Unwritten Rules Read online

  This is a coming-out story—there is no forced outing, but it does wrangle with coming out as a choice. Also included are:

  Complicated family dynamics, including themes of heteronormativity.

  References to and brief depictions of homophobia, ableism, sexism, racism, classism, antisemitism, and xenophobia. These do not involve the use of slurs.

  Brief references to generational trauma.

  UNWRITTEN RULES

  KD CASEY

  Contents

  Quote

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Heated Rivalry by Rachel Reid

  Baseball is often described as a chess match between batter and pitcher. But it’s more like a chess match between batter and pitcher in which, once in a while, the catcher grabs the board and moves someone’s piece.

  —Ben Lindbergh, “The Art of Pitch Framing,” Grantland, 2013

  Chapter One

  July, Present Day

  Despite its name, the Grand American Ball Park is one of the smaller ballparks. It overlooks the Ohio River, white columns supporting its bleachers, a concrete fiasco of highways at its back. Zach can see it from where his car is parked on the narrow shoulder of the road, traffic passing close enough to make his seat rumble.

  See it but not get there.

  They’ve draped the ballpark in banners proclaiming tonight’s game, and it sits, open and roofless, nothing like the domed monstrosity of Swordfish Park or the Elephants’ decaying Coliseum, which has character in the form of plumbing problems.

  He flew in that morning, an early flight out of Miami he was too keyed up to sleep through, and went through the rituals of getting his luggage, of picking up his rental car, of finding his hotel. His agent sent champagne, and his parents sent a text message saying congrats and that they were proud of him. But not so proud they could miss work to come.

  Now he’s thirty minutes into what his phone says should be a ten-minute drive, having made four wrong turns and a desperation stop at a service station for coffee that tastes like reheated gasoline. The cup rattles in the cup holder of his tiny rental car every time a vehicle whizzes by.

  His phone is a mess of notifications. He plays whack-a-mole, muting text messages, Twitter alerts, tagged Insta posts from Swordfish social media, all congratulating him on his first selection to play in the All-Star Classic. Which would feel like more of a congratulations if he wasn’t the default option on a team mostly made up of marginal players and washed-up veterans like him.

  Clearing the alerts, he reads and rereads the directions, which look threateningly easy. But a construction zone is blocking the exit he’s supposed to take. Workers stand around in orange reflective vests and hardhats, a couple of whom are looking at Zach, probably because he’s been sitting there. For a while. Folded up in a car the size and color of a blueberry, his chin pointing at his knees, his thigh pressed against the center console, his excitement rapidly decaying into nervousness.

  His phone flashes an alert telling him the directions have recalculated, but it displays the same ones as before, a directive to drive through a clearly closed exit. Three quick turns would put him at the entrance to the stadium parking structure, if not for the machinery clogging his path.

  Another vehicle screams by—a truck with a loud horn, wailing into the hearing aid in Zach’s left ear. He shakes his head as if to dislodge the sound.

  He rifles through his bag, looking for the printout of his schedule, which has a map of the area. And he pulls out rolls of athletic tape, his catcher’s wristband, fraying at the edges, his wallet, and a stack of hotel room keys, only two of which belong to the actual suite he’s staying in. But no schedule.

  Because it’s sitting on his kitchen counter in Miami, along with an envelope of cash for his housekeeper to water his plants while he’s gone, though half of them are dying in the perpetual South Florida air conditioning, having never adjusted to the move from Oakland.

  A text message comes in, the LED light on his phone flashing. He must really be late if league handlers are asking him if he’s in need of any assistance.

  Send someone to come get me so I don’t miss the game, he doesn’t write back. Not that most people would really notice if he wasn’t there.

  Be there in a minute, he writes instead, and then adds that to the endless string of muted text threads.

  Eventually he gives up and pulls his car back out onto the road, following the dense line of vehicles to the next exit and praying that he’s going in the right direction.

  A clubhouse attendant greets Zach when he finally arrives at the ballpark, sweaty, out of breath, worried that he’ll be penalized for being late, even if the game doesn’t start for hours. The clubbie hands him a printout of the schedule and reads it to him like Zach can’t do that himself. He’s also offering...something. The guy’s half a foot shorter than he is and is talking with his face buried in his clipboard.

  “Could you—” Zach interrupts, gesturing to his ear where his hearing aid is sitting, and lifting a loose curl of his hair to further make his point. “Speak up?”

  “Right.” The guy says something else, face back in his clipboard.

  And normally Zach would stick around and ask the guy again. But he’s been up since early that morning, and all he wants is another shower, a therapeutic beer, and to not embarrass himself playing on national television.

  “I’ll figure it out.” Zach folds the schedule, then stuffs it into the zippered pocket of his joggers.

  There are a lot of signs on the concourse to the clubhouse entrance, because no one expects ballplayers to be especially bright. He’s vaguely grateful that they’re treating everyone like they’re equally inept, not just him. He follows the signs, pausing a few times to offer other players the standard back-slapping hugs, issuing a few congratulations he more or less means, absorbing a few aimed his way.

  “Well, even Miami had to send someone,” he says. Even if he practically crowed when his manager told him that he was selected as the team’s sole representative. Something that became vastly less exciting when he realized he would be here alone.

  If other players hear any of that in his reaction, they don’t do more than punch his arm or slap his ass in response. Standard baseball stuff, like this is any other game, and not the high point in his otherwise unspectacular career.

  They’ve stuck all the position players in the visitors’ clubhouse. He’s been in it enough times to know that they’ve done some serious improvements: adding more stalls to accommodate all of them, ripping out the nasty old carpet. It smells like bleach and like food, a catering setup warming in
chafing dishes sitting next to a fully stocked bar. It’s also stocked with a bartender with an enticing Kentucky twang and an explanation of all the various bourbons, who tells Zach that if he needs anything, well, he’s just gotta ask for it.

  Zach doesn’t ask for bourbon, just sips his beer and talks with various other players, trying to discern what they’re saying in the haze of noise. Around him, it could be a regular game, except for the volume of alcohol out and the fact that there are two teams’ worth of players in here. Some look like they’ve just come from the weight room or from running around the perimeter of the park in the midday heat. Another cluster is dancing to music blaring from the clubhouse sound-system.

  A few are sitting, playing cards. John Gordon, who Zach played with in Oakland, is there holding court, attended by a former league MVP and a two-time Cy Young finalist. Zach gives them a faint wave of recognition. And Gordon either doesn’t see him or the game is only open to perennial all-stars, because he offers Zach nothing more than the set of his shoulders as he turns his back.

  It’s hard to hear in the din. Zach finds one of the padded leather rolling chairs ubiquitous in clubhouses, setting his beer on the floor next to it and digging the schedule out of his pocket. Apparently, the only thing planned for the next little while is to wait to be summoned by the social media people. Which is big-league-speak for sit and hope they don’t call his name, so he doesn’t have to be awkward on camera.

  He leans down to pick up his beer, not looking at who is actually sitting in the chair he set it beside. Later, when he recalls the moment, it’ll play in slow motion, like something from Jaws, the first time a shark fin pokes its way above the placid ocean water.

  Because when he looks up, there’s Eugenio, sitting there, looking at him with a flat, unreadable expression. Which, fuck. Fuck.

  Chapter Two

  February, Three Years Ago

  They get put together in spring training.

  D’Spara, their pitching coach, nods toward the bullpen. “Morales is out there. Been out there a while.”

  A possible criticism for Zach not rolling in on the first real day of spring training earlier than he already is, like he has to prove he’s gonna make the opening-day roster.

  Despite D’Spara’s admonishments, Zach doesn’t hustle out to the bullpen. It’s a cool and lovely morning, the makings of a fine baseball day. And so he carries with him his chest protector, his catcher’s helmet and mask, and the promise of the season: Five days of pitchers-and-catchers-only spring training before the rest of the team reports. Weeks of exhibition games. And then the possibilities of the season itself.

  A chain-link fence partitions the long spring training bullpen from the practice field, one of four fields situated in a cloverleaf, the bullpen stretching between two like a stem. Around him, the complex sits empty of anyone but a few groundskeepers, a handful of trainers. It’s pristine for what will likely be the last time this spring, not yet littered with sunflower seeds, wads of gum, crumpled Gatorade cups. Its chalk lines are neat and exact, the pitcher’s mound un-pocked by cleats. Familiar baseball smells greet him like old friends: fresh dirt, cut grass, the shaving-cream-and-leather aroma of his new mitt.

  It’s chilly this early in the morning, the Arizona air too dry for Zach to see his breath, the sun cutting through some of the desert haze and reflecting off the Phoenix Mountains in the distance. By the end of spring training, it’ll be hot, the kind of hot that makes everyone go, “Well, at least it’s a dry heat.” For now, it’s warm enough to be bearable, cool enough to be pleasant, and, most importantly, there’s baseball to be played.

  A few guys are already in the bullpen, including the bullpen catcher, Martinez, who whistles when he sees Zach, before pulling him into a hug. “Looking good, man. Thick.”

  Like he’s shocked Zach spent his offseason like every other guy—eating as much as his body will hold in order to put on muscle mass, insurance against the grind of the season.

  “You been here since dawn, Marti?”

  And Martinez shrugs, confirming that he has.

  Soon the place will fill up with players from triple-A or double-A, the occasional warm bodies that teams bring on to fill out their spring training rosters. Guys for whom the pinnacle of their lifelong dream to play pro ball will begin and end at a scrimmage field in Arizona.

  Currently, the only players here are a minor leaguer Zach doesn’t recognize and another catcher who must be Morales. He’s facing away from Zach, stretching. He’s got a pretty standard catcher’s build, weight in his shoulders and hips. He’s probably shorter than Zach is, but Zach—as every coach and scout likes to mention—is built more like a pitcher: a little too tall, a little too ropey to be a catcher, even with all the weight he put on in the offseason.

  Zach unclips his leg guards, stashes his gear, and starts his own set of stretches. A familiar routine that’s made different by the warmth of the sun and the keyed-up anticipation of a new year, like a kid eager for the first day of sleepaway camp.

  He sits on the artificial turf surface of the bullpen, butterflying his legs and loosening his groin muscles, feeling for the remnants of where he pulled something in his hip last season, as if being in a ballpark again will be enough to re-aggravate it. He concentrates, eyes closed, on the small pleasures of the muscles and ligaments in his hips and legs beginning to lengthen.

  And when he opens his eyes, Morales is standing above him, saying something.

  “What?” Zach says.

  Morales looks surprised, the kind of surprised guys do when they want to conceal their surprise—eyebrows shooting up, and then a pronounced effort to relax them. He’s got thick eyebrows, close-cropped light brown hair that won’t provide much protection against the early Arizona cold, and his mouth is hanging open a little.

  “Sorry,” Morales says. “I just came over to say hi.” He has a flat, unplaceable Midwestern accent, and he extends a hand down to Zach, who takes it, levering himself up. “Marti told me about...” He gestures toward Zach’s ear, like he’s afraid to say the words hearing aid.

  Zach waits for the things that inevitably come from teammates: Talking comically slower and louder. Sometimes questions, because guys ask about each other’s hitting approaches, training routines, back acne, one-night stands. Questions about if he was born like this, or if he lost his hearing in an accident. How he can possibly hear during games—this asked like a question, though it really isn’t one. They don’t believe him when he says he can, like baseball isn’t a game built on signs. And the last inevitable question about if he minds questions about his hearing. One to which the answer is, yes, he does fucking mind.

  “Is there anything I should do,” Morales says, “you know, so you can hear me?”

  “What?”

  Morales looks like he’s going to ask again but stops when Zach holds up a finger, if only because guys don’t normally ask stuff like that.

  “It’s better for me if you could face me when you’re talking.”

  Morales smiles. He’s got a mouth full of white teeth and a lower lip that won’t at all be a hardship to watch. The combination of the two makes Zach turn away for a second, the way he might shield his eyes from the bright Arizona sun.

  They stretch and go through various warmups. Morales—Eugenio, as he introduces himself, insisting improbably that he doesn’t have a nickname—talks about everything that’s ever happened to him during his entire life leading up to finding himself in a bullpen in Arizona with Zach. Where he’s from: Indiana, but his parents are from Venezuela. What he ate for breakfast that morning: a sandwich from some hole-in-the-wall place that Zach must have driven past a thousand times at spring training in previous years and never once stopped at. “I’ll bring you something tomorrow,” Eugenio says, like they’re already friends.

  What Zach thinks they’ll talk about during their first team meeting. “Wel
l, it’s pitchers and catchers report today. So probably pitching. Possibly some catching.”

  Eugenio laughs, loud in the otherwise quiet bullpen, sound expanding to fill it. “Sorry. First day of spring training, you know? It’s kind of exciting.”

  “Sure.” Because Zach has exactly four years of service time with the Elephants and therefore the God-given right to big-league every rookie who comes his way, particularly ones who’ve already promised to bring him food. Even if Eugenio looks to be about his age. Even if Zach can’t quite keep the excitement out of his own voice. “I’m sure it is.”

  Something about the way he says it makes Eugenio laugh again, reaching over and slapping Zach on the arm, one of those casual baseball touches guys do all the time. His palm is large and dry and warm; he leaves an afterimage of heat.

  “What’s the scouting situation like?” Eugenio asks a few minutes later.

  “Mostly the coaches give us scouting reports and then read ’em to us like they don’t think we can. It’s some analytics shit, but a lot of it’s by feel too.”

  “I would have expected this club to be different, what with all that moneyball stuff.”

  “I mean, I don’t know how it’s being done now in triple-A,” Zach says. “But it’s more or less the same as when I was in the minors—just more data, and a bunch of stats guys who think we can’t add two and two.”

  Eugenio laughs again. It’s possible he’s just an easy guy to keep entertained or the kind of guy who thinks buttering up team veterans will help him in securing a roster spot. Either way, he’s easier to talk with than their backup catcher last season, who had the personality of an unoiled mitt. “Maybe in the Elephants’ system. But I spent most of last year with the Pilots’ affiliate in Vegas before I got traded.”

  “Congrats on your escape.” And Zach tries not to watch him too carefully as his shoulders expand in another laugh.

  Around them, players start to stream in—minor league pitchers who come with duffel bags slung over their shoulders, trainers frowning at clipboards, the aforementioned analytics staff who all seem to live in button-down shirts and khakis like this is a cubicle-farm job and not a freaking baseball team.