Page 121 of Checking Out the Librarian

“Wait, I did?” Nothing made sense, except that he should not talk on the phone, since he could not replay this conversation like he could re-read messages.

“You did.”

25

BAD HATS & FOLDING CHAIRS

Connor bounced on the balls of his feet, rocked back to his heels, and then forward again.

Ribby snoozed at his usual spot tied in the shade under the bleachers. Any minute now, Jonathan should be at the softball field. Despite the demands of the new kitten, he’d insisted he would come to the game and keep the book, which had become a routine after four previous occasions.

Connor had already extracted a promise from Trixie that he could have the book at the end of the season, because Jonathan’s doodles were too funny to throw away. He might even become a tiny bit competent now that he actually knew what an RBI was.

If Connor’s phone weren’t in his gear bag, he’d pull it out to re-read that exchange, which had become one of his favorites. From Real Blond Idiot they’d barreled quickly to I miss you, which made him pretty certain that he’d landed himself a boyfriend.

It wasn’t the dick-touching parts that gave him that feeling, it was the missing-each-other texts that he’d never had before. And he was pretty hungry for them.

There he was, strolling in from the parking lot, even more loaded down than usual.

He had his folding camp chair slung over one shoulder, he’d added a backpack in addition to the cross-body bag he held close to his chest, and he carried an iced coffee. Despite the gear, or maybe because of it, he looked adorable.

Today he wore pale blue jeans rolled above his ankles, his white teddy bear sneakers, his usual patchwork bucket hat, and the team T-shirt knotted at his waist. Its logo, a beer mug overflowing with rainbow-colored foam, undoubtedly made Jonathan avoid mirrors like a vampire, but Connor liked it on him. A lot. He hadn’t had a spectator in a bad hat and folding chair in so long, not since his mother came to games while his father ran the ranch.

Watching Jonathan meander toward the bleachers greeting people catapulted him a decade into the past, and he could see his mother trotting in from the parking lot of one or another of his tournaments from her coffee run, cutting it part-your-hair close to the start of his game.

He remembered how the folding chair system slung across her back would bobble with each step she took. If his team was in the field first, she’d pick up the pace so she didn’t miss a play, but if they were the away team, she’d slow down since Connor usually batted fourth.

He’d teased her about always almost missing the start, even once asked her if she’d been on time to see the double-play he’d made off the lead-off batter, and waited for her brain to catch up with her guilt.

He hadn’t planned to shut his mom out of his life here in Eugene. He shared funny stories about teaching, he sent photos of Ribby, they exchanged recipes, and of course they kept up-to-date on Hank and the college friends she’d met.

But he’d never mentioned Jonathan or this team, and those were both pretty important.

He needed to give her the chance. He’d tell her, and his father, when he was at the ranch in two weeks. Jonathan was worth it.

Honestly, being truthful about his own life was worth it, and he didn’t know why it took wanting to have his parents meet Jonathan to give him the push. Having them come cheer at a game again sometime, when the pandemic had robbed them of his senior season, that by itself would be worth it. He needed them to really know him, all of him.

The voice in his head that might sound an awful lot like Jonathan said, “Breathe.”

As Jonathan arrived at the dugout, Connor saw a head emerge from the opening of the bag. “You brought the Duke of Pawsley!”

Having three spectators, because he counted Ribby who was tied up sleeping in the shade cast by the bleachers, and now Jonathan and the kitten, might put him in the lead for most fans in the stands.

“I brought the kitten, yes.”

“Pawsley.”

“Kitten, unnamed.”

“Oh, he’s named. He’s named Duke of Pawsley because he’s dope. D-O-P.”

By this point, the entire team had clustered at the fencing and was oohing over the tiny black and white head, which promptly disappeared.

“Shhh, they’re all very nice. You don’t need to be scared.” Jonathan murmured to the space where the kitten had retreated into his bag. “I promise they’re good.”

“No, we’re not! Most of us suck!” Danny yelled from where he was doing hamstring stretches, like voice volume alone could make him bat Connor’s average. “But we love you, Jonathan!”

Connor flipped off Danny and trotted out of the dugout and through the gate. “Is Pawsley going to be okay here?”