Chapter One
Alex
OPPRESSIVEJULYHUMIDITYsqueezed me from all sides. Every step on the field felt like striding through a steam sauna. I mopped at my glistening brow with the sleeve of my white polo shirt. The sun had started its descent over first base, which thankfully meant my shots would be well lit by the pink and orange glow of a summer sunset while I stood in the camera well. Players, coaches, and staff crowded the field for pregame practice while I wandered around with my camera nestled in my hands, the sweat trapped beneath a thick strap around my neck.
I should’ve worn shorts, I thought ruefully as I regarded the numerous players in gym shorts. Branded and colorized, of course, in the navy blue and bronze of the New England Riders. With three hours until first pitch, I had plenty of time to sweat through every article of clothing I ever owned until deciding to screw it and go fully nude.
Then lose the gig. And any chance at securing a lucrative spot in the sports world. I thought those words, but didn’t care for them. My passion for photography was so far from sports that I barely knew the first thing about baseball. Except that someone hit a ball and ran the bases. I was born and raised in Massachusetts. The Riders were one of the oldest sports teams in American history and I could not have cared less. If it weren’t for my brother pulling strings, I’d have never made it in as a freelance photographer.
I targeted the empty stands with my camera. The stadium could hold roughly forty thousand, and the doors hadn’t opened yet to let the fans in. Soon, the Riders would run out and thevisiting team, the Allentown Thunder, would come out for their pregame practice. My camera glassed over third base, near the visitor’s dugout. I wondered about the shadow effect of the high wall behind me at first base. Would it make some interesting shots of the players, half cast in shadow, the other in golden sunset light?
“Alex,” someone called. I spun at the sound of my name.
My brother Devin came at me in a light jog. He, too, wore shorts and a branded t-shirt with the word “coach” embroidered over his heart. As one of the conditioning coaches, he butterflied from player to player during pregame warmup, doting on his charges like a magician spinning plates on sticks.
“Hey, Dev,” I said and lowered my camera. At six feet even, I stood an inch or so taller than my older brother, something I relished for years as his “little brother,” especially given my childhood medical history. We shared the same sandy brown hair, hazel eyes, and wide and sharp jawline. He got our mom’s ears, tiny with big lobes, while I got the pointy ears of my father.
“You all good so far?” he asked. He put his hands akimbo and glanced around us.
I nodded. “Good. Yeah.”
Devin cocked his head and squinted his eyes. “Bullshit. What’s up? Nervous? You look like a new kid during recess.”
“I dunno, Dev, I thought this was something I wanted to do.” I looked over my left shoulder at the empty stands. “I’m more interested in a skewed shot of empty seats than I am of players in action.” I leaned in close so only he could hear, not that I needed to. “I have zero motivation to takebaseballshots.”
My brother reached out and clapped me on the arm. “Just wait until the game starts, all right? Take time now to figure out the lay of the field. All the guys playing tonight are already out here warming up. Get to know them through your camera so you can take good shots later. You’ll do great, I promise. I wouldn’tset my little brother up to fail.”
At that, I stood taller and tilted my head back to show off my height. Devin scoffed, clapped me again on the shoulder, but harder this time. “Ass.” He backstepped and pointed over his shoulder. “Sometimes the players interact with early access fans. Why not focus on that?” He turned and walked back to a batting net over home base. Someone inside it swung at balls, the sound cracking and echoing throughout the field. It reminded me of attending Devin’s little league games during our youth, when everything was normal. No sickness, parents still together. Parents stillalive.
I took my brother’s advice and ambled toward home base. A yellow rope partitioned off a dozen people standing on the dirt, their phones out recording and taking pictures. I spotted one enthusiast pointing and whispering in his girlfriend’s ear while she sighed with raised brows and a tapping foot.
I feel ya, sister, I thought.
A family of four huddled close together, all with big smiles. I snapped a shot of that, then panned my camera to the left where I saw a bald-headed young boy wearing an oversized jersey standing beside his mother. His skin was sallow, body waifish and thin. His mother had both hands on his shoulders, her dark hair swinging as she looked down at her little boy. He jumped every so often and pointed. She had a kind smile, but a sadness lurked in her eyes, a unique pain that one could only feel in the worst of circumstances. I lowered my camera, feeling invasive to capture the moment without her permission.
A player walked right up to the yellow rope. I brought my camera back up. No name on his branded workout shirt, but his back had a bronze “sixteen” stitched across it. His ball cap was on backward, dark hair curling out from underneath. He dropped to one bare knee that dug into the dirt as he spoke to the boy. The mother urged the boy forward and the player askedsomething I couldn’t quite hear. The mother nodded, and the player opened his arms as the boy stepped into him for a hug.
Click.
The player mussed the top of the boy’s head, said something to the mother, and stood. I lowered my camera to review the photo, then rotated my body so I could see the LCD screen without the sun's glare.
Perfect shot, I thought. I had to verify the boy’s face was in focus. I couldn’t see Sixteen’s face, but the boy had a megawatt smile, his arms clutching his hero’s shoulder so tightly his knuckles ran white. It was beautiful enough to elicit a satisfied grin for me. I stored all of my equipment in the camera well next to first base. I could quickly download this photo, get the mother’s information, and email the picture to her for free.
“Hey, that’s pretty good,” a voice said from over my shoulder. The sound was close enough that I leaped in place and spun around.
Number Sixteen stood next to me. Well, more liketowered. He was at least six-foot-five, maybe even six. He had dark eyebrows that matched his hair, an aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and dark stubble covering a strong, masculine jaw. His smile revealed dental perfection. His eyes were the color of the Pacific Ocean at midnight.
“Thank you,” was all I managed to say. I forced my eyes not to rake over the broadness of his shoulders, the pronounced pectorals beneath his shirt, the massive bulk of his arms, the tree trunk thickness of his legs in those shorts…
“You seem a little out of place,” Sixteen said to me. He had a deepness to his voice that he lightened, like a bass singing the tenor part.
“I, um.” I swallowed. I’d always been shy around beautiful men, especially the straight ones. Felt like I had a giant neon sign over my head screaming, “I Think Straight Guys Are Hot.”I blew out air and tried again. “I’m definitely out of place. I’ve never done sports photography before.”
His smile shifted to a quirky grin. I couldn’t look away. “Oh, really?” He scratched at the stubble on his chin. A cleft revealed itself. “A virgin sports photographer,” he said with raised brows.
I blushed.Blushed!Then averted my eyes. I was no stranger to comments, but they usually came from pervy old guys in the gay clubs. “You could say that. My brother helped get me in. He knows I’ve been trying to branch out.”
He had sun-kissed skin, Mediterranean maybe, whereas my pale Irish ass turned red even from sun exposure on the television. I should’ve brought protection.
