Archive of Our Own

If you’d have asked seven-year-old Billy Hargrove about the things he hated most in the world, he’d have given you a few answers.

Bees. ‘Because they like to sting.’

Sharks. ‘Because I can’t swim when they’re around.’

Thunder. ‘Because it shakes the house real bad.’

And then he would have looked you dead in the face and said one more word.

‘Baseball.’

He didn’t have a ‘because’ to explain why. Didn’t have the words to explain what he meant.

What he had was a feeling.

He knew what baseball felt like.

Could feel his stomach twist when he missed a swing and heard his dad screaming behind the fence. Could feel the heat rise in his cheeks when his dad grabbed his arm behind the dugout after a game. Could feel his legs beneath him itching to run. His throat itching to scream.

The overwhelming need to go, go, go and keep going and never come back.

He was only seven. Go, go, going wasn’t an option.

Seven. Then eight. Then nine. Then ten.

He spent four years begging. Spent four years with that dull ache in his legs. Four years crying and trying his very best to make it so that he never had to step foot on a baseball diamond ever again, but there was one rule in his house that superseded the rest. One.

Hargrove’s weren’t quitters.

Billy was ten years old, had those words ringing fresh in his ears when he decided he was done begging. He was ten years old. He was tired and he was angry at the entire world for everything it had ever done to him, but he was done wasting his breath.

So he came up with a plan.

A plan to get good.

Got good.

Let the years pass with a bat in his hands. Practiced his swing in the backyard when he was done with his homework. Lived at the batting cages in town when he had a couple extra quarters in his pocket. Went to high school games whenever he had the afternoon to himself.

Got stronger. Got quicker. Got smarter.

Got better.

Shut his dad up more and more every year with talent, with skill.

And the effort, the practice, it changed things. It made a difference.

The fist curled around his arm became a hand on his shoulder. Screams behind the dugout became conversations on the way back to the car. Instructions became advice. Irritation became indifference.

Until finally, presence became absence.

Billy’s dad stopped showing up.

Billy could still remember it. Could still remember his first middle school game back in the seventh grade.

Had spent all day so nervous he could hardly sit still, felt like he was going to throw up when he tied his cleats at four o’clock that afternoon. Watched parent after parent after parent shuffle onto the creaky bleachers and waited for that familiar face to come shuffling in somewhere behind them.

But warm-ups went on and Billy’s dad still wasn’t there. Not when they were stretching. Not when they were passing with partners. Not when their coach was tossing out balls for each of them to catch.

Not even when the umpire finally called both teams to take the field at 5:15.

His dad never showed.

And everything just sort of. Calmed.

The knots in Billy’s stomach uncurled. The nausea in his throat disappeared. The restless itch in his legs evaporated.

He walked up to the plate, let the world go quiet around him, and just did what he now did best.

Billy hit the absolute shit out of a baseball.

Felt his lips pull as he dropped his bat on the ground. Watched the outfielder on the other team scramble to find the ball as he kept running. Rounded the bases while all the people up in the stands stood and clapped and shouted his name.

Maybe baseball didn’t feel so bad anymore.

Those few hours a day Billy spent with a bat in his hands became everything. Became his everything. His place to escape. His place to exist and breathe and just be.

He could have this.

He could have something good. Baseball could be something good.

Billy could have something good.

He’d never imagined making it this far. Never imagined making it to Hawkins. Making it to back-to-back State Championship appearances.

To a handshake and a scholarship and the promise of a real bright future.

To Notre fucking Dame.

Billy didn’t have a habit of calling things perfect.

Watching the sunrise from a surfboard was perfect. A Sunday afternoon at the Dodgers game was perfect. A Saturday morning in bed with Steve was perfect.

But Notre Dame. It was perfect, too.

It was good.

Notre Dame was good. Baseball was good. Steve was good.

It was that easy.

Billy loved college. Billy loved baseball. Billy loved Steve.

Three worlds that were set to collide with a violent crash on April 18th.

Saturday, April 18th. Doubleheader at Purdue.

Billy could still remember the way his eyes went wide when they landed on the matchup, found the words so quick on the thin piece of paper that they might as well have been written in bold.

Remembered the way he all but ran back up to his room to go show Steve. Steve, who had a spare key and a plan to drive up after the conditioning session he had that morning. Was going to wait in Billy’s room while he had practice and a team meeting of his own to go to.

Was there waiting for Billy when he opened the door. Lying on his bed. On his stomach, hands beneath a pillow, cheek smushed against it.

Like that was exactly where he belonged.

Helped Billy forget all about April 18th for a few long seconds.

Those few long seconds where Billy dropped everything but the paper, took five big steps to cross the room, and kissed Steve right on the mouth. Moved with Steve as he rolled from his stomach onto his back. Let himself get dragged onto the bed when Steve fisted a hand in his shirt, pulled. Settled on top of him, between his legs.

Kissed him and swallowed soft sounds and felt Steve’s heart beat hard beneath his palm. Kept his other hand somewhere next to Steve’s head, paper firm in his fist. Forgotten.

Felt stubble beneath his lips when he kissed along the line of Steve’s jaw, could smell his soap. His shampoo. His cologne.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Billy whispered, words muffled against his skin. Nipped when Steve tilted his chin back with a laugh. “Tell me again why you won’t transfer.”

“Don’t wanna wear green, remember?” Steve’s voice was soft, teasing. Had his hands beneath Billy’s shirt, used them to push it up. “Got enough of that at Hawkins.”

“We’re not always green,” Billy argued. Soothed over a bite with an easy brush of his lips as Steve ran his hands over his back, hoped it would leave marks when Steve scratched with his nails. “Sometimes we’re blue,” he said. “Or gold.”

“Same shit.”

Steve had his shirt pushed halfway up his back now. Billy got the hint, leaned up, just far enough to find Steve smiling at him. Up at him. Hair a wild mess across his forehead.

Let Steve pull his shirt up over his head and held back a shiver at the sudden rush of cool air.

Watched Steve’s eyes flick to the side when the fabric caught on the paper in his hand.

“What’s that?”

“Game schedule,” Billy said. Casual. Fought back a wider smile so that it wouldn’t give him away. “Just got it at the meeting.”

“Oh shit.” Steve grabbed at it just like Billy thought he would. Said, “Lemme see,” and took it right out of his hand.

Billy just waited. Ignored the warmth bubbling up in his chest and let his smile spread as Steve’s eyes moved lower.

Lower. Lower. Lower.

And then.

Wide. Up.

In Billy’s.

“April 18th,” Steve said. “Doubleheader against Purdue.”

“April 18th,” Billy repeated. “Doubleheader against Purdue.”

“What are the odds of that, huh?” Steve moved his arm over towards the side of the bed, opened his hand, let the paper fall to the ground. Let a slow smile curl his lips

“Low probably,” Billy said, hesitated half a second. “You really didn’t know?”

“No, no clue.” Steve shook his head, easy. Ran a slow fingertip up Billy’s spine now that his hands were empty. Back down, up. “Woulda told you if I did.”

Billy had goosebumps on his skin, but he wasn’t convinced.

“Is that right?”

“Come on. You know I would’ve.” Steve leaned up to find his lips, caught them on his jaw when he turned his head. Let his eyes fall shut as Steve trailed his lips along his neck, down to his throat. Whispered, “Don’t you trust me?” against his skin.

Billy couldn’t help himself.

“No.”

“Fuck you.”

“Please.”

Steve stole the rest of the reply off his lips with a kiss.

Rolled them over. Shut Billy up with his mouth and his hands and the slow roll of his hips when he pushed in and made Billy gasp like it was the first time all over again.

But they didn’t bring April 18th back up again, no matter how much Billy couldn’t stop thinking about it.

No matter how much he couldn’t stop wondering what it was actually going to be like to play against him. Against Steve.

Sure, they’d gone head to head in practice a few times back in high school. Steve pitching, Billy hitting. Had used that time to try to mess with each other a little, tried to challenge each other a little more.

Like iron sharpening steel.

Practice was one thing, though. Practice was easy. A controlled sort of beast. A time to make mistakes and get better and roll with the punches.

Games were an entirely different animal. Games with Steve were an entirely different animal. Because Steve, well.

He didn’t fuck around when it came to games.

Sweet, goofy Steve was a totally different person the moment he had a jersey on his back. The moment he stepped foot on the mound. The moment he had a ball in his hands and a crowd shouting his name.

Already had baseball in his veins back when Billy’s tolerance for it was still low, slow, like a steady IV drip.

So April 18th, 1987 was going to be different. In some way. Some shape or form.

Billy knew that.

Less like iron sharpening steel, more like two All-American potential diamonds launching themselves at thick glass. Seeing who could make a deeper crack.

A harder impact.

Diamonds that got sharper, stronger as the season began and February became March, March became April.

And April, that’s when things got a little more complicated.

The last poll before conference playoffs came out on April 12th. Ranked Purdue at number 3. Notre Dame at number 5. In all of Division I.

Made it so that this game wasn’t just Billy against Steve anymore.

Wasn’t just about diamonds launching themselves at glass.

Now? It was two kings looking for a crown. Fighting for that spot at the top of the division. Trying to put their teams in the best possible place to have a fighting chance at a national title.

Both teams wanted to be number one going into playoffs and that meant there were stakes. There were butterflies. Nerves.

Every game mattered. Every game brought them closer to a championship ring. Brought Billy closer. Brought Steve closer. Separately.

Gave both of them a real reason to push at each other as hard as they could, a real reason to compete. To go head to head.

As if either of them needed a reason to compete other than the fact that they were both competitive by nature. Didn’t know how to do anything but compete. But win.

And for all Billy knew, Steve might not even be playing that day. Purdue was like most schools, had more than a couple pitchers. A healthy rotation that made sure nobody got hurt and kept the team strong. Got them all through the season without any trips to a doctor.

Billy had his own opinion on the situation. An objective one, or so he thought. Thought Steve’s coach would be a massive dickhead not to play him against them with so much on the line.

You know. Since both teams were fighting for that same number one spot, Steve had the best ERA on the team, and Notre Dame had the best collective batting average in the ACC, but it wasn’t up to him.

He didn’t know what was going to happen that day. He didn’t ask.

Just wrapped white tape around his knuckles before every game all season and pulled a Sharpie out of his bag. Put a tiny, little number 19 on the inside of the thin strip around his middle finger, up above his palm.

A little bit like the number 17 Billy had seen written under the brim of Steve’s hat.

Two sharp diamonds disguised as lucky charms. Lucky charms worn by kings.

Carried them all the way to April 18th.

Well. April 17th anyway.

Steve called him on April 17th. The night before. Close to midnight.

Billy was sitting in the common room in shorts and a sweatshirt, sideways on an old armchair, legs up over the side of it.

Jittery, pre-big game butterflies in his stomach.

Steve’s voice sweet in his ear.

They’d been talking for close to an hour, bullshitting, teasing, flirting.

Avoiding the elephant in the room until Billy heard a voice muffled on the other end of the line, somebody back behind Steve. Heard the sigh Steve let out when he answered the person back.

“I know, I know. Just gimme like, three more minutes, alright? Jesus.”

Billy could barely hear him, figured Steve was probably covering up the receiver, was clearer when he spoke again a second later.

“Hey, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Billy swung his legs where they hung over the edge of the armchair. “You gotta go or?”

“Yeah. Jack says he’s supposed to call his girlfriend at midnight.” Jack, Steve’s roommate. Team’s third baseman. “Needs help studying or something.”

Billy could hear in his voice that he was frowning. Could see the thin line of his lips in the back of his head. Needed that to stop as soon as humanly possible.

“He still standing next to you?”

Billy heard something on the other end of the line rustle, like Steve was shaking his head. Like he thought Billy could see him. Dumbass.

“No, he forgot his textbook in the room. Went back to grab it real quick.”

“Good.” Billy tipped his head back, exposed the line of his throat. Stared up at the ceiling. “”Cause I can’t stop thinking about kissing you.”

Steve huffed.

“That’s not fair.”

If Billy closed his eyes, he could feel Steve’s breath on his cheek.

“What’s not fair?”

“You,” Steve said, something like a whine in his voice. “Sayin’ shit like that when you haven’t been down here in forever.”

“I was down there last weekend.”

“Yeah, seven fuckin’ days ago,” Steve said. “And it’s not like I can kiss you tomorrow or anything.”

Billy felt his smile widen.

“You can’t?”

“No?”

“Oh,” he said. Twirled the phone cord around the tip of his finger. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t sneak out between games and blow you behind the dugout?”

Steve laughed. Billy’s eyes fell closed with it. The warmth of it.

“I didn’t say that,” he said, something light in his voice. Bright. Like the big ball of fire in Billy’s stomach. “I never said that.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“I wouldn’t. Like, ever.” Steve paused. Let silence settle heavy on the line before he said, “I just didn’t know you could wait that long.”

A laugh bubbled in the back of Billy’s throat before he could push it down.

“Hang up the phone before I take the offer back, shithead,” he said, felt his chest grow tighter the longer Steve’s laugh rang in his ear.

“Yeah, alright. I’m going.”

“Good,” Billy teased, but he was quick to throw in a, “Hey, and Steve?” before he could hang up.

Heard him hesitate.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He could see Steve’s smile behind his eyes.

“See you tomorrow.”

Billy didn’t sleep a wink all night.

He got on the bus at 7 o’clock that morning with the Walkman Steve bought him last Christmas on his hip. Had his headphones on, Scorpions in his ears.

Anticipation, excitement hot, bright in his chest.

Had made the two hour drive down to Purdue so many times over the last nine months that he could do it with his eyes closed. So he did. Closed his eyes. Drifted off.

Woke back up when his coach yelled at the front of the bus that they were only a half hour away and that everybody needed to start getting ready, getting changed.

Getting focused.

Billy changed into his jersey, tied his cleats as his coach read off the lineups for each of the games and let them know who’d be fielding, who’d be hitting. When. Where.

He really only paid attention to his name, if he was being perfectly honest. Heard he’d be the catcher for the first game, batting fourth. Designated hitter for the second game, batting second.

Pretty much his standard for doubleheader days.

Focused on wrapping thin strips of tape around each of the first four knuckles on his left hand as his coach went through some dumb motivational speech.

Just kept his eyes low, kept his focus on his hands. On wrapping his knuckles with white tape. Slow. Deliberate. Well-practiced.

Pulled a Sharpie out of his bag and put a tiny, little 19 on the inside of his middle finger.

Looked for that same number 19 when they walked in two lines from the bus out towards the field a little while later. Found it, him, Steve warming up in the Purdue bullpen alongside two other pitchers as he stepped his way down into the visitor’s dugout.

Ignored the heat that sparked in his stomach at the sight of him, the fact that his heart had climbed all the way up and lodged itself in the back of his throat.

Tried not to think about how good Steve looked in pinstripes.

Tried to focus on green. Notre Dame green. Had maybe snorted that morning when that was the jersey that got handed to him on his way to the bus. Could only imagine what Steve had been thinking when that was the color they showed up in.

Could only wonder if Steve had even taken a chance to look.

Tried to shake the thought as he put all his stuff down at one end of the bench, got it settled, and went back up to the field. Stopped along the third baseline to stretch by himself, get loose. Spent a couple minutes shifting from one side to the other. Crossed his arms over each other and pulled, leaned down towards one foot and then the other.

Turned his head when he felt a hard clap to the back of his shoulder and saw a familiar face in a pinstriped jersey staring back at him.

Came face to face with Jack. Steve’s roommate.

“Billy, man! How’s it goin’?”

Jack held a hand out that Billy took and shook, said, “Not half bad.” Laughed when Jack did.

“’Bout to get worse.” Billy followed the motion of his head as he nodded towards the pitcher’s mound. Found Steve there now. All by himself. “You ready to get your ass handed to you by your pal today?”

Billy was still looking at Steve when he let the next question slip. Couldn’t really help it.

Asked, “He pitching?” and watched Steve adjust his hat on his head, make a slow circle with his arm to stretch out his shoulder. Kick at the dirt beneath his feet.

Confident.

Like that was exactly where he belonged.

Heard Jack say, “Yeah, he’s got the first one,” off to his side and felt his stomach flip.

Felt a slow smile pull at one side of his mouth. Felt it widen once it hit him that Steve was actually going to be playing today. That they were going to have the chance to go head to head with each other.

That this was actually about to happen.

Billy turned his eyes towards Jack again. Smiled right at him.

“Good to know.”

He had more to say, more questions to ask, but somewhere back behind him, Coach was calling his name to get back for warm ups.

He exchanged a ‘good luck’ back and forth with Jack and went over to the rest of his team. Got in one of the two lines set to take a lap around the field and ended up running alongside a sophomore.

TJ. Their backup first baseman.

“Hey, what was that about?” TJ’s voice was low off to the side, like he wasn’t sure Billy would want anybody to hear him ask. Clearly asked anyway. “You know those guys or something?”

“Yeah, a little,” Billy said. Kept his eyes forward. Off the number 19 standing in the middle of the field. Off Steve. “Pitcher’s my best friend.”

Best friend. Everything.

Same shit.

“Oh fuck.” TJ laughed over on his left. Billy could feel his eyes on his face. “You think he’s gonna take it easy?”

Diamonds launching themselves at glass. Kings fighting for a crown.

Potential number one spot in Division I on the line.

Billy snorted. “Not a chance.”

He left it there. Was grateful when TJ did, too.

Just continued on with warm ups.

Got himself ready when the umpire called both teams to the field and the first kid in the Notre Dame lineup went out to bat.

Top of the first inning. Visiting team up first.

Billy went through his normal routine. Got his helmet on, found his bat. Took the four or five steps up to the edge of the dugout and tipped his face up into the sunshine. Let the warmth hit his cheeks, let the cheers up in the stands help his heart start to race.

Let his eyes drift out towards the mound as he set his feet and swung at nothing.

Found that Steve was leaning forward, had his eyes forward. On his catcher.

The perfect picture of poise. Of focus. Covered in pinstripes.

Billy couldn’t tear his eyes away as Steve shook his head once, again. Stood tall with a slow nod and took a second. Took a breath. Wound up and let the ball go.

He heard the kid up at bat sigh hard when he missed.

Any other day Billy might’ve laughed. Today, he just took another easy swing.

Got sharp.

Thought about that spot at the top of the division and swung at nothing. Again. Again.

Watched the kid on his team swing for a second strike. Watched Steve strike him out on a fastball so quick the guys back in the home dugout nearly lost their minds.

Were still losing their minds as Billy and the kid crossed paths on his way up to the plate. Heard the kid mumble, “Good fuckin’ luck,” as they passed each other and bit his lip to keep from saying something cocky. Just kept moving forward.

Stopped at the plate. Took a second to adjust his jersey on his shoulders. Twirled the bat with a lazy flick of his wrist and let his eyes drift up.

Looked straight at Steve. Straight at the smirk on his lips. Hat down low over his eyes. Body angled forward, bent over to look at the signs.

To look right at Billy for the first time all afternoon.

For all the wondering, all the daydreaming Billy had done about this moment, nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it. Of Steve. Sixty feet away. Staring straight at him while they each had on a different uniform.

Nothing.

Billy clenched his teeth, felt his jaw tighten with it. Felt his hands tighten around the bat.

He had to focus. He had to pretend Steve was every other pitcher he’d ever played against his whole life. Had to pretend Steve was just like everybody else.

Not his best friend. Not his everything.

But somebody nameless. Somebody faceless. Somebody for him to beat and make an idiot out of when the ball flew off the end of his bat and over the back wall.

Billy wanted a homerun. He wanted that crown. Wanted that number one spot.

So he just watched. Tried to slow his pulse down and waited for Steve to nod and stand tall. For Steve to throw him out something he could destroy.

But Steve didn’t stand tall. Not even after he nodded.

What he did was hesitate. Hard. Billy knew he was hesitating. Knew it in the way his lips pulled the tiniest bit higher. In the way he took his hand off the ball.

And then.

Steve tapped his chest.

Billy’s heart dropped like a rock.

Felt like he was back behind the plate in Hawkins because that was. That was their system. His and Steve’s.

If Billy tapped the inside of his leg, it meant he wanted the ball low. If he tapped his chest, it meant he wanted it high. Tapped his elbow, he wanted it a little left. Tapped his cheek, wanted it a little right.

Steve had tapped his chest. High.

That meant high.

But there was no way he was going to throw that. There was no way he was going to throw the ball high. No way. No shot in hell he was actually standing there telling Billy what he was going to throw.

Billy didn’t trust it.

Just set his hands, set his feet as Steve stood tall. Kept his eye on Steve’s glove and his windup and then on the ball as it came his way and swung and missed because the ball, it-

Went high.

The ball had gone high.

Steve had tapped his chest and the ball had landed high.

Strike one.

What the fuck.

Billy shook his head as the catcher threw the ball back towards the mound. Blinked hard as he tapped the plate with the tip of his bat. Pulled his jersey up from his shoulders. Tried to steady his breathing and turned his attention forward.

Found that Steve was still smirking. Felt his jaw clench tighter. Stared at Steve sixty feet away and tried to wipe the image of his smile from his mind.

A smile that could cost him a fighting chance at a national championship.

He should have expected a smile like that. Knew just how bad Steve liked to win games. Just how bad Steve liked to push him, liked to challenge him.

But Billy was up for a challenge. He was ready to hit something. Watch it fly.

Was ready to hit a homerun and win and watch Notre Dame climb up in the rankings.

And then, Billy watched Steve nod.

Watched Steve wipe at his nose with the first two fingers on his throwing hand. Hard. Deliberate.

Took Billy right out of the moment and launched him back to that first afternoon two years ago.

‘One’s for a fastball. Two’s a curve. Three’s-'

‘A slider and four’s a changeup. Right?’

Two fingers. Curveball.

Steve wasn’t about to throw a curveball, though. There was no way he was pulling this shit twice in a row.

Once, to fuck with him, sure. But twice?

Billy knew better.

Expected something like a changeup, something like a trick. Set his hands and his feet even though he knew he had no intention of swinging at a changeup and stuck with his gut and didn’t swing as the ball came his way and-

Heard it land in the catcher’s mitt with a heavy thump. Heard the umpire behind him yell for strike two because the ball had.

Curved.

The son of a bitch had thrown a curveball.

Steve had thrown two fingers up and thrown the curveball.

Strike two.

Billy wiped his face with his forearm as everybody reset. Could see that Steve’s smile had spread. That his lips were parted. Knew that meant he was laughing to himself. Easy.

Billy could hear it. Could feel it, hot on the side of his neck. Like the sweat on his skin. The frustration between his ears.

Tried to bring himself back into the game again. Back into the moment. Back into the here and the now of it all.

Watched Steve watch the signs for a long few seconds and saw him nod. Saw him stand.

And then he hesitated. Again. Wiped his hand on the inside of his leg.

The inside of his leg. Low.

Billy, well.

Billy liked them low. Loved them, even.

Didn’t really understand why the hell Steve would be telling him he was throwing a low ball, of all things, when he knew Billy loved those. That Billy would take a low pitch any day.

Billy decided to play along while Steve wound up sixty feet away.

Decided to play along this time like Steve was telling the truth and swung where he should’ve if the ball was going low and-

Felt it hit the end of his bat with a smack.

Made a run for it as he watched the ball fly out to center field. Landed on first base with his heart thumping heavy in his chest and his eyes locked on Steve’s back. On the number 19 in the middle of all the bases.

Steve didn’t so much as turn around.

He’d really thrown it low.

He’d really told Billy where the ball was going to go and followed through with it.

On all three pitches.

With national rankings on the line.

Billy had known beforehand that he was in for something, that Steve might push, but he hadn’t expected this. Anything like this.

Hadn’t expected Steve to push quite so hard.

But Billy could push back better than anybody. Better. Harder.

And Billy, he wanted to push. Knew how to push. Took the time to think of a plan while he waited two and a half innings for Steve to finally take his first turn up at bat.

Bottom of the third.

Purdue up 2-1.

Billy had been thinking about this for the better part of an hour. Had the whole idea set up in his head and ready to go.

Stopped his pitcher before they left the dugout with a hand on his arm.

His pitcher. Ryan. A senior. Squinted at Billy like he had three heads.

“What’s up?”

“Nothin’ just.” Billy paused a second, tilted his head towards the plate. “Go along with the calls I put up, okay? Trust me.”

Ryan blinked at him, blank, empty. He definitely didn’t understand what was going on and Billy couldn’t blame him for that, but eventually he nodded. Left the dugout. Left Billy to follow him up and out towards the field.

Out to where Steve was walking right towards him. Helmet on his head. Bat in his hands.

That same small smirk on his lips like he thought Billy was going to let him get away with the mind games.

Like he’d forgotten just how much Billy liked to push back.

Like he’d forgotten how good Billy looked in a crown.

Billy crouched behind the plate without a word. Pulled his mask down over his face and watched Steve get set off to his left, up out of the top of his vision. Watched the spread of his thighs as they tensed beneath thin pinstripes. Watched his feet shift, set.

Could already feel a smile pulling at his lips as everything slowed and he set his plan into motion.

Signaled to Ryan for a knuckleball with white taped knuckles. A number 19 hidden on the inside of the middle one, up above his palm.

Told Ryan to throw a knuckleball because Steve was. Well. Horrible. At knuckleballs. Horrible. Couldn’t hit them for shit. Threw them like they were nothing, but couldn’t quite find them with a bat.

Billy watched Ryan nod, get set, throw. Felt the ball hit his glove after a hard swing from Steve that missed by a mile.

Strike one.

Billy thought he deserved a medal for holding in the laugh that threatened to bubble out as he threw it back up and squatted back down. Gave everybody a second to reset before he started all over again.

Went for a different one this time. A better one. A meaner one.

Told Ryan to throw a fastball set to land low.

Steve was just too tall for low pitches. Barely too tall, but too tall nonetheless. Had legs that were too long, made it so that he had to reach too far. Swung for them nine times out of ten and always hated himself for it after the fact.

Billy knew that for a fact. Had listened to him complain about missing low pitches more times in the last two years than any other.

Ryan nodded, said ‘yes’ to a low fastball.

Billy got ready, held the crouch, held his breath. Watched the ball all the way into his glove and felt the air from Steve’s bat hit his face when he swung again.

Missed again.

Strike two.

Billy heard Steve sigh up above him. He knew that sigh. Knew Steve was frustrated.

Billy wanted him back in the dugout, though. Wanted to get him back. Wanted to get even.

Why not get him again? Why not get him to go three and out the easiest way Billy knew how?

So he went for it. Went for the third swing. For Steve’s weakness.

Signaled with white taped knuckles for another low fastball. Second in a row.

Ryan nodded.

Billy got set. Felt Steve swing at nothing.

The umpire behind them yelled for strike three and only then did Billy finally chance looking up. Watched the number 19 on Steve’s back as he walked away with his bat gripped tight in his hands, saw his forearms flex with it. Around it.

Knew it meant Steve was going to push back.

Only had to wait until the next inning to find out that he was right.

Top of the fourth. Billy’s next chance to bat.

Tied 3-3.

He took his spot up at the plate with his chin up. Chest out. Adjusted his jersey on his shoulders and played like he was confident, like he wasn’t in the middle of a game inside a game. Set his feet, his hands.

Looked up to watch Steve shake his head once, twice. Nod.

But he didn’t do anything out of the ordinary.

Didn’t so much as breathe as he stood up, wound up, and let the ball go.

Billy fouled it up over his shoulder, sent it somewhere over the first baseline. Felt some of the tension leave his stance as he shifted his weight between his feet and listened to the field reset around him.

Reset himself.

Strike one.

Steve hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t signaled for anything. Hadn’t messed with him.

Billy didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know what to think in the few short seconds it took for the Purdue catcher to cycle through calls somewhere beneath him.

Took those few short seconds to wonder if they were even now. To wonder if maybe Steve had left the tricks back in the first inning now that he knew that Billy wasn’t just going to lie down and take it. Now that he knew that Billy was going to push back.

Maybe he was going to play fair.

Billy got himself ready for the next pitch with that thought in the back of his mind. Was ready for Steve to nod and stand and throw something fair when finally Steve nodded for real.

And then Steve took his hand off the ball to scratch at his elbow.

His elbow. Left.

Billy sucked in a breath.

A ball that broke towards the left was. Hard. For a lefty. On a good day. Tied Billy’s hands up more than he liked. Came a little too close to his body for comfort.

But apparently Steve wasn’t done with the games. Apparently Steve had decided to take a page out of Billy’s book with a pitch that targeted a personal weakness, but Billy had a point to prove.

He had a ball to hit.

A homerun to score.

A crown to wear.

He got ready as Steve wound up. Just tucked his elbows in and pulled his hips back and swung for a ball he expected to land right in front of his stomach and missed when it-

Went high.

Steve had scratched his elbow. Told Billy the ball was going to go left. Threw it high.

Steve lied.

Strike two.

Billy let his breath go with a shaky sigh and tried to shake it off.

Tried to tune out the shouts he could hear back over his shoulder from the guys over in the Purdue dugout. Guys that knew the both of them, how close they were. Cheered Steve on and sent a couple harmless heckles Billy’s way that, like any other day, might’ve made him laugh. Might’ve pumped him up.

“Hey, Hargrove! What the hell was that?”

“What are you swinging at, man?”

“Atta boy, Harrington! There you go!”

“Get ‘em, Stevie. C’mon.”

“Where’s a homerun, Billy? We know you want one.”

Billy had sweat dripping at his temple, felt a bead of it roll down the side of his neck. Felt the sun on his nose. Pushed his sleeves up, pulled at the fabric on his thighs.

Tight. He was too tight. He was thinking too much.

He needed to stop thinking. He needed to stop thinking, he needed to just watch the ball, but Steve was sixty feet away.

Steve was sixty feet away and he was standing up tall again. Adjusting his hat on his head. Curling his pointer finger under the brim to push it up and back down with a flick of his wrist. Deliberate.

Pointer finger. Fastball.

Billy didn’t think about it. Didn’t trust it.

Not after Steve said the ball was coming left and sent it high instead.

Billy set his feet. Watched Steve wind up.

Watched the ball leave his hand with heat. Real heat, too hot. Fastball.

Uh oh.

Steve hadn’t lied, but Billy couldn’t react quick enough. Billy’s hands were too slow. He couldn’t move. Didn’t move. Didn’t swing.

Felt his face fall as the umpire behind him called, “Strike three, you’re out!” and walked back towards the dugout with his gaze set forward. Head pounding. Hands shaking.

Jaw locked.

Ignored the cheers over in the Purdue dugout and the aggravated hiss of his coach at his side when he put his helmet back down on the bench.

Felt the words burn at his cheeks like he was seven years old again. Like he was back behind a dugout with a hand around his arm. His father’s voice in his ears.

“Are you gonna swing at anything real today or are you just gonna let that kid walk all over you?”

That kid.

Steve.

Billy kept his mouth shut. Nodded and walked away before he could say something stupid, before he could bite back with something nasty and get himself into trouble.

If Steve really wanted him to push, Billy could do that. Billy could really push. He could play dirty, too.

Took advantage of the opportunity during Steve’s second-at bat.

Bottom of the fifth.

Still tied at 3.

Purdue already had an out when Steve walked up for his turn and got himself set at the plate. Stood up at Billy’s left side.

Billy, who had more ideas than just calling what he knew Steve couldn’t hit. Ideas that didn’t involve Ryan or anybody else, for that matter. That didn’t involve anybody but him.

Didn’t need anybody but him.

Not when he could just. Well. Tap on Steve’s ankle with his free hand.

So. He did.

Waited for Ryan to stand and wind up and reached out with his free hand, his left hand, the one closest to Steve, and tapped him on the ankle.

Threw off Steve’s whole stance. Caught him completely off balance.

Watched him pick up his foot just as the ball came their way and caught it with a hard thump.

Hid a short laugh under the umpire’s call for strike one.

Ignored the fact that he could feel Steve looking down at him. Hard. Pointed.

Ignored the fact that Steve let his bat swing back when he tapped the plate with it, hit Billy on the glove with it. Like a warning.

Like Billy was the one that wasn’t playing fair.

Tapped him on the glove again before he brought the bat up towards his shoulder.

For emphasis.

So you can imagine Steve was a little steamed, that Billy understood just how steamed he was the moment that bat touched the glove on his right hand. How much clearer the message came through when Steve did it again. That Billy knew perfectly well how hot Steve’s blood was. How angry he was.

How bad he wanted that crown, too.

You can also imagine how much angrier, how much hotter Steve might get if Billy decided to tug the bottom of his pants down over his socks the next time Ryan wound up.

Which. Was exactly what Billy did.

Waited for Ryan to wind up. Reached out with his left hand. Tugged on the bottom of Steve’s pant-leg and pulled it down over his sock.

And this time, Steve didn’t get a strike because his foot was in the air.

Steve got a strike because he had gasped. Had broken his concentration clean off. Had lost sight of the pitcher’s mound and looked down at Billy as he caught the ball behind the plate.

Billy could feel it. Could hear him, could hear that his voice had pitched up, had gotten loud.

Knew he was talking to the umpire when he said, “Are you fuckin’ seeing this or what?” and watched his hand wave out of the top of his vision in that way Steve almost always did when he was pissed off.

Billy heard the umpire behind him say, “Watch the mouth or I’ll keep letting it go,” first. To Steve. Hard.

Heard him say, “And you knock it off, 17. Do it again and you’re outta this game, understand?” second and knew he was the one being spoken to now, but he didn’t turn around to acknowledge it.

Billy kept his eyes forward, had his lower lip caught between his teeth to hold back another laugh. A louder laugh. Kept his eyes forward and nodded.

Didn’t do it again.

Watched Steve hit the next ball out to their second baseman, who threw it to the kid on first and tagged Steve out before he could touch the bag.

They were really even now.

Had officially fucked each other over twice now.

And Billy knew he’d really gotten under Steve’s skin in the way he didn’t do anything to retaliate when he stepped up to the plate the very next inning. Billy’s third at-bat.

Top of the sixth.

Still tied at 3.

Steve didn’t do anything. Didn’t smirk at him. Didn’t try and fuck with him.

Just threw the ball. Played honest baseball.

Billy kept his eyes off Steve’s hands anyway. Didn’t pay attention to anything that wasn’t his wind up or the ball. Swung for a strike on the first pitch and hit the second out to left field with a crack that gave him enough time to get to second base.

Scored two batters later off two solid singles in a row. Felt a little more like he could breathe with a run under his belt.

With Steve playing fair. Playing fair and playing his ass off.

Like he’d really eaten his fuckin’ Wheaties this morning. Like a real ball player in the prime of his life.

A real All-American with professional potential.

Maybe they were more like diamonds now, but they would always be iron and steel.

A tool one could use to sharpen the other.

Billy would be lying if he said he hated to see it. If he didn’t sort of love that he was still the one that could fire Steve up after all this time. If he didn’t sort of smile as he ran his thumb over the 19 up by his middle knuckle just to feel the tape scratch at the pad of his finger.

Walked out for his fourth and final at-bat at the top of the ninth. Two outs.

Purdue up 6-4.

Steve was still in. Had pitched a good enough game to earn him all nine innings. Had been replaced with a pinch hitter for what would’ve been his third and final at-bat of the game in the bottom of the eighth in an effort to protect his arm.

Was more than half the reason his team was winning.

Kept runners off the bases. Kept the scoreboard free of a single homerun.

Billy’s hands were itching for one. Itching for a homerun. Wanted one so bad. Wanted to wipe that look off Steve’s face so bad, tightened his hands around the bottom of his bat so hard it hurt.

Thought about a crown on his head, about the idea of Notre Dame being ranked number one going into the playoffs because of him. Because of the things he could do. The way he could swing.

Hit the first pitch Steve threw as hard as he could. Kept his eyes on the ball as he ran for first and watched it go, go, go as it flew all the way back and back and out and away until it-

Hit the back wall. Bounced off it and onto the ground and into the glove of the Purdue centerfielder.

Just short of a homerun.

Billy stopped at second base, put his hands on his hips to help him stand tall and catch his breath.

That’s when Steve finally turned. Was the moment Steve finally looked at him. For real.

Took Billy nearly scoring a homerun and nine whole innings for Steve to look at him for real.

Steve looked right at him and laughed. Let the tension drop from his shoulders in a way only Billy knew meant, ‘Thank fuck you didn’t.’

Billy could only look and laugh back. Shook his head in a way only Steve knew meant, ‘I really wish I had.’

Made it home on the next batter, saw the score hit 6-5, and watched Steve strike the last kid out swinging. Strike three. Out three.

Made it so Purdue won the first game.

6-5.

Sent them all back to their respective dugouts to take the twenty minute break between that last out and the second game of the doubleheader.

But Billy wasn’t the only one that had lit a fire under a king over the course of 9 innings.

Being the designated hitter for game two meant he didn’t have to do anything but that. Didn’t have to do anything but hit. Could focus on it. Could focus better without having to worry about catching the back half of every inning.

Could focus better without having to worry about seeing Steve’s face sixty feet away.

Saw him along the home dugout fence all game, arms crossed over the top of it, smile on his lips. Like he was content to stand there and watch Billy play now that he didn’t have to do the same. Like now he could drop the pretenses. Could leave his crown on the bench.

Could be Billy’s best friend again. Be his everything again.

Billy got his homerun. And another two innings later.

Rounded the bases and passed the Purdue dugout while they all screamed in his direction.

“Finally remember how to hit, Hargrove?”

“Took you long enough!”

“Look at that everybody! Billy just got here!”

“Bet you can’t do it again.”

“No way he gets three!”

“Can’t you run any faster than that?”

Billy flipped them off with a smile on his face, a laugh on his lips.

Earned him another hard warning from the umpire as he passed home plate, but he figured it was worth it. Figured anything was worth it if it made Steve laugh. Only cared about making Steve laugh.

And winning the second game. And getting that jump in the rankings.

Which. He did. They did.

Notre Dame won the second game 8-4.

Made it so that both teams came out of the doubleheader with a win and a loss. Came out of the afternoon-now early evening-dead even. Came out of their dugouts after the second game to line up and shake hands.

Billy took a spot at the back of the line and shook hands with all of Steve’s teammates, some that stopped a second to give him shit, others that just said ‘good game’ and kept going.

When Billy got to Steve, though, he stopped dead in his tracks. Grabbed onto his hand and leaned in close. Brushed his lips over his ear.

Said, “See you in a little while, pretty boy,” and kept going before Steve could say anything back. Had just barely caught a glimpse of the pinch between Steve’s eyebrows by the time he was halfway back to his dugout again.

Steve might have been the one to start with all the bullshit today, all the nonsense, but Billy still had one more trick up his sleeve.

A note in the side of his bag that he gave to his coach once they were all back over by the bus.

A bus Billy didn’t get on like the rest of his teammates. Just handed his coach the paper with a smile, turned on his heel, and walked back towards the parking lot right outside Purdue’s athletic center.

Towards the tailgate the Purdue parents always set up after every game.

Billy saw Steve before Steve saw him.

Found that mess of brown hair in the middle of the crowd of players, of parents. Felt his smile spread wider when he saw that Steve’s brow was still pinched, that he wasn’t quite looking at the parents that had come over to him to pat him on the back, was sort of looking at the ground.

Was distracted.

Had no idea Billy was even there until Billy called, “Hey Harrington,” up over all the chatter.

Billy felt his pulse speed when Steve’s eyes went wide, when he watched his hair bounce as his head shot up and looked straight at him. Watched Billy walk the rest of the way over.

Was smiling so bright when he said, “Hey,” that Billy thought his heart was going to crack behind his ribs.

“Hi,” Billy said. Stopped in front of him. Put his bag down on the ground.

“I don’t get it,” Steve said, sounded a little out of breath with it. Like he’d been running. “What are you doing here?”

“Wanted to see you.”

“Well, yeah, but shouldn’t you be like. On your way back to school or something?”

“Yeah I mean, I should be,” Billy said, undid a button on his jersey, another. Felt a little better with some cool night air on his skin. “But Coach said I didn’t have to.”

Steve lost his eyes, was looking down. Towards his chest. That exposed bit of skin. “How come?”

“I don’t know,” Billy said, casual. “Somethin’ about a note from my dad saying I’m going home with him instead of taking the bus back to campus.”

Steve tilted his head to one side, matched the shift of his smile as he brought his eyes back up to Billy’s.

Matched the shift of Billy’s smile when Steve spoke again. Slow.

“Your dad’s not here.”

“His handwriting doesn’t look like mine either,” Billy started, “but what Coach doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

“Jackass.”

Billy couldn’t bite back, though. Could hardly breathe because Steve finally leaned forward and hugged him. Nearly knocked him off his feet with the force of it, kept him upright with the strong arms he had wrapped around Billy’s shoulders.

Gave Billy a chance to smell the sweat on his neck, the sunshine. To feel Steve’s fingers tighten in the green jersey on his back and hold onto him like he might never let go.

Felt Steve whisper, “I missed you,” against his cheek and felt his heart give a kick at the words.

In all reality, they only let the hug last a second before they pulled back. Knew that’s all they could give themselves here. Had to be safe in the middle of all these people. Cautious. Discreet as Steve wrapped an arm around his shoulders and walked him over towards one of the four tables of food the parents had set up.

They both made themselves a plate, found a group of Steve’s friends to hang out with for a little while. Wasted time. Went back over to the tables at some point for seconds. And then again for cookies a little while later.

Billy liked Steve’s friends. Genuinely. Liked a lot of them more than some of the ones he’d made at Notre Dame so far. He knew it probably had something to do with the fact that he’d known them longer, had known them since the year before, Steve’s freshman year.

More than anything else, though, Billy liked the way Steve smiled when he was around them. Liked the way Steve looked like he belonged. That it looked like he’d found a family here.

Laughed when Jack, Steve’s roommate, caught up with them and stopped to talk.

“Hell of a day, man,” Jack said, clapped a hand to Billy’s shoulder the same way he did before the first game. “I mean seriously. What are you doing at a Catholic school with a swing like that?”

“Hey, cool it with that Catholic school shit,” Billy shot back, easy. “Last time I checked we kicked your ass in the second game.”

“Yeah and we could probably kick everybody’s ass if you left and came here,” Jack said.

“That’s a nice offer, but I don’t think so.” Billy could feel Steve’s eyes on the side of his face when he shook his head, heard him laugh when he said, “Pinstripes aren’t really my thing.”

“Pinstripes are everybody’s thing,” Jack stated, oblivious to the joke. “Who doesn’t wanna look like a Yankee?”

Billy’s smile only got wider.

“A Dodger fan.”

Which launched them right into a twenty minute debate about their favorite major league teams and their favorite players. A conversation that drew in five or six more kids on Steve’s team with five or six more different opinions. Didn’t care that Billy was in a green jersey, just that he wore Dodgers hats on off days and couldn’t give two fucks about New York sports teams.

They were halfway through arguing whether or not The Sultan of Swat was a nickname that meant something about Babe Ruth’s homerun game or if it meant something else entirely when Steve looked down at the ground. Towards their bags. Spun a little. Shook his head.

Billy pulled his attention away from the conversation to eye him. Nudged him in the arm with his elbow. “You good?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, yeah I just-Goddamnit. I forgot my jacket back in the dugout,” he sighed, picked up one of his bags, slung it over his shoulder. “Do you mind coming with? I got too much shit to carry.”

Billy nodded. Shouldered his bag and one of Steve’s. Said goodbye to all the guys and walked across the parking lot, back over towards the field with Steve’s shoulder brushing up against his.

The field was empty. Dark. The grounds crew had shut the lights off after the second game ended. The sun was more than halfway down in the sky, still rapidly setting somewhere back behind all the buildings on campus.

Billy had to follow close behind Steve to know where he was going, could hardly make out the gate or the fence or the dugout steps.

But one second he was walking down into the dugout and the next he could hear Steve dropping all his stuff on the ground, could hear Steve’s cleats against the concrete. Could feel Steve’s hands on him, pushing the bags off his shoulders, pushing him back against the wall.

Could feel Steve’s weight hold him steady when he covered Billy’s body with his own and kissed him hard. Right there in the empty dugout.

Billy’s breath caught in his throat, groaned when Steve slipped a quick thigh between his legs and pushed against him. When Steve tilted his head, deepened the kiss with a swipe of his tongue across Billy’s lower lip.

Billy, who didn’t know what to do but open his mouth and grind against Steve’s thigh, to pull Steve’s jersey out from where it was still tucked into his pants and get his hands on soft skin. Felt the warmth of him beneath his palms, ran his hands along the spread of smooth muscle, smoother, stronger than it had ever been.

Broke away with a soft smack just to have Steve nose at his neck.

Swallowed hard.

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting a jacket?” he asked, couldn’t help the laugh that pulled at the edge of question. Couldn’t believe how wrecked, how harsh his voice sounded already.

Steve whispered, breath hot against his neck. “What jacket?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Billy huffed, let his eyes fall shut when Steve tugged on his ear with his teeth, when he felt Steve’s hands go to the buttons on his jersey. Undid one, another, a third, until it was completely open. “And if you’re trying to make me forget about that shit you pulled today, it’s not working.”

“What shit?” Like an echo.

“You know.” Steve nudged his legs further apart with his thigh, stepped so that now he was sort of standing between them. Pressed his half-hard, getting harder, dick against Billy’s and lined them up. Sent a shiver up Billy’s spine. “That shit where you were throwing me signs while I was up at bat.”

“Oh that.” Billy could hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah, you know, I was feeling kinda bad about that,” he said, rolled his hips, pressed against him, made Billy gasp, “until you pulled my fucking pants down over my sock.”

“All’s fair, baby.” Billy wanted to pull him in closer, harder. Wanted more friction, more Steve. “And you started it.”

Didn’t know what to do when Steve took a step back.

Could only follow when Steve grabbed his hand, said, “How ‘bout you let me finish it then?” and pulled him away from the wall. Sat down on the bench, pulled Billy down with him, on him. Straddling his lap.

Billy put his hands on either side of Steve’s neck with a smile. Used them to ground himself, to hold himself steady. Held back a moan when he adjusted his legs on either side of Steve’s hips and felt their dicks brush, heavy. Hard.

Found Steve’s eyes already looking up at him, big and brown and beautiful. Blown.

Nothing like the cold eyes that had been looking back at him from the pitcher’s mound sixty feet away.

Billy angled his head to one side, brushed their noses together as he did. Felt Steve’s hand go beneath the open parts of his jersey and settle on his back, dug his fingers in those dips just above his ass.

Took a second to just breathe the same air as him, to roll his hips down and catch the sigh that fell from Steve’s lips on the tip of his tongue. Tasted it. Felt it. Felt Steve pull him closer and buck his hips up to chase the sensation. To chase the feeling.

Tipped his chin back when Steve chased his lips and felt his breath on his cheek as he huffed. Whispered.

“Come on, Billy. Kiss me.”

Billy was only so strong.

Couldn’t do anything but give in and kiss him. Couldn’t do anything but smooth his thumbs over his cheeks and deepen the kiss as he moved his hips, pressed against Steve and felt him sigh. And again. Made something warm spread low in Billy’s stomach.

Made him press in harder, smoother, longer.

Just the way he knew Steve liked it.

Did it again. Again.

Felt one of Steve’s hands slide up his back, wide, hard. Dug his fingers into the muscle on the back of Billy’s shoulders. Brought the other hand up to tangle his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. Tugged Billy closer.

Just kissed and touched and rolled and moved and let it get sloppy, less controlled. Maybe a little frantic as the pressure started to build low, as the heat started to bloom. As that warm, hot feeling got better when Steve started pushing back for real, had had enough of Billy controlling the pace, held onto him tight and pushed the hard line of his dick against Billy’s in that way that always made Billy’s mouth drop open.

Felt good.

So good.

Made Billy break away from the kiss so that he could bury his nose in Steve’s neck, looped his arms around his shoulders, loose. Listened to the hum of Steve’s voice, low in his ear.

“So good, Billy. You’re so good. So gorgeous, I’m-” He lost the words to a moan when Billy matched his rhythm, pushed against him just right. Swallowed hard. “Fuck, I’m close. Are you?”

“Yeah,” Billy whispered, felt Steve’s hand leave his hair and travel down his back, up his shirt again, scratched at his skin. “Yeah, Steve.”

Kept going until they were both shaking with it, until they needed it, were desperate with it. For it. Until that heat felt so hot Billy couldn’t breathe anymore, came so hard he felt his chest shake with it. Felt Steve’s hands press harder, heard the way Steve gasped his name when he followed him over.

Came with Billy’s name on his lips like that’s what it had been made for. Like it was made to be whispered. Slow. Soft. Reverent.

Totally, totally breathless.

Had hardly regained control of their breathing by the time they came back down. By the time Billy realized how bad his knees hurt from the bench’s hard metal, how bad his thighs hurt from straddling Steve’s hips. Let his weight fall a little harder on Steve’s lap and tried not to hiss when his dick, sensitive, spent, pressed against Steve’s stomach.

He just. Took a second.

Just took his nose away from Steve’s neck and leaned back to look at his face. Wanted to see the flush along his cheeks, the deep, kiss-stained red of his lips. Wanted to see the way his hair had fallen over his forehead and push it back for him. Did just that, ran his fingers through it. Just to watch Steve’s eyes close with it.

Watched a smile pull at the corners of Steve’s lips, watched them part.

“Still hate me?”

Billy huffed a laugh. Shook his head even though Steve couldn’t really see it. Probably caught the end of it when he opened his big, brown eyes and found Billy’s once the noise hit his ears.

“No,” he said. Paused a long second to let the word stick. “Still kinda think you’re an asshole, but I don’t hate you.”

“I think I can live with that.”

Steve pulled him in for another kiss then. Slower this time, sweeter. Took his time and brought his hands up to hold Billy’s cheeks, swiped his thumbs along his skin. Let his hands wander along the line of his neck and down his chest, his stomach while Billy buried his hands in his hair.

Broke away when they lost their breath again and leaned their foreheads together. Filled the empty air with words. The silence with Steve’s voice.

Said, “You looked good out there today,” as he traced at the knobs on Billy’s spine, swirled around them with the tip of his finger. “Real good.”

“So did you,” Billy said, fought to keep his eyes open with Steve’s touch so light, so gentle. “Keep throwing like that and you’re gonna see your name on an All-American list this summer.”

“You’re one to talk.” Steve was so close Billy could taste the words, could count his eyelashes if he wanted. “If mine’s there, yours should be right above it.”

“I’m only makin’ Rookie Team at the most,” Billy laughed. “Hoping green’ll give me some luck.”

“Maybe pinstripes would be luckier,” he shot back. “You sure they’re not your thing?”

Billy shook his head.

“Only my thing when you’re wearing them.”

“Shut up,” Steve huffed, let his head fall forward to press it to Billy’s chest, made something warm spread beneath the touch, back behind Billy’s ribs. Warmer when he spoke again. “You know, I heard somebody say they’re having a party at the football house later,” he said, tickled Billy’s skin with it. “You wanna go?”

“Depends,” Billy said, twisted a piece of Steve’s hair around the tip of his finger. Let it fall loose. “Jack goin’ home for the weekend?”

“Yeah.”

Billy felt his lips pull, leaned forward to brush them over the shell of Steve’s ear. Dropped his voice down low even though they were alone. Just to feel Steve shiver.

“So we can get shitfaced and then go back to your room so you can fuck me for real?”

Felt the way Steve’s chest moved when his breath hitched. When he said the word again. Different this time.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Billy said, easy. “I wanna go.”

Steve’s laugh filled his ears with a rush. Pulled back from Billy’s chest to tilt his head, to look up at him.

“God, I love you,” he said, let the words roll off his tongue so easy Billy could hardly breathe. Not when there was something so bright, something so light in his voice. Something so warm in his eyes. “You know that?”

Billy swallowed hard, ignored the way those words sparked something hot in his chest, same way they always did when Steve said them.

Something hot. Something calm. Something unfamiliar.

Something good.

Nodded.

Said, “I know,” and, “I love you, too.”

Because he meant it. Meant them. Those words. Meant every one of those words even though he’d only ever said them to Steve. Had only ever said them to one person in 19 years.

They were worth it, though. The words. They were worth the fear, the nerves, the anxiety. Worth every bit of it every time because of the way they made Steve smile every time. The way they made Steve’s face soften every time.

Because Steve, he was good.

And Billy deserved that. He knew that now.

Billy deserved good.

They deserved each other.

Deserved the way their names came one after the other when the All-American list came out in July. Second-team.

Hargrove, Billy (Fr., Notre Dame, Catcher)

Harrington, Steve (So., Purdue, Pitcher)