XXX CHAPTER 16 XXX

ɸ69fanatic: #whatiloveaboutbaseball The baseball season is a marathon, 162 games played over 180 days, yet the lead often boils down to a game or two.

I don't know whether to be inspired or depressed!

Inspired! You've really improved. Today was better than yesterday by leaps and bounds, and yesterday was better than Sunday.

Edward's enthusiasm was contagious. I'll try not to backslide too much without you in Atlanta.

Just pretend I'm beside you, yanking on your shirt to slow down.

It won't be the same. Cutting a little too close to the truth, Emmett hit "send" despite the flutter in his belly.

Don't worry—I'll straighten you out again when you get home. Did you want to run on Friday or do you just chill on your day off?

Both. And I'll take you up on that lunch you owe me if you're still game.

Smooth, Emmett. Real smooth. He couldn't berate himself too harshly; after all, he'd held his damn tongue through three back-to-back days of running with Edward, who apparently was his new running coach—not that he'd ever especially wanted one of those.

Sure! Are we showering first, or am I taking you to the hot dog stand on the beach? (I prefer the former.)

Christ! Showering . . . now, how was that going to work?

How do you think, moron?

Right. Edward showering in my shower. Well, not my shower, but the guest room shower. Still . . . Christ!

Let's be civilized. You can shower at my place. Can you manage the 35th floor?

As long as you don't dangle me over the balcony, I should be fine.

I stopped doing that after what happened to the last guy.

You know that's not helping, right? A slightly flustered Edward turned out to be a highly entertaining conversation partner.

I guess you're not taking me to the Needle for lunch?

If the height didn't get me, the revolution would! Do you think you could pick a non-spinning place at sea level?

I'll do some research.

Good. That'll keep you out of trouble on the road.

Not touching that one. Speaking of that road, I probably won't check in tomorrow. It's better if I avoid the outside world when I'm pitching. Don't take it persona

personally. Damn character counts!

Got it. You know where to find me if you need anything.

Edward immediately fired back a follow-up message. …You know, like pitching advice! Sorry, don't know what I was thinking there.

Oh, Edward. Silly man, there's so much I need from you. I just can't tell you any of it. I appreciate the sentiment.

Thanks for cutting me down from my noose. I should read my damn messages before I hit send.

I could say the same, my friend. Whoops! Case in point.

Edward seemed to overlook Emmett's familiarity. This is why I usually just sit quietly and mind my own business. I'm a follower, not a tweeter.

You seem pretty tweety to me.

Pause.

Pause.

Pause.

Just with you.

Emmett suspected as much, but that didn't stop the warm gush of tenderness from washing over him. Aw, I bet you say that to all the number 69s.

Another pause followed during which Emmett braced himself for another mushy answer. What he got instead was, You caught me. In fact, it's not just tweets. I run with 7 different 69s, and I'm having lunch with 3 of them on Thursday.

Wow! 3 lunches in one day. No wonder you run so slowly. :)

Ha! Nice try, Mac!

I was wondering if you were ever gonna try that out. What about your profile pic, huh?

Oh yeah…I have 12 different profiles. You're blocked from all but yours so you don't get jealous.

Good thinking. I'm not great at sharing. My kindergarten teacher probably fucked me up or something.

I bet it had to do with the finger paints.

Edward was on a roll here. Emmett sat back with a giant smile on his face, sipping his beer and watching Edward spin his story. You probably had the yellow, and whoever had blue wanted to mix and make green. But then you couldn't paint the bright yellow sun over your

house with the smoking chimney and four symmetrical windows.

Emmett pictured every perfectly circular—or as perfect as any kid can freehand with fingerpaints—bright yellow sun over every symmetrical house he'd ever painted. How do you know I had symmetrical windows?

Most kids draw them that way.

So now I'm not special?

Hmm, let's see. Grossly asymmetrical drawings can represent impulsivity. Would that be you?

Nah. I always know the end game. I might get a wee bit impatient getting there, but I'm not random or out of control.

Didn't think so. Ever draw people with no nose or mouth?

Not that I can recall. Why?

Sign of shyness.

Luckily, Emmett didn't have a mouthful of beer, or he would've just spat across the room. Um, have you met me?

I think so. Guy that looked a lot like you anyway. I'm thinking you should draw a few pictures for me at lunch. Just to be sure.

I am tragically terrible at drawing. Please don't make me. You'll be embarrassed to be seen with me. I'm not kidding here.

Embarrassed to be seen with you, huh? Hasn't happened so far...

That's because I haven't drawn anything.

Thanks for the warning, but I think I'll take my chances.

Won't we both? If you insist, why don't you bring your clothes and meet me in my lobby Friday morning? My concierge can watch your stuff while we run.

Sounds like a plan. I'll bring paper and crayons.

There's a Mariners coloring book, but I look a little fat. Wouldn't recommend it.

How dare they do that to Emmett McCarty!

Right? Capitalist bastards!

Hey—good luck tomorrow. I'll talk to you whenever.

Thanks, man.

Emmett refrained from the "love you" he would've tacked onto a text to Tammy, not that he didn't have the urge to bleed some endearment into the Twitterverse. Holding back was more difficult now that he and Edward were actually spending time together in person, but Emmett would be damned if he was going to cut back on what had quickly become his most anticipated hour of the day.

Two days away might be just what I need to gain a little perspective, a healthy distance.

XXX

Mariners pitchers are a spoiled lot; Safeco Field routinely ranks high on the list of pitcher-friendly parks on the full gamut of stats. Add in dealing with the home team fans of the host stadium, and pitching on the road could be somewhat daunting, certainly not the time a Mariners pitcher would expect to shine. The National League stadiums presented the bonus joy of batting duty—not exactly a confidence builder for its visiting pitchers.

It's not as though Emmett expected to perform poorly on those nights, but the man was well aware of his stats; he pitched better at Safeco. They all did.

Still, half his games were pitched on the road, and Emmett was a pro. When he took the mound Wednesday night, he pushed all the home-away nonsense from conscious thought along with perfect games and no-hitters. He faced one batter at a time, mano-a-mano, a game of wit and skill Emmett was determined to win. The arena faded into the background, taking the crowd with it.

His arm felt good tonight—strong and loose. His fastballs found their mark, and his sliders curled exactly the way he'd drawn them in his head. One after the next, the batters retired to the bench, frustrated and bested.

"Looking real good out there, Mac," Coach McClendon said at the top of the fifth.

"Thanks, Coach."

"Whatever you're doing and thinking about, keep it up."

"I wasn't thinking about anything . . . until you said that. Thanks a lot."

Coach shook his head and gave Emmett a gentle slap on his back. "Just pace yourself, kid. That's all you have to think about."

"Huh, so I hear."

And now, Emmett was thinking. About the runner behind him, tugging on his shirt when he came on too strong; the runner beside him, rewarding Emmett with his irrepressible grin when he got it right. And other thoughts he'd tucked away in a safe drawer to pull out later, when he was alone—not when he had to go back out there and pitch in front of a full stadium and an international broadcast audience.

Sanchez hit a pop fly for the third out, and the crowd roared their appreciation for holding the Braves to a two-run deficit. Emmett shook his head as he rolled out of the dugout with his team, jiggling out the extraneous thoughts and regaining his focus.

That worked for a little while—until it didn't. The marathon concept faded in favor of the sprint. Every pitch became a do-or-die agony for his head, heart, and shoulder. Before Emmett knew what hit him, a runner had scored, bases were loaded, and Coach was trotting out to have a chat.

"I'd like to get some ice on that shoulder, Mac."

Emmett wanted to argue, wanted to assure his coach he had everything under control. Instead, he took a deep breath and dropped the game ball into McClendon's hands. "Okay, boss."

As he jogged to the dugout, the crowd jeered and chanted nasty epithets, but Emmett's inner monologue drowned them all out with far worse. Fully expecting Trey to greet him from the top of his favorite new soapbox, Emmett braced himself for another lecture. Instead, he found a pair of sympathetic eyes, a warm smile, and an ice pack waiting for him in the locker room.

"Take a load off."

Huffing, Emmett dropped into the chair. "Really wish I could."

Trey fiddled with the ice pack until he was satisfied, then hauled a chair in front of Emmett and sat down. "I really liked what I saw out there tonight."

"I always suspected you were a closet Braves fan."

Trey chuckled. "Let's talk about the first four innings."

Emmett really hated being humored, and Trey knew better. Sighing heavily, he asked, "What would you like me to say?"

"Where'd that patience come from all of a sudden?"

Emmett looked into the eyes of the man entrusted with fine tuning his body for optimal performance. This wasn't humoring; Trey had seen the difference. "I've been practicing."

"Mmhmm," Trey said, giving Emmett the impression he was about to let him off the hook. "How?"

Guess not. "I have a running partner. Hey, my shoulder's a little sore. How about some ibuprofen?" Emmett made sure to cringe a bit as he shifted in his seat.

"Sure." Trey strode over to the medicine cabinet and spilled a few pills into his hand. Passing them over to Emmett with a cup of water, he said, "That would be the fifth inning coming back to bite you in the ass."

"Yeah." Emmett downed the pills and waited for the lecture.

Trey stepped around behind him, massaging his thumbs into Emmett's right shoulder until he elicited a loud groan. "So, you don't want me to ask about this running partner."

Fuck. Being evasive would only arouse further suspicion. There was a truth that would satisfy Trey, and Emmett gave it to him, praying it would be enough. "I have a new friend who ran long distance in college. He's working on slowing me down."

Bracing his knee against Emmett's lower back, Trey pressed his elbow into the trapezius muscle and drew tiny, deep, excruciating circles. "Tell him I said thank you."

Author's Note: Someone said shower. Looks like Edward might have his own fan!

Poor Mac. Is Edward good or bad for his game?

XXX ~BOH