retweets and 2156 favorites of the MacPerfect tweet! He scrolled through screen after screen back to the original tweet, expecting to see the usual look-at-me-I-went-viral grandstanding and follow-up tweets, but there was none of that. Curious about this ɸ69fanatic, Emmett clicked on the account.

Now that the profile picture was bigger than the fingernail-sliver on his phone, three things struck Emmett: first, his fan was definitely male; second, the guy's shoulders most definitely knew how to hold up a jersey—Emmett's jersey in particular; and third, the picture was taken from the back, raising all kinds of questions, not the least of which was, What the hell does this guy look like?

Something else seemed unusual. Even though his fan had opened his Twitter account in 2009, he had only a handful of tweets. A quiet sort, not some loudmouth airbag with an opinion on every play. Details were piling up in the "favorable" column. Emmett was definitely interested.

Okay, who are these 158 people you're following? The profiles opened, filling Emmett's screen, and as he scrolled through the names of other MLB players, even teammates of his, Emmett realized he was starting to feel possessive, if not downright jealous. Loads of spectators wear a player's jersey on game day; even a cocky son of a bitch like McCarty didn't get too puffed up over that. But this faceless hero wearing Emmett's number on his back and touting Emmett's number in his screen name was causing in him a powerful, puzzling response that took the pitcher quite by surprise: mine.

The final piece of the stalking puzzle wasn't much of a leap at that point, but Emmett still felt a twinge of guilt clicking on 69fanatic's 1875 followers. A fairly homogeneous group: fans of the game, fans of the Mariners, a few self-proclaimed stats geeks . . . nothing that shed any new light on who this guy was.

Suck it up, Mac. You want to solve the mystery of 69fanatic? You're gonna have to put some skin in this game.

Staring at the screen as if it might explode, Emmett took a deep breath and hit the "follow" button, bringing his total to 47; he didn't make a habit of it. Emmett wasn't one to conduct private business on the public airwaves, not with the skeleton gracing his closet. Still, this guy deserved some kind of acknowledgment, right?

Keep it professional, and assume anything you write or say will be repeated publicly. Solid advice from the back office, advice that had served him well in his four years with the team. Dipping his toe into dangerous waters, Emmett favorited and retweeted to his 256,000 followers, adding: Thx for your support. Means the world. Not perfect but always striving.

There. Everyone who followed either of them would see it, and Emmett had thanked his fan while issuing him a new test, admittedly one that would be challenging for anyone to pass. Would 69fanatic use the coveted "follow" to climb the social media ladder? As he hit the retweet button, Emmett realized he had already begun to hope and believe this fan would do the right thing.

Please don't turn out to be a douche, man. Emmett had certainly experienced his fair share of disappointments in humankind, but not lately. When you expect nothing and give nothing away, you cannot be let down. Or exposed. Loneliness seemed a small price to pay. Emmett's bed was empty, but it was a far sight more comfortable than the Hotel No-tells he'd slept in on his way up the ladder. So, no, he wasn't about to put his destiny in anyone's hands but his own.

Emmett chuckled out loud at the irony. "Fucking Seaver," he said with a huff.

The screen jumped to life with favorites and retweets of Emmett's new post. "Come on, come on, where are you, my friend?" Just when Emmett was beginning to wonder if it was past the guy's bedtime, a message box popped up.

Direct Message 69fanatic Thx for the follow. I've got your back.

A grin stretched across Emmett's face. A private message. Zero posturing. Eager to continue the dialogue, he messaged back: Guess we're even since my name's on yours.

No sooner had he clicked "send message" than Emmett was overcome with regret. Too much too soon? What the hell am I doing?

ɸ69fanatic's message came seconds later: I only wear your jersey during baseball season.

A series of highly inappropriate responses ran through his mind, and Emmett sat on his hands while the urge passed to ask whether that included sleeping. Settling for an innocuous, Me too, Emmett forced himself to take a leisurely stroll to the kitchen. With slow, disciplined motions, he pulled a glass from the cabinet, filled it with ice water, and sipped at it until he reached the bottom before returning to his desk. Though he tried like hell to saunter back, there was a definite spring to his step as he crossed the hardwood floor. Once he saw the message on the screen, Emmett read it without bothering to sit down.

Full disclosure- that's spring training thru the World Series.

Fuck waiting! Leaning over the back of his chair, he attacked the keyboard: Hope you wash it occasionally.

Once a month whether it needs it or not.

Emmett laughed, then stopped short. He had to be joking, right? Hmm, how to do this delicately . . . He hovered over the keys, searching for the right tone, when another message popped up.

Kidding. I'm very clean. Not OCD or anything.

"Good to know. Annnnnd I'm talking to myself now."

But apparently, the guy on the other end of his Twitter account was suffering too from a fairly serious case of blurtitis. Sorry. I have no idea what I'm saying. It's a bit intimidating actually talking to you.

If only this guy had a clue how hard this was for Emmett, talking with someone outside of his tightly-drawn circle of family and teammates.

You're fine. I really just wanted to say thanks. Tonight sucked and this helped.

Any time. Really nice chatting. My dad's gonna flip!

His dad? Are we talking hot DILF or nursing home resident? Crap, how old is this guy anyway? Emmett searched the picture again, but there was frustratingly little to see. The thought crossed his mind—and he wasn't exactly sure why—that he hoped his fan was late-twenty-something, or at least legal, but he had no idea how to ask without sounding weird. If he could narrow down the father's age range, at least he'd have some clue. Emmett typed out an innocuous but hopefully leading, Careful…wouldn't want anyone getting hurt! He added then erased, Broken hips can be lethal, before sending.

No worries- I'll wait till he's sitting down.

No help whatsoever. Was the guy being deliberately shady? It seemed to Emmett they'd reached the point in the conversation where neither one quite knew how to end it but both sensed it was time. Less is more—except at contract time, of course—so Emmett started laying tracks to say good night.

Good plan. Ok, better get my beauty sleep.

Waiting, waiting . . . Waiting . . . Shit, has he already signed off? This is awkward. Maybe close out the conversation just in case . . . You have yourself a great night.

You too. And don't worry too much about the beauty sleep. I think you're good there.

Huh, that was . . . curious.

Author's Note: Your reception for this story has overwhelmed me. M/M is always a smaller audience, and that never bothers me, but it sure is lovely to know you guys are out there enjoying this. Thank you for your lovely notes and reviews.

Happy Good Friday and Easter to those of you celebrating this weekend. And to my fellow members of the Tribe (and I don't mean the Cleveland Indians) Chag Sameach and may all your matzoh balls be light (unless you like them heavy like my Papa did). May you all find your way out of the narrow places and navigate your way to the land flowing with milk and honey.

XXX ~BOH