He arches a wry brow. “You want to go into business together to support everyone’s sex life?”
“I am sex positive. Why? Is that such a bad reason?”
“Hell no!” He grins and sticks out his hand. “Hun, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Six months later, Miguel gets married in the Presidio with a view of the Pacific Ocean, and I see Declan at the wedding. He looks so fucking good in a suit, and I half wish I could dance with him.
Maybe more than half.
Instead, we talk about baseball and wish our friend well.
The next week, River opens The Lazy Hammock in SoMa with me as a backer. It’s fantastic, but I don’t pick up any men there. The Lazy Hammock will always remind me of just one guy.
A guy I’m determined to fall out of love with.
It’s been nearly two years since I met Declan, and every day I’m closer to that goal.
The next season, my batting average goes up a point. We make it to the playoffs, but not the World Series.
I sign a new contract and get another tattoo. Rodriguez retires, and we throw him a party, wishing him well.
I do a series of videos for the Alliance, which kicks off a spate of volunteer speaking opportunities with queer teen athletes at various groups around the country. I ask Crosby and Chance if they want to help out now and then through some of the Alliance’s Be A Better Ally projects and, happily, they do.
The guys and I become closer friends. Our bar debates ramp up, and Chance and I rib Crosby for his terrible taste in women—the man has a thing for very bad girls who want to take advantage of him. Chance and Crosby mock me for my swagger. They start teasing that when I order DoorDash, I’m really getting a blow job from a hookup. I just laugh, and let them think that, because it amuses me. And because they don’t need to know.
From our friendship off the field, our volunteer work together, and most of all, how we play, the three of us become the three musketeers. The media starts referring to us as the Cougars Trio, calling us the heart of the team. It’s heady and humbling.
I spend time with my grandparents and run a few 5Ks with my pops. His knee is like new, he says.
“How’s everything with you?” he asks me one Sunday morning when I don’t have a game.
“Everything is great,” I tell him.
And mostly, that’s true.
At night, though, my mind sometimes wanders wistfully to Arizona, and then on to New York.
In the spring of my fourth season, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, I speak at an event at a San Francisco group of high schools, along with student athletes from across football, wrestling, lacrosse, field hockey, and volleyball disciplines. After the talk, I take them to the ballpark for a softball game.
A gal named Topaz tells me I’m her inspiration. “I’ve been following you since I was twelve. But I do like the Dragons better,” she says.
“I’ll convert you,” I promise.
“That’s the only kind of conversion I would consider.”
“I hear ya, girl,” I say, and we knock fists.
Later, I meet a wrestler named Nico, who tells me, “Wrestling is better, but I guess if I have to play softball with a pro, you’ll do.”
“Appreciate that.”
They post pics all over their social media accounts, and I do too. My sneaker sponsor shares some of the shots, and it’s awesome, the support the company gives.
The next night, Reese is in town for a long weekend before she returns to campus for college graduation.
Her closest friends from school join us for a night out at a club in the Mission district. Under the pulsing lights and techno music, the four of us dance like we did in college, back when I was finishing and they were starting. But soon, Tia peels away to bump hips with a tattooed Latino guy, and Layla finds a fair-skinned brunette to grind against.
It’s just Reese and me dancing when a cute dude lasers in on me from the bar. He’s dark-haired, all Ronen Rubinstein goodness, and he can’t take his eyes off me.
Reese darts her eyes in his direction. “Just go talk to him.”
“Nah, I’m with you, girl,” I say.
“It makes me happy to see you out there, meeting people.”
“I’ll talk to him, then, to make you happy,” I joke.
“Or maybe it’ll make you happy. I know you’re enjoying your single status,” she says with a wink.
I get why she’d have that impression—it’s the vibe I give off. But it’s not my after-hours truth. It’s not even close.
When Reese scurries to the ladies’ room, the hottie from the bar makes his way over and asks if I want to dance. For a song, we move together, legs touching at times, hands running down arms at others. But once the beat fades, I say thanks, and turn to the bar.