backspin
For this prompt (it started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this? It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss) at bats_and_balls, once again not even close to completed in time for the actual challenge. Oh well.
Justin Verlander/Joel Zumaya
PG-13
4665 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
backspin
The apartment is totally, utterly black. He can't see a single gleam of light that doesn't come in from the door he's just opened; not even a nightlight or something. It ought to be a sign of emptiness, but Verlander knows better, knows damn well that it signifies just the opposite. Zumaya is definitely home.
He knows this only because he knows Zumaya as comprehensively as he does. Zumaya's mother used to say he was asking to get robbed if he left all the lights off and effectively told potential burglars he wasn't there, so Zumaya always leaves a light on when he goes out, even when they go on long west coast road trips and are away for a whole week. He only turns the lights off when he wants the darkness for itself.
Something invisible rustles slightly.
"Go 'way, Justin."
He doesn't dignify this with a response. If Zumaya really didn't want him to come around, he wouldn't have given Verlander a key all those years ago, and then a new key with every move. But he's scrupulous about getting Verlander his spares, probably bringing them over before he's even got all his underwear folded and put away, so, whatever. He had to know Verlander was coming over sooner or later.
The light switch is five long strides from the door, on the right-hand wall. Verlander knows how to find it in the dark. He pulls the front door closed behind him, plunging everything into a more complete state of blackness, making his pupils widen and strain, vainly searching for some spare sliver of illumination. Five strides and he's there, putting his hand on the wall too high at first and having to slide it down, but the switch is under his palm, then under his fingers, exactly where it should be.
He hesitates over it for a moment, then takes his hand away. Leaves it off.
Three more strides takes him to the end of the wall, and he strikes out across the open floor cautiously. The couch should be, what, three or four more? But it's fairly disconcerting, moving in a darkness so profound that he can't see his own feet, let alone the surrounding furniture. He shuffles his feet carefully instead of picking them up completely, so if there's something unexpected on the floor he'll kick it, instead of tripping over it.
Zumaya makes no comment on Verlander's progress across the room, although he has to be able to hear him, and Verlander reaches the couch without incident. He feels his way along the arm, around to the front, and prods the cushion carefully to be certain he isn't going to crush Zumaya. Finding the space clear, he sits. Immediately he notices warmth coming from the place where Zumaya is sitting next to him.
He clears his throat deliberately, making sure Zumaya knows he's about to speak. He has to be careful here. Everything has to be so goddamn careful.
"So. You haven't been to the park in a few days."
"Wow, really." Zumaya's voice is flat, affectless, especially in the dark where Verlander can't see his face, can't get any clues from the angle of the corner of his mouth, the precise amount of crinkled skin under his eyes.
"It would be nice if you showed up."
"No reason to hang around doin' nothing."
"It might be nice," Verlander says, cautiously, "for the guys to see you. Especially the young guys. So they could see that you aren't losing your shit."
Zumaya is silent for a long moment, letting that statement stretch and thin into the darkness for a time before responding to it. "Who says I'm not?"
Verlander sighs. You crazy dramatic bastard is what he wants to say, but he knows better than to turn that thought into real words. Instead he leans towards the warmth and tugs Zumaya to him, firm but as gentle as he can manage, mindful of the heavy sling and immobilizing apparatus surrounding much of Zumaya's right arm.
At first he's afraid that Zumaya isn't going to come, is going to pull back across the couch, or, worse yet, jump up and flee the room, leaving Verlander stranded here in the pitch black all alone, but Zumaya relaxes after only a brief hesitation. He allows himself to be pulled in until his head is resting high on Verlander's chest, cheek pressed to Verlander's collarbone.
"It's going to be ok," Verlander says. He can't even make himself believe it, and he doesn't hold any illusions about his ability to make Zumaya believe it, but he has to say it. It's the thing that you say.
---
It is nice to get back to the Central after interleague play. They started this road trip on the wrong side of New York, then flew down to Atlanta, but now they're back in Minnesota and things are looking up. They know this ballpark, they know these players. Verlander doesn't have to start in this series; he is fully prepared to just sit back and relax.
Bonderman has a rough start, way too many pitches way too early, but Francisco Liriano, starting for the Twins, doesn't fare much better. Nearly everyone gets at least one hit. It's a good old-fashioned slugfest, the kind the fans like best. Some pitchers can't stand to watch a game unfold this way, but it's a type of game that's always fine by Verlander so long as he's not the one giving up all the hits.
The huge number of pitches thrown in the first few innings conspire to knock Bonderman out of the game quickly. The bullpen rocks itself into motion, warmups and stretches, brisk thumpings of balls into stiffened glove pockets, exercises of readiness. Brad Thomas comes in, and Phil Coke. Then Zumaya, smoothing long navy sleeves down over his forearms despite the warm weather.
Verlander is in his usual game-watching spot, right at the corner where the dugout fence ends and the non-on-deck steps are located, next to the camera well. He likes watching Zumaya pitch. It's rare that he gets to see triple digit fastballs pounding in on the batter from a position other than the mound-- not since Farnsworth was on the team, actually, and those fastballs weren't as heavy as the Zumaya variety.
If he wants to be a well-rounded pitcher, maybe he should be a bigger fan of finesse, control, fine pitching detail and deliberate skill. But he grew up idolizing Nolan Ryan. His biggest off-field love is driving stupidly fast cars. Power is what he likes: lurid, unrestrained raw power. That's what Ryan had, what Verlander's bright red Ferrari has when he gets it on a lonely, unpatrolled road and really lets it cut loose. That's what Zumaya has. He loves it. Just loves it.
So he settles up against the rail, sitting on the top step with his back braced on the vertical padded bar. He allows himself a small, happy sigh. On the mound, Zumaya shakes his head minutely at Gerald Laird, making him run through the full array of signs once before deciding on what he wants to throw.
He gets Jim Thome to ground out without too much difficulty, which is something, because it's Jim Thome. Verlander holds his breath when Thome swings, lets it out when the ball is missed, clearly headed foul, or skipping across the grass-- anything but a huge lofting homer. Zumaya doesn't deal with home runs too well. They're not fun, Verlander knows that as well as anyone, but he can handle them, absorb the lesson without letting it eat him up from the inside out. Zumaya is not so good at that, not yet.
The next batter is Delmon Young. Zumaya runs the count full, then fires in a 99 mph fastball. Verlander watches Young reach desperately for it, spinning on his back heel as he defensively fouls it off, expending a ridiculous amount of effort just to keep the at-bat alive. He ends up twisted nearly all the way around, facing off to the side, bat a limp vestigial limb. Verlander is enjoying Young's dumbfounded reaction to the pitch, so he misses the first moment after the release when Zumaya bends over.
Laird's head snaps around towards the mound. Verlander looks at him, then follows his gaze out to Zumaya. Zumaya, who is kneeling on the grass behind the mound, folded in on himself, arms held protectively close to his body, back curling over so his forehead is nearly touching the ground. He rears up once, holding his elbow, then rips his hat off and buries his face in the crook of his left arm, nose to the ground again. Laird makes it out to the mound-- this has all taken about a second, although it seems longer to Verlander, years longer-- followed very closely by the head trainer, vaulting out of the dugout.
Leyland trots out to the mound and kneels down in front of Zumaya. The trainer is holding him between both hands now, one on Zumaya's back and one on his chest; if he wasn't applying this pressure, Zumaya would probably still be grinding his nose into the dirt. Laird has a hand on Zumaya's back, plainly wanting to help but deferring to the trainer, afraid of jostling something and making things worse. Zumaya's mouth opens and closes, although Verlander cannot tell if he is making a sound or not.
No, Verlander thinks. Just that. No.
The trainer tries to get Zumaya to rise, visibly desperate to get him off the field, he shouldn't be in this much pain where this many people can gawk at him, but Zumaya can barely stand. He keeps trying to curl up around his arm. His legs look like they aren't working properly, like the pain he's experiencing has shorted out all his other nerves, and the correct signals aren't getting through anymore. Brandon Inge is in front of him, must have come over from third, trying to help the trainer keep Zumaya upright. Laird looks at the dugout, panic clear on his face, and gestures with his glove, asking for help.
Verlander is moving before he properly realizes it. He's over the mound before the rest of the infield even makes their way in. Laird gives him a quick glance, but Zumaya lifts his head at that moment and makes a horrible noise-- a wounded animal keening through gritted teeth-- and Laird turns his attention back at once, ignoring Verlander. Vaguely he is aware of someone else huffing up behind him; later he realizes that it was the second trainer, coming in to help, but at the time he doesn't know, can't be bothered to even attempt to care.
Zumaya's face is... no. He can't. He only gets a clear view for a couple of seconds anyways, before Zumaya presses his eyes to the trainer's shoulder hard, hiding his face. Verlander can see the way he's cradling his right arm with his left. His right hand is half open, looking strangely detached with the fingers spread, un-tensed, like half-cooked pasta. His hand is shaking, a horrible palsy over which Zumaya clearly has no control.
Inge touches Verlander on the hip, once, light and fleeting-quick. Verlander gets the message. He takes a step back, lets the assistant trainer in. Inge gives him a pitying glance. Laird gives him another.
Don't look at me, look at him, he wants to say, but if he's going to yell at anyone for that he'll have to start with himself, won't he, because he can't look directly at Zumaya. He turns towards him but immediately swivels his head away, looking at the trainers, at Leyland, at the dirt, the terrible scuffed place in the grass behind the mound where Zumaya collapsed and scrabbled around in his agonized contortions...
One terribly clear part of Verlander's mind speaks up. You have some leeway because everyone knows you're friends, it says. But if you fuck this up, it's curtains for both of you.
He takes two deliberate steps away. He picks up Zumaya's glove, which had fallen halfway up the backside of the mound. It's a rosin-lightened chestnut brown with pale yellow-beige laces all the way around. Not like Verlander's glove, black on black with white contrast stitching. He always says Zumaya should have a black glove, it's so much more bad-ass, but Zumaya had used a black glove in '09 and claims it looked shitty with Tigers navy blue, so he's into the medium-to-light brown now.
Verlander thinks about this, gripping the glove. He doesn't put it on or anything, he just... he just holds it by the side, more delicately than he really has to. He turns back to Zumaya. He should say something. He should... he should get Zumaya's attention, draw his eyes, let him pour his pain onto Verlander so the two of them can hold it out in front of them together, and maybe get a grip on the fucking thing.
Inge flickers his eyes at Verlander, just once, a quick sort of up-down that Verlander again has no trouble translating. Go. He doesn't want to, but he knows that Inge is right. Even if he somehow manages to break through the curtain of pain currently shading Zumaya, gets Zumaya to collapse on his shoulder instead of the trainer's (where he should be, where Verlander wants him, what does the fucking trainer know about handling Zumaya, not a damn thing, not the things Verlander knows, he's the one who should be putting his hands on Zumaya right now, he should), it will only bring down trouble. He knows this. It really fucking sucks, but he knows it.
He turns around before he can change his mind and strides purposefully towards the dugout, as if delivering Zumaya's glove to the safety of the locker room is some sort of deeply important task.
The trainers, both of them, are bringing Zumaya in behind him, one on either side, at a much slower pace. He can tell they're coming because Zumaya is making a continuous series of sounds, alternating hisses and whimpers. It's clearly audible over the shocked background rumble of the crowd, and is easily the worst thing Verlander has ever heard.
He makes it into the clubhouse, somehow. He puts Zumaya's glove in his own locker, not even close to thinking rationally about it. It shouldn't be alone in Zumaya's locker; it should be with his black glove, that's very clear. He stands in front of his locker, mindlessly arranging and rearranging the two: one on top of the other, then with their pockets facing, then spooned up on their sides with his glove wrapped around the backside of Zumaya's. He hears the trainers bringing Zumaya down the stairs, a cross between a sob and a yelp on each step down. There are eleven steps into the clubhouse and each one appears to be causing Zumaya near-unbearable pain.
Verlander thinks about throwing up. Not going to the bathroom or anything. He'd just do it right here, straight into the bottom of his locker. That's what makes sense right now.
Eventually they get Zumaya down the stairs. Eventually the trainers bring him across the floor to the good-sized Target Field visitors training room. Verlander doesn't look around, he just stands in front of his locker, staring at the two gloves, concentrating on breathing.
Some other stuff happens. The end of the game or whatever; Verlander is not paying attention. He's still standing in front of his locker when the rest of the team comes clattering down the stairs, so subdued that Verlander can't tell if they've lost, or if they've won but are too upset about Zumaya to be properly noisy.
"Hey," someone says. A big, solid hand lands on his shoulder. Squeezes. It's Laird, standing just behind him, taking this liberty because he's a catcher and it's allowed. Verlander turns his head slightly, just enough to bring Laird's face into the edges of his field of vision. Laird is looking at the two gloves in Verlander's locker, but he doesn't say anything about them. He just sighs and tightens the hand on Verlander's shoulder.
The head trainer comes out, announcing himself with a nervous cough. Verlander turns all the way around to stare at him, knocking Laird's hand free, although Laird gets his hand up again on Verlander's other shoulder almost right away. The gloomy low chatter filling the locker room is quickly suppressed.
"Anyone seen Leyland?" the trainer asks quietly.
The short-sleeved polo that the trainer wears is dark gray. One sleeve of it, right now, is black, soaked right through. It's the shoulder where Zumaya was pressing his face on the field, so that clinging patch of heavy black must be the result of Zumaya's tears.
Verlander shudders, hard.
Laird squeezes his shoulder again. "Are you OK?"
"Think m'gonna be sick," Verlander mutters. Zumaya's thumb is sticking straight up and shaking uncontrollably on the backsides of his eyelids. It's all he can see. That so-familiar digit, with its blunt pale nail and the hard toughened skin on the pad, the fingerprint there permanently altered by baseball, the thumb he has held and licked, the thumb that has skimmed down his chest and over his goatee with graceful control and easy strength: just twitching, helpless. Worse than that, helpless with pain, helpless with fear and suffering--
"Let's get you to the bathroom," Laird says, sliding a hand down to Verlander's waist, gently moving him in that direction.
---
He came up for a quick visit in 2005, but '06 is his true rookie year, the first time he has been up in the majors long enough for it to count as a real season. It's the first time Zumaya has been up at all.
Zumaya is a year younger than Verlander, but he seems older in some ways. He's been in the minors since '02, for one thing, playing against pros and top prospects, facing wood bats, getting paid. In 2002 Verlander was a college freshman, living in a dorm, dealing with the aluminum pings that haunted his dreams after bad outings. Not that he had too many bad outings-- he'd dominated the fuck out of the CAA his freshman year. Still. Ping.
When they met up in '05, it was Zumaya who helped Verlander navigate the written and unwritten rules of minor league baseball. It was Zumaya who offered Verlander the use of the pull-out couch in his apartment until he could get into a good lease, then agreed to move in with him when the best lease Verlander could find was for a two bedroom place. Zumaya was the one who told him about tipping the clubhouse guys if you were the kind of player who'd gotten a big signing bonus (Verlander was; Zumaya wasn't), and it was Zumaya who let him know when he was established enough to make someone else pick up the stray balls in the outfield after BP.
Detroit, later that same year, was awesome. Verlander himself was slightly less than awesome on the mound, but the fact that he was there at all-- that was undeniably high on the awesomeness scale.
Detroit in '06 is even better, because now he's here with Zumaya again, and this time he gets to be the one offering advice. After the first month they're pretty much caught up to the same level of rookieness and they both resort to hanging around Kenny Rogers to pick up cues, but, Verlander thinks, it sure was nice while it lasted. And it's still nice, having Zumaya in the big leagues with him. The big leagues can be a big place; it's good to have a friend, someone you can count on for, well, whatever.
Of course the veterans notice that they spend a lot of time together. They take some flack for it. Par for the course, nothing Verlander hasn't had thrown his way before in high school or college. His only concern is that the teasing will bug Zumaya, because he's really kind of gotten used to having Zumaya around. Also, they are living together again, so if Zumaya decided to cool off towards him, it would probably be awkward.
"Goin' out ta dinner with yer boy-frand?" Todd Jones asks, nudging Zumaya way too hard in the ribs with his elbow.
Verlander frowns into his locker, but Zumaya just laughs and says, "Yeah man, why, you jealous? Sorry, we don't do threesomes." Jones turns bright red and sputters, didn't expect the rookie to turn it around on him, and Jason Grilli, at the next locker over, snickers.
So that's all right.
It doesn't become an issue until later in the year, when the rookies who are up are likely to stay up but before the September-call-up-types start making their appearances. This is when the big league teams traditionally do their rookie hazings. Verlander, of course, has already been through a couple rounds of this-- high school and college-- so he's not overly worried. They'll probably put him in heels and a skirt, which is supposed to be funny because he's already so tall and his legs are hairy. He just hopes they don't make him wear pantyhose. They tried that on him at Old Dominion, and he had a hell of a time finding a pair long enough.
There is some of that, the public stuff, the stupid costumes worn where non-team people can see them. Then there's the team-only stuff. Singing contests and competitive eating, the personal manservant roles like Zumaya having to do Pudge Rodriguez's laundry for the rest of the season. It's all fine, part and parcel of the big league experience. Verlander looks forward to the time when he can have a rookie of his own to do all his cleaning.
It's nothing new, nothing Verlander can't easily and smoothly handle, right up until Grilli gets the bright idea to teach Verlander and Zumaya a lesson about being so obviously attached at the hip.
"Three whole minutes. No cheating."
Verlander shakes his head emphatically. "OK, no. First of all... just no. And for two... that is way long. Also: no."
"Three minutes," Grilli says, implacable. Other guys have gathered around now, grinning and nudging each other in amused anticipation, so he has back-up. "Brandon has a stopwatch, he's timing this shit." Inge, the little snake, holds his wrist up to eye level and dramatically points the index finger of his other hand at some button on his stupid over-sized watch.
"Why do you even wanna see that?" Verlander asks. "I mean, what kinda sicko thinks about that? You got a gross mind, Grilli."
"Three minutes, or I flush your head. Both your heads." Grilli grins. "After Dmitri's used the can in question."
Verlander looks at Zumaya, who looks back with a queasy expression on his face. Dmitri Young smiles encouragingly at them, teeth orange with cheesy dust, a jumbo bag of Atomic Chili Limon Doritos in his hands.
"That's not fair," Verlander says, a little more faintly than he would have liked.
Grilli shrugs, still grinning. "Them's the breaks, rooks. You make out for three minutes like the tender lovers you obviously are, or it's the Meat Blaster Swirly for both o'ya."
It's not really a debate. Making out with Zumaya is not something Verlander would have chosen to do, especially in front of a cheering bunch of decrepit old ballplayers, but it's survivable. Sticking his head into whatever Young might leave behind is possibly not. He sighs heavily, not bothering to hide it: let them all see how put-upon he is. He glances up again to catch the eye of Zumaya, who shrugs, looking fatalistic, and maybe a little wryly amused.
"Ready when you are," Inge says, eying them beadily, finger still hovering over his watch.
Zumaya steps up to Verlander. He tilts his head slightly, like he's trying to figure out how this is going to work. Probably not used to kissing someone taller than him, Verlander thinks, and he almost starts laughing. His mouth definitely twitches.
Zumaya rolls his eyes, reaches up and puts one big hand on the back of Verlander's neck. "How romantic," Grilli sighs, mocking, but Verlander gets it-- Zumaya is telling him he needs to angle his head down. He does, and suddenly Zumaya's mouth is there, right there, there's a thick goatee brushing his lower lip, catching against his own bristles about the chin, and then, well...
They're making out. Definitely. Verlander opens his mouth before the watching Tigers can start calling for it, because he knows damn well they aren't going to be content with three minutes of him and Zumaya pressing tightly-closed lips together. Zumaya follows his lead a second later, making way-too-loud wet noises with his tongue, playing it up. There's a lot of hooting and cheering, some laughter. Verlander puts a hand on Zumaya's back and bends him over backwards like a ballroom dancer, keeping their lips together. The appreciative cheers increase in volume. They're winning over the veterans by being such good sports, getting theatrical about this. Making it a good show.
When Verlander straightens them back up, Zumaya drapes his whole arm around the back of Verlander's neck. Verlander holds him closer automatically. Zumaya's body puts out a lot of heat, more than the girls with whom Verlander is used to being in this position, which makes sense since Zumaya is a lot bigger than any of the girls Verlander has fucked. Zumaya's stomach is a little pudgy, soft against Verlander. He licks deeper into Zumaya's mouth, forgetting himself for a moment.
Instantly he's afraid that he's overstepped his bounds, but Zumaya makes a soft whuffing noise through his nose and brings his free hand up to cup Verlander's cheek. Someone laughs so hard they snort, and Verlander guesses it must be funny to see Zumaya's blocky pitcher's hand on Verlander's face. He angles his head a new way to get a different angle on Zumaya's lips, and Zumaya's hand stays with him, fingers flexing slightly. It's not funny anymore.
Heat curls recklessly in the pit of his stomach. He slides his tongue over Zumaya's teeth, bringing the kiss in and out and back in again. Zumaya is matching him every step of the way, leaning his hips in, and Verlander doesn't think he's joking anymore either.
"Three minutes!" Inge announces, to loud general cheering and applause. "Three minutes are up. Hey, guys, I saaaaaaid the three minutes are up."
"Har har, funny," Zumaya grumbles, smiling, pulling back from Verlander, taking his lips and hands and body away. Verlander smiles too, to show that he's still in on the joke. Someone slaps him on the back. People are laughing and offering him congratulatory handshakes, another rookie hazing incident navigated with aplomb; well done, kid.
He thinks he covers pretty well. But when he walks off after all the hubbub has died down, he can still feel his heart hammering away in his chest, running gameday-adrenaline fast. All he can think about is going back to his apartment-- their apartment, the apartment he shares with Zumaya-- at the end of the day. He doesn't know how things will progress once they get there, but something's going to happen. He knows that he was not imagining Zumaya's reciprocal reactions.
He doesn't even really know what he might want to happen. Maybe more kissing; beyond that, things get murky.
Zumaya probably doesn't know either, though, so that's just fine. Verlander feels like letting a grin split his face from ear to ear, although he doesn't, because that might look weird coming from someone who just got hazed. There's something new for him to look forward to, jumbled in with the promise of baseball his rookie season is opening up for him, and it's going to be great. He's not exactly clear on the details, but that much he knows. He can feel it.
Justin Verlander/Joel Zumaya
PG-13
4665 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
backspin
The apartment is totally, utterly black. He can't see a single gleam of light that doesn't come in from the door he's just opened; not even a nightlight or something. It ought to be a sign of emptiness, but Verlander knows better, knows damn well that it signifies just the opposite. Zumaya is definitely home.
He knows this only because he knows Zumaya as comprehensively as he does. Zumaya's mother used to say he was asking to get robbed if he left all the lights off and effectively told potential burglars he wasn't there, so Zumaya always leaves a light on when he goes out, even when they go on long west coast road trips and are away for a whole week. He only turns the lights off when he wants the darkness for itself.
Something invisible rustles slightly.
"Go 'way, Justin."
He doesn't dignify this with a response. If Zumaya really didn't want him to come around, he wouldn't have given Verlander a key all those years ago, and then a new key with every move. But he's scrupulous about getting Verlander his spares, probably bringing them over before he's even got all his underwear folded and put away, so, whatever. He had to know Verlander was coming over sooner or later.
The light switch is five long strides from the door, on the right-hand wall. Verlander knows how to find it in the dark. He pulls the front door closed behind him, plunging everything into a more complete state of blackness, making his pupils widen and strain, vainly searching for some spare sliver of illumination. Five strides and he's there, putting his hand on the wall too high at first and having to slide it down, but the switch is under his palm, then under his fingers, exactly where it should be.
He hesitates over it for a moment, then takes his hand away. Leaves it off.
Three more strides takes him to the end of the wall, and he strikes out across the open floor cautiously. The couch should be, what, three or four more? But it's fairly disconcerting, moving in a darkness so profound that he can't see his own feet, let alone the surrounding furniture. He shuffles his feet carefully instead of picking them up completely, so if there's something unexpected on the floor he'll kick it, instead of tripping over it.
Zumaya makes no comment on Verlander's progress across the room, although he has to be able to hear him, and Verlander reaches the couch without incident. He feels his way along the arm, around to the front, and prods the cushion carefully to be certain he isn't going to crush Zumaya. Finding the space clear, he sits. Immediately he notices warmth coming from the place where Zumaya is sitting next to him.
He clears his throat deliberately, making sure Zumaya knows he's about to speak. He has to be careful here. Everything has to be so goddamn careful.
"So. You haven't been to the park in a few days."
"Wow, really." Zumaya's voice is flat, affectless, especially in the dark where Verlander can't see his face, can't get any clues from the angle of the corner of his mouth, the precise amount of crinkled skin under his eyes.
"It would be nice if you showed up."
"No reason to hang around doin' nothing."
"It might be nice," Verlander says, cautiously, "for the guys to see you. Especially the young guys. So they could see that you aren't losing your shit."
Zumaya is silent for a long moment, letting that statement stretch and thin into the darkness for a time before responding to it. "Who says I'm not?"
Verlander sighs. You crazy dramatic bastard is what he wants to say, but he knows better than to turn that thought into real words. Instead he leans towards the warmth and tugs Zumaya to him, firm but as gentle as he can manage, mindful of the heavy sling and immobilizing apparatus surrounding much of Zumaya's right arm.
At first he's afraid that Zumaya isn't going to come, is going to pull back across the couch, or, worse yet, jump up and flee the room, leaving Verlander stranded here in the pitch black all alone, but Zumaya relaxes after only a brief hesitation. He allows himself to be pulled in until his head is resting high on Verlander's chest, cheek pressed to Verlander's collarbone.
"It's going to be ok," Verlander says. He can't even make himself believe it, and he doesn't hold any illusions about his ability to make Zumaya believe it, but he has to say it. It's the thing that you say.
---
It is nice to get back to the Central after interleague play. They started this road trip on the wrong side of New York, then flew down to Atlanta, but now they're back in Minnesota and things are looking up. They know this ballpark, they know these players. Verlander doesn't have to start in this series; he is fully prepared to just sit back and relax.
Bonderman has a rough start, way too many pitches way too early, but Francisco Liriano, starting for the Twins, doesn't fare much better. Nearly everyone gets at least one hit. It's a good old-fashioned slugfest, the kind the fans like best. Some pitchers can't stand to watch a game unfold this way, but it's a type of game that's always fine by Verlander so long as he's not the one giving up all the hits.
The huge number of pitches thrown in the first few innings conspire to knock Bonderman out of the game quickly. The bullpen rocks itself into motion, warmups and stretches, brisk thumpings of balls into stiffened glove pockets, exercises of readiness. Brad Thomas comes in, and Phil Coke. Then Zumaya, smoothing long navy sleeves down over his forearms despite the warm weather.
Verlander is in his usual game-watching spot, right at the corner where the dugout fence ends and the non-on-deck steps are located, next to the camera well. He likes watching Zumaya pitch. It's rare that he gets to see triple digit fastballs pounding in on the batter from a position other than the mound-- not since Farnsworth was on the team, actually, and those fastballs weren't as heavy as the Zumaya variety.
If he wants to be a well-rounded pitcher, maybe he should be a bigger fan of finesse, control, fine pitching detail and deliberate skill. But he grew up idolizing Nolan Ryan. His biggest off-field love is driving stupidly fast cars. Power is what he likes: lurid, unrestrained raw power. That's what Ryan had, what Verlander's bright red Ferrari has when he gets it on a lonely, unpatrolled road and really lets it cut loose. That's what Zumaya has. He loves it. Just loves it.
So he settles up against the rail, sitting on the top step with his back braced on the vertical padded bar. He allows himself a small, happy sigh. On the mound, Zumaya shakes his head minutely at Gerald Laird, making him run through the full array of signs once before deciding on what he wants to throw.
He gets Jim Thome to ground out without too much difficulty, which is something, because it's Jim Thome. Verlander holds his breath when Thome swings, lets it out when the ball is missed, clearly headed foul, or skipping across the grass-- anything but a huge lofting homer. Zumaya doesn't deal with home runs too well. They're not fun, Verlander knows that as well as anyone, but he can handle them, absorb the lesson without letting it eat him up from the inside out. Zumaya is not so good at that, not yet.
The next batter is Delmon Young. Zumaya runs the count full, then fires in a 99 mph fastball. Verlander watches Young reach desperately for it, spinning on his back heel as he defensively fouls it off, expending a ridiculous amount of effort just to keep the at-bat alive. He ends up twisted nearly all the way around, facing off to the side, bat a limp vestigial limb. Verlander is enjoying Young's dumbfounded reaction to the pitch, so he misses the first moment after the release when Zumaya bends over.
Laird's head snaps around towards the mound. Verlander looks at him, then follows his gaze out to Zumaya. Zumaya, who is kneeling on the grass behind the mound, folded in on himself, arms held protectively close to his body, back curling over so his forehead is nearly touching the ground. He rears up once, holding his elbow, then rips his hat off and buries his face in the crook of his left arm, nose to the ground again. Laird makes it out to the mound-- this has all taken about a second, although it seems longer to Verlander, years longer-- followed very closely by the head trainer, vaulting out of the dugout.
Leyland trots out to the mound and kneels down in front of Zumaya. The trainer is holding him between both hands now, one on Zumaya's back and one on his chest; if he wasn't applying this pressure, Zumaya would probably still be grinding his nose into the dirt. Laird has a hand on Zumaya's back, plainly wanting to help but deferring to the trainer, afraid of jostling something and making things worse. Zumaya's mouth opens and closes, although Verlander cannot tell if he is making a sound or not.
No, Verlander thinks. Just that. No.
The trainer tries to get Zumaya to rise, visibly desperate to get him off the field, he shouldn't be in this much pain where this many people can gawk at him, but Zumaya can barely stand. He keeps trying to curl up around his arm. His legs look like they aren't working properly, like the pain he's experiencing has shorted out all his other nerves, and the correct signals aren't getting through anymore. Brandon Inge is in front of him, must have come over from third, trying to help the trainer keep Zumaya upright. Laird looks at the dugout, panic clear on his face, and gestures with his glove, asking for help.
Verlander is moving before he properly realizes it. He's over the mound before the rest of the infield even makes their way in. Laird gives him a quick glance, but Zumaya lifts his head at that moment and makes a horrible noise-- a wounded animal keening through gritted teeth-- and Laird turns his attention back at once, ignoring Verlander. Vaguely he is aware of someone else huffing up behind him; later he realizes that it was the second trainer, coming in to help, but at the time he doesn't know, can't be bothered to even attempt to care.
Zumaya's face is... no. He can't. He only gets a clear view for a couple of seconds anyways, before Zumaya presses his eyes to the trainer's shoulder hard, hiding his face. Verlander can see the way he's cradling his right arm with his left. His right hand is half open, looking strangely detached with the fingers spread, un-tensed, like half-cooked pasta. His hand is shaking, a horrible palsy over which Zumaya clearly has no control.
Inge touches Verlander on the hip, once, light and fleeting-quick. Verlander gets the message. He takes a step back, lets the assistant trainer in. Inge gives him a pitying glance. Laird gives him another.
Don't look at me, look at him, he wants to say, but if he's going to yell at anyone for that he'll have to start with himself, won't he, because he can't look directly at Zumaya. He turns towards him but immediately swivels his head away, looking at the trainers, at Leyland, at the dirt, the terrible scuffed place in the grass behind the mound where Zumaya collapsed and scrabbled around in his agonized contortions...
One terribly clear part of Verlander's mind speaks up. You have some leeway because everyone knows you're friends, it says. But if you fuck this up, it's curtains for both of you.
He takes two deliberate steps away. He picks up Zumaya's glove, which had fallen halfway up the backside of the mound. It's a rosin-lightened chestnut brown with pale yellow-beige laces all the way around. Not like Verlander's glove, black on black with white contrast stitching. He always says Zumaya should have a black glove, it's so much more bad-ass, but Zumaya had used a black glove in '09 and claims it looked shitty with Tigers navy blue, so he's into the medium-to-light brown now.
Verlander thinks about this, gripping the glove. He doesn't put it on or anything, he just... he just holds it by the side, more delicately than he really has to. He turns back to Zumaya. He should say something. He should... he should get Zumaya's attention, draw his eyes, let him pour his pain onto Verlander so the two of them can hold it out in front of them together, and maybe get a grip on the fucking thing.
Inge flickers his eyes at Verlander, just once, a quick sort of up-down that Verlander again has no trouble translating. Go. He doesn't want to, but he knows that Inge is right. Even if he somehow manages to break through the curtain of pain currently shading Zumaya, gets Zumaya to collapse on his shoulder instead of the trainer's (where he should be, where Verlander wants him, what does the fucking trainer know about handling Zumaya, not a damn thing, not the things Verlander knows, he's the one who should be putting his hands on Zumaya right now, he should), it will only bring down trouble. He knows this. It really fucking sucks, but he knows it.
He turns around before he can change his mind and strides purposefully towards the dugout, as if delivering Zumaya's glove to the safety of the locker room is some sort of deeply important task.
The trainers, both of them, are bringing Zumaya in behind him, one on either side, at a much slower pace. He can tell they're coming because Zumaya is making a continuous series of sounds, alternating hisses and whimpers. It's clearly audible over the shocked background rumble of the crowd, and is easily the worst thing Verlander has ever heard.
He makes it into the clubhouse, somehow. He puts Zumaya's glove in his own locker, not even close to thinking rationally about it. It shouldn't be alone in Zumaya's locker; it should be with his black glove, that's very clear. He stands in front of his locker, mindlessly arranging and rearranging the two: one on top of the other, then with their pockets facing, then spooned up on their sides with his glove wrapped around the backside of Zumaya's. He hears the trainers bringing Zumaya down the stairs, a cross between a sob and a yelp on each step down. There are eleven steps into the clubhouse and each one appears to be causing Zumaya near-unbearable pain.
Verlander thinks about throwing up. Not going to the bathroom or anything. He'd just do it right here, straight into the bottom of his locker. That's what makes sense right now.
Eventually they get Zumaya down the stairs. Eventually the trainers bring him across the floor to the good-sized Target Field visitors training room. Verlander doesn't look around, he just stands in front of his locker, staring at the two gloves, concentrating on breathing.
Some other stuff happens. The end of the game or whatever; Verlander is not paying attention. He's still standing in front of his locker when the rest of the team comes clattering down the stairs, so subdued that Verlander can't tell if they've lost, or if they've won but are too upset about Zumaya to be properly noisy.
"Hey," someone says. A big, solid hand lands on his shoulder. Squeezes. It's Laird, standing just behind him, taking this liberty because he's a catcher and it's allowed. Verlander turns his head slightly, just enough to bring Laird's face into the edges of his field of vision. Laird is looking at the two gloves in Verlander's locker, but he doesn't say anything about them. He just sighs and tightens the hand on Verlander's shoulder.
The head trainer comes out, announcing himself with a nervous cough. Verlander turns all the way around to stare at him, knocking Laird's hand free, although Laird gets his hand up again on Verlander's other shoulder almost right away. The gloomy low chatter filling the locker room is quickly suppressed.
"Anyone seen Leyland?" the trainer asks quietly.
The short-sleeved polo that the trainer wears is dark gray. One sleeve of it, right now, is black, soaked right through. It's the shoulder where Zumaya was pressing his face on the field, so that clinging patch of heavy black must be the result of Zumaya's tears.
Verlander shudders, hard.
Laird squeezes his shoulder again. "Are you OK?"
"Think m'gonna be sick," Verlander mutters. Zumaya's thumb is sticking straight up and shaking uncontrollably on the backsides of his eyelids. It's all he can see. That so-familiar digit, with its blunt pale nail and the hard toughened skin on the pad, the fingerprint there permanently altered by baseball, the thumb he has held and licked, the thumb that has skimmed down his chest and over his goatee with graceful control and easy strength: just twitching, helpless. Worse than that, helpless with pain, helpless with fear and suffering--
"Let's get you to the bathroom," Laird says, sliding a hand down to Verlander's waist, gently moving him in that direction.
---
He came up for a quick visit in 2005, but '06 is his true rookie year, the first time he has been up in the majors long enough for it to count as a real season. It's the first time Zumaya has been up at all.
Zumaya is a year younger than Verlander, but he seems older in some ways. He's been in the minors since '02, for one thing, playing against pros and top prospects, facing wood bats, getting paid. In 2002 Verlander was a college freshman, living in a dorm, dealing with the aluminum pings that haunted his dreams after bad outings. Not that he had too many bad outings-- he'd dominated the fuck out of the CAA his freshman year. Still. Ping.
When they met up in '05, it was Zumaya who helped Verlander navigate the written and unwritten rules of minor league baseball. It was Zumaya who offered Verlander the use of the pull-out couch in his apartment until he could get into a good lease, then agreed to move in with him when the best lease Verlander could find was for a two bedroom place. Zumaya was the one who told him about tipping the clubhouse guys if you were the kind of player who'd gotten a big signing bonus (Verlander was; Zumaya wasn't), and it was Zumaya who let him know when he was established enough to make someone else pick up the stray balls in the outfield after BP.
Detroit, later that same year, was awesome. Verlander himself was slightly less than awesome on the mound, but the fact that he was there at all-- that was undeniably high on the awesomeness scale.
Detroit in '06 is even better, because now he's here with Zumaya again, and this time he gets to be the one offering advice. After the first month they're pretty much caught up to the same level of rookieness and they both resort to hanging around Kenny Rogers to pick up cues, but, Verlander thinks, it sure was nice while it lasted. And it's still nice, having Zumaya in the big leagues with him. The big leagues can be a big place; it's good to have a friend, someone you can count on for, well, whatever.
Of course the veterans notice that they spend a lot of time together. They take some flack for it. Par for the course, nothing Verlander hasn't had thrown his way before in high school or college. His only concern is that the teasing will bug Zumaya, because he's really kind of gotten used to having Zumaya around. Also, they are living together again, so if Zumaya decided to cool off towards him, it would probably be awkward.
"Goin' out ta dinner with yer boy-frand?" Todd Jones asks, nudging Zumaya way too hard in the ribs with his elbow.
Verlander frowns into his locker, but Zumaya just laughs and says, "Yeah man, why, you jealous? Sorry, we don't do threesomes." Jones turns bright red and sputters, didn't expect the rookie to turn it around on him, and Jason Grilli, at the next locker over, snickers.
So that's all right.
It doesn't become an issue until later in the year, when the rookies who are up are likely to stay up but before the September-call-up-types start making their appearances. This is when the big league teams traditionally do their rookie hazings. Verlander, of course, has already been through a couple rounds of this-- high school and college-- so he's not overly worried. They'll probably put him in heels and a skirt, which is supposed to be funny because he's already so tall and his legs are hairy. He just hopes they don't make him wear pantyhose. They tried that on him at Old Dominion, and he had a hell of a time finding a pair long enough.
There is some of that, the public stuff, the stupid costumes worn where non-team people can see them. Then there's the team-only stuff. Singing contests and competitive eating, the personal manservant roles like Zumaya having to do Pudge Rodriguez's laundry for the rest of the season. It's all fine, part and parcel of the big league experience. Verlander looks forward to the time when he can have a rookie of his own to do all his cleaning.
It's nothing new, nothing Verlander can't easily and smoothly handle, right up until Grilli gets the bright idea to teach Verlander and Zumaya a lesson about being so obviously attached at the hip.
"Three whole minutes. No cheating."
Verlander shakes his head emphatically. "OK, no. First of all... just no. And for two... that is way long. Also: no."
"Three minutes," Grilli says, implacable. Other guys have gathered around now, grinning and nudging each other in amused anticipation, so he has back-up. "Brandon has a stopwatch, he's timing this shit." Inge, the little snake, holds his wrist up to eye level and dramatically points the index finger of his other hand at some button on his stupid over-sized watch.
"Why do you even wanna see that?" Verlander asks. "I mean, what kinda sicko thinks about that? You got a gross mind, Grilli."
"Three minutes, or I flush your head. Both your heads." Grilli grins. "After Dmitri's used the can in question."
Verlander looks at Zumaya, who looks back with a queasy expression on his face. Dmitri Young smiles encouragingly at them, teeth orange with cheesy dust, a jumbo bag of Atomic Chili Limon Doritos in his hands.
"That's not fair," Verlander says, a little more faintly than he would have liked.
Grilli shrugs, still grinning. "Them's the breaks, rooks. You make out for three minutes like the tender lovers you obviously are, or it's the Meat Blaster Swirly for both o'ya."
It's not really a debate. Making out with Zumaya is not something Verlander would have chosen to do, especially in front of a cheering bunch of decrepit old ballplayers, but it's survivable. Sticking his head into whatever Young might leave behind is possibly not. He sighs heavily, not bothering to hide it: let them all see how put-upon he is. He glances up again to catch the eye of Zumaya, who shrugs, looking fatalistic, and maybe a little wryly amused.
"Ready when you are," Inge says, eying them beadily, finger still hovering over his watch.
Zumaya steps up to Verlander. He tilts his head slightly, like he's trying to figure out how this is going to work. Probably not used to kissing someone taller than him, Verlander thinks, and he almost starts laughing. His mouth definitely twitches.
Zumaya rolls his eyes, reaches up and puts one big hand on the back of Verlander's neck. "How romantic," Grilli sighs, mocking, but Verlander gets it-- Zumaya is telling him he needs to angle his head down. He does, and suddenly Zumaya's mouth is there, right there, there's a thick goatee brushing his lower lip, catching against his own bristles about the chin, and then, well...
They're making out. Definitely. Verlander opens his mouth before the watching Tigers can start calling for it, because he knows damn well they aren't going to be content with three minutes of him and Zumaya pressing tightly-closed lips together. Zumaya follows his lead a second later, making way-too-loud wet noises with his tongue, playing it up. There's a lot of hooting and cheering, some laughter. Verlander puts a hand on Zumaya's back and bends him over backwards like a ballroom dancer, keeping their lips together. The appreciative cheers increase in volume. They're winning over the veterans by being such good sports, getting theatrical about this. Making it a good show.
When Verlander straightens them back up, Zumaya drapes his whole arm around the back of Verlander's neck. Verlander holds him closer automatically. Zumaya's body puts out a lot of heat, more than the girls with whom Verlander is used to being in this position, which makes sense since Zumaya is a lot bigger than any of the girls Verlander has fucked. Zumaya's stomach is a little pudgy, soft against Verlander. He licks deeper into Zumaya's mouth, forgetting himself for a moment.
Instantly he's afraid that he's overstepped his bounds, but Zumaya makes a soft whuffing noise through his nose and brings his free hand up to cup Verlander's cheek. Someone laughs so hard they snort, and Verlander guesses it must be funny to see Zumaya's blocky pitcher's hand on Verlander's face. He angles his head a new way to get a different angle on Zumaya's lips, and Zumaya's hand stays with him, fingers flexing slightly. It's not funny anymore.
Heat curls recklessly in the pit of his stomach. He slides his tongue over Zumaya's teeth, bringing the kiss in and out and back in again. Zumaya is matching him every step of the way, leaning his hips in, and Verlander doesn't think he's joking anymore either.
"Three minutes!" Inge announces, to loud general cheering and applause. "Three minutes are up. Hey, guys, I saaaaaaid the three minutes are up."
"Har har, funny," Zumaya grumbles, smiling, pulling back from Verlander, taking his lips and hands and body away. Verlander smiles too, to show that he's still in on the joke. Someone slaps him on the back. People are laughing and offering him congratulatory handshakes, another rookie hazing incident navigated with aplomb; well done, kid.
He thinks he covers pretty well. But when he walks off after all the hubbub has died down, he can still feel his heart hammering away in his chest, running gameday-adrenaline fast. All he can think about is going back to his apartment-- their apartment, the apartment he shares with Zumaya-- at the end of the day. He doesn't know how things will progress once they get there, but something's going to happen. He knows that he was not imagining Zumaya's reciprocal reactions.
He doesn't even really know what he might want to happen. Maybe more kissing; beyond that, things get murky.
Zumaya probably doesn't know either, though, so that's just fine. Verlander feels like letting a grin split his face from ear to ear, although he doesn't, because that might look weird coming from someone who just got hazed. There's something new for him to look forward to, jumbled in with the promise of baseball his rookie season is opening up for him, and it's going to be great. He's not exactly clear on the details, but that much he knows. He can feel it.