201
Pairing: Greg Maddux/Tom Glavine, Marcus Giles/unknown (mentioned)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Uh, yeah, this is fake.
Summary: A Maddux POV. Maddux is taken out for a drink after he reaches the
200 hit mark.
Author's Notes: The thing with Giles: I kind of set him up earlier, but now
I'm ignoring all that because I have a new idea. So while the M/G stuff is
kind of serial, Giles is kind of in a different universe in this story.
Sorry 'bout that.
"Tonight, my friend, we are buying you a drink," John Smoltz announces from my
left, tossing an arm across my shoulders and grinning.
"More than one, even," John Burkett adds, from my right.
The two of them have materialized from nowhere, and I look around to see if
they've materialized Tommy with them, but apparently not. Burk catches my
look, and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah he's coming. Don't think he'd miss
the 200th party, do you?"
"Guess not," I murmur, letting them steer me towards Smoltzy's car. The bar
isn't far from the stadium, and I know the place fairly well. We take our
usual table in the back corner, and my companions order what seem to be as
many drinks as imaginable. Just as they start to arrive, Tommy walks in,
with Marc, Chipper, and Jace. Tommy plops down next to me, puts what is
unmistakably a cake box on the table, and grins at me.
Tommy is not an extremely demonstrative person. Being able to have that much
control on the mound requires at least some practice off it. So he rarely
smiles, rarely as wide as that one. And I, of course, am quite aware of
what that grin means. I am guiltily glad my children are in school in Las
Vegas, which sounds horrible, but is really quite reasonable considering I
can no more resist Tom Glavine than a televangelist can money.
I open the box. It's a large cake, chocolate, decorated with various pieces of
baseball equipment, with the number 200 written in frosting from one side
to the other. Actually, it wasn't 200 because the last 0 had been hastily
smudged out, and a shaky 1 was taking its place. It obviously had been
ordered in advance, which meant it had to be Tommy because he was the only
one who knew that this record, unlike many of my others, actually means
something to me. It proves that I am not just a pitcher, but a player, who
contributes in other ways. Tommy understands that. But still, they had to
believe I could break the record tonight to order it, and the show of
confidence is certainly nice.
So I grin broadly at all of them, and squeeze Tommy's hand under the table,
since we are unable to do more, and cut the cake into enough large pieces
for everyone and dole them out. The rest of the night is spent in our
usual fashion. The rest of them go on and on about their wives and
girlfriends, although when Tommy or I join in we get rolled eyes and
Looks. I can't imagine why. And then Jace brings up the fact that Marc's
player bio lists him as single and begins trying to find people to hook
him up with.
"It may say single, Marquis, but I am most decidedly not."
To my right, Tommy quirks an eyebrow. "Is that so? Well, perhaps you could
enlighten us on how you're not single."
"I'm - well...just not. It's been like 2 years, actually."
"And how come none of us has ever seen this person," chimes in Chipper.
"Long distance."
"You've been in a long distance relationship for two years?" I ask, unable to
keep a little incredulity from my voice.
"It's not long distance during the off season."
"Ok...so how did you meet this guy?"
Marcus raises both eyebrows at me. "Guy, Greg?"
I grin at him. "Yeah. Guy. Oh come on," I add, at his expression of
disbelief, "what do you think I am, straight?"
A sigh, then, "Played on the same all-city team in high school. We kinda
hooked up then, but went separate ways. I ran into him again when I was in
Myrtle Beach, and, well..." Then he lost the distant look and glared at
all of us. "And if any one of you says a word to anybody, I will make you
sweat on every ground ball to second."
Which is, I suppose, a major threat seeing as all of us but Chipper - and like
he'd go tell - are pitchers, but unfortunately for Marc we all know good
and well that he would no more make an error than strike out looking or
allow a brushback pitch. So we all laugh, instead, and after a moment he
joins in.
About 2, Tommy's hand brushes my leg, and I look at him. "Can we go yet?" he
murmurs.
"Thought you'd never ask. Yeah, let's get out of here."
Tommy half-grins at me, then stands. "Well, I guess I better get home. Anyone
need a ride?"
"Actually, that'd be great," I say, like I'm surprised I have the option.
Everyone else seems content to make Smoltzy take them back to their cars, and
the knowing looks follow us out the door.
In the car, before shifting into reverse, Tommy turns and looks at me. "That
record...it meant a lot to me, too." And he leans over and kisses me,
quickly, because he knows there's no one around, and then returns to
driving.
I lean back against my seat and close my eyes, thinking sitting here with my
201 career hits and my lover's hand grasping my own, I couldn't be
happier.