Uneasy Pieces: The League, Book 4 Page 2

  Shane grinned. He said, “Oh, sure thing. I was just heading for the door.” He stood up straight and strolled to the door with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He was a good three inches shorter than his boyfriend Joey, but Shane’s personality was twice as outgoing. “I’ll see you on Saturday, Mr. Vaughan!” Then he turned his head one last time and added with a sheepish grin, “I guess I’ll actually see you tomorrow in school.”

  I laughed to myself as I turned back to the stack of homework papers to grade. By happenstance, Shane’s paper was on the top of the stack, and while I made red check marks I hoped that he was right about making an effort to improve his grades. He was more intelligent than what he demonstrated in his math homework. He needed something to focus his attention on school.

  On the drive home, my thoughts drifted to the summer ahead. I had no particular plans other than the week or two than diving into preparation for the next school year. Other teachers told me that I really needed to take part of the summer off, and they were probably right. Many of my colleagues liked to travel over the summer. Some of them headed to Europe while others went camping in the Rocky Mountains.

  It all sounded exciting to me, but I didn’t like to travel on my own. I thought about that. Maybe I should try to do something to curb the alone time. My last dating relationship that lasted more than a month was my senior year in college. Ted was cute, funny, and hot in bed, but too often I felt like I was dating someone with the emotional capacity of a seventh grader. It was exhausting.

  * * *

  Shane was right about the softball game. It wasn’t just an ordinary collection of men playing softball on the weekend. The team ranged from guys that looked like real athletes to one who had piercings and tattoos and looked like he belonged on a Harley instead of tossing a neon green softball around the outfield. I found my way to a seat on the bleachers behind home plate and settled in to watch the festivities.

  I self-consciously reached a hand up to brush the hair off my forehead. I was overdue for a haircut and the bangs that hung rakishly down in the past now just looked shaggy and unruly.

  Shane told me that the team I should be cheering for was called the Soft Serves. They wore green jerseys with the team name and an ice cream cone on the front and the player’s last name placed in block letters in an arch across the back.

  I pulled the cell phone out of my pocket to check the time. It was still ten minutes before the game was set to begin. Shane and Joey still had plenty of time to show up.

  Then I spotted the man I was supposedly scouting. I read the name Powell on the back of his jersey. He was tall, slim, muscular, and he had brown hair trimmed close to the scalp. It had to be Blake. The way he moved there was no doubt in my mind that he was one of the most skilled players on the team.

  Unfortunately, talent on the field didn’t always necessarily add up to skills as a coach. It was possible to be one of the best players of all time and still have difficulty instructing others to follow in your footsteps. Sometimes, successful coaching and teaching could be a blend of difficult-to-understand instinct and art. I found that out when I tried to coach chess players. There was a lot more to coaching than just being able to play the game yourself.

  I continued to watch as another player jogged up to Blake. He whispered in Blake’s ear and they both started laughing out loud. I tried to read the name across his back, but he was standing with his back angled toward the outfield. I thought I could make out a G at the end of the name, but I couldn’t read anything else.

  Although I was supposed to be watching Blake, I had a hard time taking my eyes off his friend. The man was shorter than Blake, but he had broader shoulders and a strong, sculpted chest. Then he turned just a bit more so that his face was toward home plate. He laughed even louder and slapped his thighs with his hands. As he was slightly bent over, the long-haired and pierced teammate joined in the conversation and soon all three men were laughing.

  The object of my attention had a strikingly handsome face, and he was older than his teammates. I would have guessed he was nearing age 40. He had a chiseled jaw and a sparkle in his eyes that I could see clear across the softball diamond.

  “Mr. Vaughan! You’re here! See Joey, I told you he would come.” Shane’s voice pulled me out of my concentration on the softball players, and I stood up just as he climbed on to the bleachers along with Joey. Both of their faces lit up with smiles, and I reached out a hand to shake with both of them.

  I said, “I told you I would be here, Shane. I’m a man who keeps my word.” I gave another quick glance to the field and read the word Easterling on the back of the uniform, before I concentrated fully on Shane and Joey.

  Patting the aluminum bleachers at my side, I said, “Why don’t you guys just have a seat here next to me? It looks like the crowd isn’t going to be too thick.”

  Joey took a seat on the opposite side of Shane and leaned forward to ask, “Did you see Blake, Mr. Vaughan? He’s out there. He’s the tall guy with the name Powell on his back.”

  I nodded and said, “Yes, and he does look like an impressive player. I just don’t know yet how to figure out if he would make a solid coach. I wonder if he’s had any actual experience.”

  Shane said, “Well, he helped us in the batting cage. He was really good at that. He helped adjust our swings and our stances in the batter’s box. I think that’s part of why I finally made the team, Mr. Vaughan. Blake knew just what to show me so that I could get better at hitting.”

  I raised an eyebrow and asked, “Is that why you want him to get the job so badly? Because you owe him something, Shane?”

  Shane shook his head vigorously and said, “Oh, no, nothing like that. I’m thinking about what’s best for the team.”

  I grinned as Joey’s hand crept up Shane’s back until his fingers spread playfully around the back of Shane’s neck. He said, “Shane just likes to rattle on a lot. Sometimes he says a little too much, but I can vouch for Blake. Uh, I guess we should call him Mr. Powell. He really is good. He’s fun to be around, too. I think you would like him, Mr. Vaughan.”

  Leaning in toward Shane and Joey, I asked them, “Do you know the other guy out there? He’s the one with the name Easterling on his back.”

  Shane said, “Oh, that’s Marshall. Blake…” He stopped himself for a moment. I could see they were both already thinking of Blake as a potential coach. Shane said, “Mr. Powell is good friends with Marshall.”

  I said, “Marshall looks like a strong athlete, too. Look at the muscles in his shoulders and chest.”

  Joey grinned and said, “He’s strong, but he’s a little clumsy on the field. I mean, he’s better than most of the team, but he’s not Blake or Billy.”

  “Billy?”

  Joey nodded. “The guy with the long hair. He’s the best guy on the team other than Blake.”

  I was surprised about the comment made about Billy. It was a lesson in judging books by their covers. According to Shane and Joey, Marshall looked like an athlete but was only average on the field. Billy looked like he belonged elsewhere, riding a motorcycle or hanging out in a bar, but he was one of the team’s stars. Armed with more information about the players, I settled in to watch the game with significantly more interest. “And do you know anything about the pitcher?” I asked.

  Shane said, “That’s Ian. He’s Mr. Powell’s boyfriend. He’s a good guy, too.”

  I nodded. It was obvious Ian would look good standing at Blake’s side. Blake was playing third base. Unfortunately, Marshall, the man I most wanted to watch, was stuck in the outfield. I could understand the comment about clumsiness. Through the first few innings, when it came to running or swinging the bat, he demonstrated only average skills, but he looked very good doing it.

  “Do you know what Marshall does?” I asked Shane and Joey.

  “Does?” asked Shane.

  “His job. What kind of work does he do?”

  “Oh, he’s a college professor,” said Joey. “That’s
what Mr. Powell told us. He teaches something about the weather.” Suddenly, Joey turned to the game again. Blake connected with the ball at home plate and sent it over the fence. Shane and Joey rose to their feet cheering, and I joined in.

  “Way to go, Blake!” shouted Shane. He cringed and said, “It’s going to be so hard calling him Coach Powell if he gets the job.”

  The game wasn’t close from that point forward. The Soft Serves took home a victory by a score of 10-2. Shane tugged on the back of my shirt afterward and said, “Please, come meet Mr. Powell. I’m sure you’ll like him.”

  I followed Shane and Joey, and smiled when Blake embraced both with big hugs. He was sweaty and his uniform was smeared with dirt, but Shane and Joey didn’t care. I introduced myself and said, “I’m Jordan Vaughan. I teach high school math, and I’ve had both of these boys in class. I know them from extracurriculars, too.”

  “The baseball team?” asked Blake.

  Smiling, I said, “No, I head up the LGBTQ and Allies student group.”

  Blake smiled and said, ‘Well, that’s just as important as baseball.”

  As he said the word “baseball,” Marshall appeared and gave Blake a swat on the ass with his glove.

  I listened to Marshall’s deep, resonant voice say, “Good game, Blake. You really corked the one homer. I think they are still out there looking for it in the weeds.”

  “Aw, thanks, Marshall,” said Blake. Then he turned to me to acknowledge my presence. He said, “Oh, and by the way, Marshall, meet my new buddy…was it Jordan?”

  I beamed happy that Blake remembered my name, I said, “Yes, that’s the name, Jordan Vaughan.”

  Marshall reached his hand around the side of Blake, and I eagerly shook it. His shake was firm but not overpowering. Our eyes met, and I thought I saw more than just a passing glance. His dark eyes sparkled. When he let go, Marshall pulled up the front of his jersey to wipe at the sweat on his face. I focused on planting my feet in place so that I wouldn’t swoon. His abs were just as muscular as the rest of his body.

  Blake said, “Aw c’mon, Marshall. Stop showing off. We all know you go to the gym.”

  Marshall smiled. He said, “I just had sweat in my eye, Blake. Good game again. I gotta go. I’m heading to the Toolbox for a drink with Billy, and then I’ve gotta get home and finish up grades for the semester. Anyway, come join us for a drink if you wanna celebrate.”

  Blake said, “I’ve gotta talk to these guys a little bit, and then I’ll see what Ian’s up for.”

  I turned and focused on Marshall walking away for maybe a little bit too long. Finally, I heard Blake address me and say, “So, you’re a teacher? I’m sure these guys have told you that I’m thinking about that open coaching job at the high school.”

  3

  Marshall

  I watched Blake grind the fruit in the bottom of the glass and said, “You’re getting better with those old fashioneds. They taste almost like the real thing now.”

  He grumbled, “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like my style, Marshall.”

  I winked and asked, “Is that any way to talk to a regular customer?”

  It was a Wednesday night at the Toolbox, and I decided to stop in early around 8:00 p.m. There wasn’t much of a crowd, and that was perfect for my purposes. I was scouting for information.

  I kept thinking about the guy I met only briefly at the softball game over the weekend. It was difficult to shake him from my head, so I decided to see if I could find out anything else about him. Blake was an obvious first choice to ask. We were good friends, and Blake clearly had some sort of connection with the man.

  Blake lowered his voice and spoke in a whisper. “I know you’re just being a smartass about the drink, but I can give as good as I get.” Then he spoke in a normal tone again saying, “This is a little early for you. Are you okay? You’re not drowning sorrows in this drink, are you?”

  He slid the glass across the counter to me, and I took a sip. It really was good. The sweetness of the fruit blended perfectly with the warmth of the brandy and the bitters. I gave Blake a thumbs up and said, “I’m not doing anything like that at all. Actually, I was hoping you might have a little bit of information for me.”

  Blake raised an eyebrow. “Me? Information? They all know what loose lips I have, so I’m the bartender that no one tells anything important. If you want to find out about a juicy secret, you’ll need to talk to Claw. His mind is like a steel trap.”

  I shook my head and said, “I’m not looking for any secrets. I just wanted to find out if you know anything about that guy at the softball game with the kids. Jordan was his name, I think.”

  Blake nodded. “Yep, that’s the name. He’s a math teacher at the high school. What else did you need to know.”

  So we were both teachers. I was a professor, to be exact. And he taught math. My atmospheric sciences department was housed under the broad umbrella of mathematics. Maybe we had more in common than I thought.

  “How do you know him?” I asked Blake.

  Blake smiled and said, “They are looking for an assistant baseball coach at the high school. Jordan is on the selection committee.”

  “So you’re doing a little politicking? Sounds like a shrewd backdoor move, Blake. I’m impressed you’re mounting a clever campaign.”

  Blake shook his head saying, “I don’t know anything about politics. I met those kids with Jordan in my short little time playing in the city baseball league. They are good kids, and they had Jordan as a teacher. They are kind of my cheerleaders in the whole process.”

  I reached a hand across the bar to give Blake a good grip. I said, “Man, I hope you get that job. I think you would make a great coach. The kids would love you, and I’m sure you’ve got great stories to tell from the minors.”

  “Well, thank you for the support, but now I’m a little curious, too. Why is it that you want to know about Jordan? You teach at the university, don’t you? Is there some kind of connection you have with the high school, Marshall?”

  I leaned across the bar again and dropped my voice to a whisper once more. Blake turned his head to the side so that only he could hear. I said, “Blake, I would appreciate it if you work a little harder at keeping this a secret than you do most of the time, but I thought there might be a little spark there with Jordan, and I’m curious to see if any of his friends have an opinion on my chances of turning the spark into a flame.”

  Blake’s eyes opened wide and he said, “You…and Jordan. Wow. He’s a little younger, but yeah, I could see that. After all, Ian was into you when he was pissed at me.”

  “Well, thanks, some guys might think I’m a little too old.”

  Blake said, “If you acted like an old codger, I might say yes, but damn, look at you, Marshall. You’re a catch. And I’ll tell you one more thing.”

  I raised an eyebrow and asked, “Yeah?”

  “Those two kids, Shane and Joey. They think really highly of Jordan, and both of them can detect bullshit from a mile away. If they think he’s a good guy, then he most likely is.”

  I smiled and said, “That is good to know.”

  “Well, good luck, man,” said Blake. “And if you get anywhere, see if you can wedge in a good word for your buddy Blake. I can use all the help I can get. I really would like to coach.”

  * * *

  I wasn’t sure that Jordan would be at our next softball game, but I hoped he would. I made plans in my head to introduce myself again and have more of a conversation than the last time. I could see his handsome smile in my mind and that nice V-shape swimmer’s body that he carried around.

  In the last minutes before it was time to leave home, I was seized by anxiety about how I looked. I stared at the wrinkles around my eyes and the skin on my face that was no longer as clear, smooth and tight as it was in my twenties. I worried that I was deluding myself about anyone Jordan’s age having a serious interest.

  I swallowed hard while I slicked my hair back and though
t about running into Jordan again. He looked great, and he was a young guy with a serious job. I sighed heavily laboring under doubts I hadn’t experienced for years.

  Glancing at my phone, I realized I was already running five minutes late, so I gave up on any more last minute primping and rushed to the car. I would have to accept what I saw in the mirror. It was just me. It was the 46-year-old Marshall Easterling. It was the best that I could do.

  The rest of the team was already at the field when I arrived, and a quick glance told me that Jordan was in the stands with Shane and Joey at his side. Ian gave me a sideways glance and asked, “What’s up Marshall? It’s not like you to be late. I thought I would have to substitute in a left fielder.”

  I mumbled something about, “last minute stuff,” and jogged out to my place in left field. I kicked my feet up backwards and leaned from one side to the other trying to stretch before the balls started to fly.

  My nerves were wrapped up in knots as the game started. We were on the books as the home team which meant the other team batted first. I bounced from one leg to the other as I waited for the first batter to step up to the plate.

  Billy turned his head from his position at shortstop and shouted, “Don’t think about him, Marshall! Head in the game!”

  I growled knowing that everyone was likely to ask me about what Billy meant. I barked back, “You, too, Billy. The batter is at home plate, not in the outfield!”

  I took three deep breaths and then leaned forward with my hands on my thighs. The other team’s first batter stepped up to the plate. Reggie squatted down behind home plate and waited to catch the first pitch. I watched Ian go through his slow windup and then he lobbed the big neon-green ball on its way to the plate.

  The batter swung and he hit the ball hard. Fortunately, for us, the ball was a line drive directly to Blake. He caught the ball without any fuss for the first out and then tossed it to Billy so that it could make a circuit around the infield before returning to Ian on the pitcher’s mound.