infieldclovers

The pleasant thing about Vegas at nighttime, he has discovered through many meandering offseasons, is the anonymity that it provides. There are big cities, like New York and LA; there are “mind your own fuckin’ business, kid” cities like Boston; there are football cities, like Dallas. Nine times out of ten, you can lose yourself the the quiet shelter that the blurriness in the time between 11 and 4 AM provides, in a club or a bar or a late night diner unless you’re Derek Jeter or Tom Brady (and they have to be paying those entourages, right? Is it 1998?) But there’s always the off chance that some die hard fan will come up to you and ask you to start signing things or rehashing stories of when they used to go to the ballpark with their grandfather, and any chance you had of getting quietly drunk disperses into the air like misted breath in January.

Not in Vegas. The nightlife in Vegas is transitory and meaningless, populated by bachelor and bachelorette parties, men having midlife crises, wealthy college kids on vacation, yuppies from LA looking to let down their hair, couples eloping, people having affairs, compulsive gamblers, and any combination of the above. And they are all ragingly drunk. He supposes that he might be more at risk of drawing attention from the staff of the strip, and takes care to avoid any sports-betting specialists, but he’s also acutely aware of the fact that by virtue of their living in Vegas, they probably don’t care much. The city is like the immunization to scandal.

He wanders through several casinos, pausing to lose a few dollars on slot machines and partake of the complimentary frozen margaritas (he always was a sucker for a girly drink.) The problem, however, is that Max is not found at the slot machines, card tables, or the bottom of the margarita bucket. He’s not at the Bellagio, or the Luxor, or the Mirage. He’s not at the bar made entirely of ice, and he briefly contemplates whether he might be at one of the glittery topless shows, quashing the jealousy that flares in his stomach. (He’s not there either.)

Rick is actually almost out of ideas when the sight of the Vegas Paris casino prompts a memory to the surface: him and Max, lying on the grass at spring training, listing all the places they’d travel to once they retired and had free time during the warm months of the year. He tries very hard all the way there to make it look like he’s not running in anticipation.

“Wait!” he calls out when he sees Max has spotted him and is starting to move out of the yellow spotlight of sorts. “Please don’t.”

By some witchcraft, Max listens. “Porcello, not now,” he groans. All of Price’s words come back to him, about being honest with Max, and promptly disperse into the Vegas winds.

“I wanna go through with it. The wedding, I mean.” Because losing Max like that, even just for those few minutes—fuck it. He’d rather have him halfway than not at all. “Please come back to the hotel,” he begs.

But Max just smiles and slips his arm around Rick’s waist. “I knew you’d stay,” he murmurs. “Come on. We have reservations.”

The food is delicious, the champagne ludicrously expensive, the tiny chocolate Effiel Towers that he and Max are presented with at the end of the meal ridiculously charming. Max is more engaged—the irony does not escape him—than he’s seen him in years. He talks venues, ring sizes, groomsmen, flowers. When they get on to the topic of grooms’ parties, Rick lets slip that he’d been talking to Price earlier.

“Davey said Holt lost loads to Benintendi on a bet over us,” he mumbles, and that makes Max smile.

“Then he should have learnt not to bet against you then, hmmm?” he asks, running his thumb over the back of Rick’s hand, his eyes so gentle Rick can almost believe that the feeling of his heart thumping against his ribcage is a two-way street.

“Guess not,” he replies with a shrug, and Max waves over the waitstaff for the bill.

Red Sox Offseason Press Conference Special, exclusively on NESN

Henry: Welcome, everyone. We’re so glad that you could be a part of this with us. And hello to all of Red Sox Nation, and thank you for joining us on this special occasion. We’d like to start with a few statements, and then we can get to questions. Our manager, Alex Cora, would like to start with a few words.

Cora: Thank you, John. I’d just like to make it clear that this in no way affects my opinion of Rick Porcello, as a player or a person. He’s an exceptional pitcher and he has the full support of me and all his teammates behind him. We support him in whatever he does.

Dombrowski: I want to reiterate that; the front office stands united in support of Porcello, and we want to make it very clear that we will not tolerate discrimination from within our own team or from others in the league. We’ll take questions now.

Reporter 1: Do you have any concerns about Porcello throwing games when facing Scherzer or the Nationals?

Cora: Not at all. Porcello is an upstanding player who always gives 110%. If we’re facing Washington in interleague play, we’ll discuss matchups and a more detailed plan then.

Reporter 2: Are there any concrete plans about a wedding in the future?

Henry: I’m sure that more will be forthcoming from the players on their own time, but if not, it’s their right to personal privacy. You’ll have to ask them that.

Reporter 3: Do you anticipate backlash from fans of the league over having active, openly gay players on your roster?

Dombrowski: I hope not. Massachusetts has a long history of LGBT rights, as the first state to legalize gay marriage, and I hope that our fans will uphold this tradition and show their support for Porcello the same way that they would any engaged heterosexual player.

Reporter 3: And the rest of the country?

Dombrowski: That’s up to their front offices and their fans to decide. However, I’ve made it abundantly clear that the league will not tolerate discrimination, harassment, or threats to our players. We will have an increased security detail when traveling, given the sad prevalence of hate crime in our society.

Reporter 1: Can you confirm or deny rumors that the Red Sox are considering opening roster eligibility to transgender individuals as a way around the PED ban?

Henry: No comment.

Reporter 4: With the Map, here; can you offer any thoughts on the upcoming ESBN op-ed featuring Billy Bean?

Dombrowski: I’m sure it’ll be an excellent article about an excellent player. Hoping that he can reemphasize that having a more open league is a positive for everyone.

Cora: Just adding on to that, we’re looking to partner with the NHL initiative “If You Can Play, You Can Play” and Pride Tape to foster a more inclusive environment for young LGBT players. Rick has expressed enthusiasm for working in a mentorship role and getting involved with college and high school teams over this offseason. We’ll keep you posted.

“God, did they have to make it so long?” Rick grumbles, fidgeting with his tie and trying to ignore the cacophony of reporters still pestering Dombrowski, Henry, and Cora with questions.

“Mmm, title of your sex tape,” Max sighs.

“Have you been watching without me? Because I told you not to watch without me.”
“Oh, relax, that joke’s been going on since the first season. And sorry, your Game of Thrones spoilers were fine but Brooklyn 99 is off limits?”

“It’s important to me,” Rick whines, and Max throws his hands up in mock defeat.

“Okay, okay! I promise I did not watch your favourite dumb sitcom without you, you brat.”

And fuck, there it is again, Rick thinks, the softness that quirks around Max’s eyes and mouth that could make him almost believe that Max wants this to be real too. He leans into Max’s side, like a three day old balloon that’s starting to deflate and breathes in the sandalwood aftershave that his fiancé (and how odd it is to think of him like that) has been wearing since the minor leagues when it must have cost damn near half his paycheck. It’s pennies in a fountain to him now, but it always makes him smile that Max was willing to spend that much to smell nice.

The shoulder he’s leaning on rumbles slightly and for a moment Rick is nervous that in his fatigued state he said the last bit out loud. But it’s just Max nudging his ribs.

“You ready?” he asks, all gentle, and for some reason Rick has no problem believing that if he said ‘no’ right now Max would gather him up in his arms and spirit him away to an island in the Caribbean where they would never have to talk to another reporter a day in their lives. But he agreed to this, he reminds himself. A few weeks every year and he has to put on a monkey suit and dance, and he gets to keep Max. Max holding his hand, Max pressed to his side, Max in the bed next to him when he wakes up whining for coffee.

“Time to face the music,” is all the answer he can give, fixing a smile to his face. On impulse he leans in and presses a kiss to Max’s cheek, and a half smile comes to settle at the mirror corners of his mouth as they walk, hand in hand, towards the stage with its familiar brick wall and logo backdrop.