if my prayer be not humble, make it so
read this first
At the ballpark, Posey is all business.
Madison takes the hill against the Rancho Cucamonga Quakes, whose cap insignia is a stylized Q with tremor lines around it, and can't do shit with his slider except throw it in the dirt.
He wants to get it, he knows he can, feeling it scratching and clawing under the skin of his fingertips, and Bumgarner shakes off Posey three times until he calls for the slider again. Bumgarner digs into the stitches of the ball, thinking, this one, this one.
He hangs it up, fat and beautiful right down the pipe. The batter hits the ball over the fence on one hop, the right fielder holding up his arms immediately. Bumgarner curses viciously, stalks around the back of the mound to pick up the rosin and chuck it down hard. When he turns back, Posey has come out for a little chat.
Bumgarner attempts to glare him down, not in the mood for platitudes.
Neither is Buster, turns out. He stomps up to Bumgarner, almost onto his toes, says through a snarl, "You gonna fuckin' throw what I call now?"
"Just hung up a bit, I can get it-"
"No, fuck that, you don't have the slider today."
"I can get it, I know I can," and Bumgarner is trying to match Posey, heat to heat, eye to eye.
"You don't. Fucking. Have it," Posey grates out like a death threat. "Fastballs, you throw fucking fastballs when your breaking stuff isn't there, is this your first time playing this goddamn game?"
Posey jams the fresh ball into Bumgarner's glove, and then squeezes the thick bones of his wrist tightly, like a warning.
"You better not shake me off again, fucker," Posey says, and Madison sneers, turns his head to the side to spit on the dirt.
That's mostly for show. He doesn't shake off any more of Posey's signs, lives on fastballs on the black at the knees, the occasionally change-up thrown in like a gift rigged to backfire. No more sliders, and the itch dies out in Bumgarner's left hand, and they actually end up winning the game.
Feeling irritatingly humbled, Bumgarner takes the seat next to Posey on the couch in the clubhouse, both of them balancing paper plates of food from the meagre spread on their knees, their hair still damp from the showers.
"You were right," Bumgarner says through a mouthful of lukewarm mac and cheese. Posey gives him a sidelong glance, a prompting grunt, and Bumgarner adds, "'bout the slider."
"Course I was. It's only my fuckin' job."
"Yeah. You're pretty good at it."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not." Bumgarner bumps Posey's knee with his own, indecently pleased when Posey doesn't twitch away. "I've seen ya."
A soft snort from Posey, like he thinks Bumgarner's screwing with him but that's a poor interpretation of things. Posey peels the wrapper back on a Powerbar, licking his tacky fingertips before taking a bite. Bumgarner is definitely watching too closely, pressing his leg into Posey's, sucking on the inside of his cheek and imagining that he's got Posey's fingers in his mouth instead, calluses on his tongue, catching his teeth, and Bumgarner's ears go hot, wicked flush lighting him up from the inside.
"So, um," Bumgarner says senselessly, wanting conversation because he can't just sit here looking at Posey for much longer without doing something irrevocable. "Thanks for that. I, I, I'll throw what you call, I'll try anyway."
Posey gives him a sidelong look. Bumgarner stares back, various things showing on his face. Posey half-smiles.
"Good enough," Posey says, and Bumgarner is about to do something stupid like ask him to come over and get drunk with him and see what happens, but luckily Posey folds his plate between his hands and gets up to chuck it in the bin, so Bumgarner doesn't actually go through with it.
Small mercies, he thinks, watching Buster get distracted and pulled away by one of the trainers, knowing he won't make it back over here. Today was a good day by almost every measure. Madison can deal with going home alone.
*
They don't screw around again that home-stand.
Bumgarner tries not to wait for it, tries not to linger in the clubhouse so that he can time his walk and run into Posey at the door, tries not to insinuate himself into Posey's plans for the night, tries not to talk too much or give too much away, rubbing sweaty palms on his jeans, daydreaming.
Sergio Romo, a relief pitcher on the major league roster who's finishing up a stint on the DL with a few innings down in the bus leagues, takes everybody out drinking one night, and two hours in the guys are shouting exuberantly at each other over air hockey in the back room, jammed six to a booth with their legs making an intricate shin-and-knee root system under the table.
"Class act, class act," Noonan keeps saying, pounding Romo on the back like he's just won a stock car race.
Bumgarner makes a note of that, in case he's ever in the same situation, big leaguer hanging out with the journeymen, gotta buy their beers for them because that's only fair. But it's a bit weird, because Romo's got to be making the league minimum, and Buster Posey's signing bonus was approximately twelve times that, and Bumgarner can count on one hand the number of beers Posey has spotted him thus far into their tumultuous though admittedly brief acquaintance. There must be a loophole or something.
After one or two too many, Bumgarner is giddy on his feet and making bad decisions, watching Posey like he's being paid to and following thirty seconds behind when Posey goes to the men's.
Posey is the only one in there, standing at the urinal with his head dropped back, and he looks over his shoulder when Bumgarner comes in, a cynical curl affecting his mouth.
"Y'all right, kid?" Posey drawls.
Bumgarner fidgets with his back to the door, his fingers scrabbling anxiously at his jeans. He's forgotten why he thought it would be a good idea to come in here, terminally distracted by the width of Posey's shoulders and the faint flush on the nape of his neck.
"'m fine," Bumgarner says, not sounding anything like it.
Posey doesn't look back at him, finishes and zips up and goes to run his hands under the water, forgoing soap because it's that awful gritty powder kind. There's a cracked mirror over the sink and their eyes meet in the reflection, Bumgarner over Posey's shoulder and framed by the door, eyes looking huge and panicky and his ears sticking out like open car doors. Bumgarner has never known what Posey sees in him, doesn't know if Posey is seeing it now.
"You want me to suck your dick, man?" Bumgarner asks, hoarse and not slurring much.
Posey's head jerks, face going briefly slack with surprise before two spots of bright color flare on his cheeks, and his mouth snags into a caustic shape, rolling his eyes. Bumgarner's stomach drops like a stone.
"Gettin' a taste for it, ain't ya?" Posey says, cruel tone meant to scare Bumgarner off but it doesn't have its right effect because that's true--fuck it, it's true.
"Yeah," Bumgarner says.
Their eyes meet in the mirror again for just a second, something shuttered and searching in Posey's expression before he clams up, reaffixes his smirk.
"'preciate the offer, but we're not in San Francisco yet; this ain't that kinda place."
That hangs Bumgarner up for a second, makes him stop short, because what, are they gonna still be doing this when they make it to the bigs? That could be years from now.
Bumgarner clenches his back teeth carefully on his tongue, breathes through his nose a few times. "No, I mean, whenever. Not right this second, but we could, we could go somewhere."
"Coulda shoulda woulda," Posey mutters, and snatches a paper towel out of the metal thingy. He dries his hands briskly and chucks it away, telling Bumgarner, "Come find me in Modesto if you still want it that bad," before shouldering him aside and walking out.
Bumgarner stands there for awhile longer, adrenaline crashing down inside him along with humiliation and general bewilderment. His reflection in the mirror blinks back at him from across the empty room: drunk dull-eyed wavery kid with too-long arms and stupid ears, looking so far gone it's a wonder he doesn't forget how to breathe.
*
Bumgarner wants to play it cool for awhile, hang back all aloof and make Buster come to him for a change, but then three hours after they pull into Modesto, there he is knocking on Posey's motel room door with a sixer of Bud and two condoms burning a hole in his back pocket no matter how he tries to keep from thinking about them.
He chickens out at the last moment, though, and lets Posey strip his jeans away from his legs and toss them off the bed without saying, hey wait lemme get something first, without digging the condoms out and showing them to Buster, without seeing what his face might look like, his eyes. Bumgarner can't do it, words sticking in his throat. He has Posey on top of him now, warm palm wrapped around his thigh, holding him open, Posey leaning down to mouth hotly along Bumgarner's shoulder, and Bumgarner doesn't say anything but, "Yeah, please," because he can't risk any of it.
After they both get off and get cleaned up, Bumgarner puts his jeans back on but forgoes his shirt, liking the way Posey's eyes sometimes drift downwards when he's talking. Posey is wearing sweats and a workout shirt without sleeves, slumped back against the pillows with one hand scratching idly at his stomach, lax and easy the way he always gets, something Bumgarner has learned to look for.
Bumgarner sits on the edge of the bed, the fingers of one hand twiddling at the sheets. He doesn't want to leave yet, even though he's pretty sure Posey expects him to.
"So," Bumgarner says, not looking at Posey. "What do you think about this guy Riordan tomorrow? You got a plan to deal with that split of his?"
"Yeah, don't swing at it." Posey tips his head to the side. "Did you come over to make sure I read the pitcher notes?"
"No," and Bumgarner kinda laughs a little because it seems like maybe it could be a joke, just Buster ragging on him, totally normal. "Just, uh. You want another beer?"
Posey gives him this inscrutable look, small mouth and piercing eyes, and then shrugs like it couldn't be less important to him. "Yeah, whatever."
Bumgarner will take that. He tries not to be too overeager as he grabs the beers from the sink full of ice and brings one over to Posey, settling on the bed beside him because they're drinking beers now, hanging out like regular friends, so it's okay for Bumgarner to be next to him on the bed where they just had sex.
The first swallow goes down the wrong pipe and Bumgarner's cool dissolves in a fit of helpless coughing that has Posey whaling on his back and saying, "Shit who taught you how to drink?"
Madison calms, his face red and his eyes teary. He takes a sheepish second drink.
"'s pretty good when it's not trying to kill me," Bumgarner says in a torn-up voice, and Posey glances at him, a little smile.
"You're gonna have to swallow a lot worse than that if you wanna last in this game."
"I do," Bumgarner says, kinda wobbly like he's been punched in the head. "I, I intend to last."
"Yeah me too," Posey says on a sigh.
Bumgarner can't think of anything else to say, and so hides behind long sips of his beer, carefully eyeing Posey next to him, the tattered edge of his shirt against his smooth shoulder, the easy sprawl of his legs, the raspy stubble on his cheek that Madison can still feel against his neck and chest, Buster's mouth gone soft now that they've come back to these simpler things.
Posey manages to give the impression of sinking as he works at his beer, his eyelids pulling down heavily, and after a minute or two of fairly awkward silence, he thunks the can down on the bedside table, still at least half-full, and says, "Awright, I'm fuckin' falling asleep, man."
"Oh." Bumgarner sits up a little to put down his own beer, glances at the door, the quiet night and empty room waiting for him on the other side, and says, "Guess I'm kinda tired too."
"Yeah, so," Posey says, stretching his legs down the bed and waving towards the door in a clear invitation for Bumgarner to leave before shutting his eyes.
And Bumgarner should go, knows he should, absolutely is going to, and then instead he hears himself saying, "I could crash here."
Posey's eyes snap open. "What?"
"I mean." Bumgarner doesn't know what he means. He blinks down at Posey, thinking urgently about twenty minutes ago when Posey's hands cupped over his ears had the whole world roaring like the inside of a conch shell, and Posey's cock against the back of his throat made it so he could hardly breathe, and Posey crooned his name and panted and pulled him as close as he could get, just as deep, and now Madison doesn't have the first idea what to say.
"I could stick around," Bumgarner says, minefield caution layered in his voice. "We could. Get some sleep and then--again, we could do this again."
His hand curls against his jeans pocket, those two condoms crinkling silently under his fingertips. Heat rushes across his skin, can't tell if it's mortification or desire or if there's much of a difference, at this point, and Bumgarner grits his teeth, forces himself to look at Posey, who's looking right back, looking poleaxed and weirdly flushed.
"That's not how it goes," Posey says flatly.
Bumgarner swallows. "It could. We could."
"That, that's not what this is, Jesus, haven't you been paying attention?"
Posey sounds angry but he looks mostly lost, face all opened up and blue eyes wide. Bumgarner closes his hands into fists instead of doing anything stupid like touching Posey's cheek, tracing the line of his neck, any of that.
"I have," Bumgarner says. "But it's. Confusing. I've been pretty confused."
A weird flash of something descends in Posey's eyes, and he sits up. "What did I tell you about that? Thinking about it all the time, what the fuck did you expect to happen?"
"I don't know. I, I thought I knew what was going on, just a road thing, and then after Tommy got hurt-"
"That wasn't--that didn't mean anything," Posey says fast, as if accused. "That was just 'cause I took a fuckin' beating in that game, I just wanted some, something. It wasn't--you were just there. And you're, you're always looking at me."
Posey stops abruptly like biting his tongue, and his eyes flare with sky-colored panic before he shutters it away behind a glare. He said too much, Bumgarner realizes in a vague stupor, more than he meant to.
"You told me I could," Bumgarner says. "You said I had to take it where I could get it."
"You don't get me," Posey says in a hard tone that seems chipped out of his regular voice.
"Why not?" and Bumgarner can't even believe it himself, wanting to bite off his own tongue but he doesn't even stop there, "What's the difference, if we're fucking around on the road why can't we at home? And who cares if I sleep over, who's that hurt? All these stupid rules-"
"Shut up."
It cuts sharp and too loud and Bumgarner's mouth snaps shut so quick his teeth click, because Posey sounds kinda frantic and he looks worse, violent flush on his face and his eyes bugging out, as if he physically can't hear Bumgarner speak or else his head will explode. Bumgarner experiences a lessening feeling like his chest has been punctured, like he's leaking air, and he blinks fast, drops his eyes.
"Sorry," Bumgarner says low. "I'm bad at this, I think."
"Yeah, I'd fuckin' say so," and Posey sounds breathless, which doesn't seem possible.
Madison glances up, and vertigo swoops through him when he catches Posey staring back with blank fascination, his lips parted and his blue eyes glowing in this bizarre backlit way, a whole new shade. Madison stares back at him, stunned, and then says without thinking:
"I wanna kiss you."
For just an instant, Posey's breath stutters and his gaze drops to Bumgarner's mouth, and Bumgarner's heart jolts unsteadily in his chest, goosebumps rushing over him as he licks his lips and tips hesitantly forward, petrified and trembly and aching with dreams of the world to come if he can just--
And then shock clears Posey's expression, and he shoves Bumgarner almost off the bed.
"No way, man." Posey's voice cracks. He looks like Bumgarner just pulled a knife on him, betrayal growing huge behind fear for his goddamn life. "Not gonna do that."
Bumgarner nods his head, chest caved in, heart buried in rubble. He gets up off the bed and his legs wobble but he stays up. He finds his T-shirt on the floor and pulls it on like armor, collar still a little too tight, raspy soft against his throat and if Bumgarner can't swallow right, that's a good enough excuse for it. Posey watches him, a frown on his face that Bumgarner really doesn't need to see right now.
"Sorry," Bumgarner says again, because it can't possibly make things worse. "We can just. Forget about that. All that."
Posey doesn't answer, but his mouth twists up in something near enough to a sneer to serve as a response. Bumgarner flinches and rubs at the back of his neck and looks down, feeling incompetent in about four different ways, getting all of this wrong. He whispers, "'kay then," and turns towards the door, thinking terrible thoughts and not at all expecting Buster to say goodnight as he leaves, but still irrationally disappointed when he doesn't.
*
Off the field itself, Bumgarner doesn't go near Posey for the rest of the road trip.
It's not very difficult. They go out to dinner with different groups of guys. They sit in different sections of the bus. There's always at least three teammates separating them on the dugout bench. Not much has to change to keep them apart, basically Bumgarner just has to stop following Posey around like a fucking puppy, and Posey has to stop showing up in Bumgarner's motel rooms wanting to fuck around with him, and both those things have happened.
It's disconcerting. Bumgarner has been laboring under the impression that the two of them were at least friends before all this shit happened, that somewhere underneath everything was a fundamentally affectionate and companionable kinda feeling, but apparently that's another thing he spectacularly misunderstood. It's actually something of a relief for Bumgarner not to concern himself with actually talking to Posey anymore, because most of their recent conversations have been pretty agonizing in one way or another, and they never had such a witty repartee anyway, and if they were real friends it wouldn't be like this. If they were real friends, Bumgarner would miss him, and he doesn't really, he doesn't think he does. It's a different sort of hurt.
The good thing about not talking much as a general rule is that people don't really notice when he pretty much stops talking entirely. Madison carves out a space around himself, just a little breathing room, and keeps his headphones in, keeps his face stiff and uninviting whenever anybody gets too close. He'll talk about baseball but that's about it.
The team wins the last game of the trip 2-0, and then on the long drive back to San Jose, they listen on the radio as the San Francisco Giants win by the exact same score. This freaky premonitory sense creeps over them, weird little see-the-future moments like Villalona saying, "He's gonna hit a double," and then it happens, and two innings later it's Conor Gillaspie calling it, "Home run!" just before the bat cracks with that good sound, unmistakeable even over the radio, from however far away they are. They're collectively an omen of some kind, and most of the guys are raucously declaring it a miracle, but Bumgarner thinks the whole thing is pretty eerie.
From the back of the bus, in the break between songs, he hears Posey saying, "It's improbable, not impossible, didn't any of you dumb fucks pay attention in math class ever?"
The next song starts up before Bumgarner can hear whatever the response might be. His eyes are closed, his head tipped on the window with lines drawn across his forehead, his mouth pinched, not faking sleep with much skill at all, but nobody's watching and nobody cares, they all leave him alone.
Bumgarner has forbidden himself to think about Posey or that stuff that happened, and that doesn't work very well. He feels fucking terrible about how everything ended up, and he doesn't know why exactly, if it's shame or guilt or regret or if he's secretly in love with Posey and this is actual honest-to-god heartbreak, of all things. He just knows he could have done better. Kept his mouth shut, kept his hands to himself, something. Bumgarner could have done a lot of things.
On a loop in his mind, Buster tells him, no way, man; it sticks to him like a burr.
Home, as much as California is ever going to feel like home to Madison, but he's yearning for it right now, the flat silver stretch of the bay and tall hills crowded in close and covered with houses, low-slung skyline with the sun glaring off the dark-tinted windows of the technology companies downtown and Bumgarner's own crappy minor league apartment where he can lock the door and turn off his phone and take a pill or three, get some goddamn sleep because this year, just his first fucking year and it's already killing him.
*
A few days pass in which nothing outwardly important happens.
The San Jose Giants continue playing well, for all that their home park reminds Bumgarner of where he played in the Babe Ruth League when he was fourteen, still a real live professional baseball team. When Bumgarner throws a double play ball, the guys behind him make the turn almost every single time, which still seems remarkable to him.
He's been pitching lights out. The coaches mutter to each other and hum while watching him pitch, and after Madison goes eight shutout innings with his new split-changeup vanishing like a ghost from the corner of the strike zone, they clap him on the shoulder and say, "Keep your bags packed, kid, they might need you in Connecticut before too long."
Connecticut means Double-A, the next stop. Bumgarner swallows back a terrified grin and shrugs and nods, casually dropping his hand down so he could rap his knuckles silently on the bench, not wanting to jinx anything. He doesn't keep his bags packed, either.
Bumgarner wakes up at noon on their off-day, in a slant of heavy July sunlight that is falling unrestricted through the opened blinds, sweat prickling in Bumgarner's hair and at the small of his back where his shirt is stuck a little bit.
The heat is the only thing that woke him, and Bumgarner lies there thinking about getting up to close the blinds so he could get some more sleep, and while he's debating it, his phone on the bedside table springs to shrill life.
It's Posey calling. Bumgarner stares at the screen for a moment, and then takes the call, lifting the phone to his ear and saying hesitantly, "Hello?"
"Hey man."
Buster freakin' Posey, sure enough. Bumgarner kicks the thin sheet off his legs, sits up. "Uh, hi Buster."
"Did I wake you up? Lazy, lazy."
"No, I'm awake. What. What's up?"
A pause, a rustle of breath crackling in Bumgarner's ears. "I'm at this sandwich place," Posey says eventually, though it sounds quiet behind him. "You want me to get you one and bring it over?"
Bumgarner is bewildered, struck dumb for a long moment because, what? Posey wants to bring him lunch? Is that some kind of compensation for not wanting to kiss Madison, or not wanting to fuck him anymore? Like, sorry if I accidentally broke your heart, here's some tuna salad. Is this how the world actually works? And people just go along with it?
"What the hell, Mad," Posey says, disgruntled. "Do you want a sandwich or not?"
"Yeah," Bumgarner says, because indeed, what the hell. "Just, uh, whatever you're getting is cool. No pickles."
"Awright," Posey says, and promptly hangs up.
Bumgarner blinks at his phone for a moment, and then up at the ceiling for a moment longer, and then levers himself out of bed to go take a shower and brush his teeth.
Posey shows up fifteen minutes later with sandwiches in a white paper bag and a cup of coffee that he's drinking out of when he comes in, but immediately passes off to Bumgarner.
"Just checkin' it out for you," Posey says with a cheeky grin.
Bumgarner tries to mirror it but it feels like a pretty weak imitation, and takes a studying sip of the coffee, which is not fixed to his specifications but instead painfully sweet the way Posey likes it.
"Grab a Coke if you want," Bumgarner says, and flees back to the living room, heart beating hard even though all Posey has done is show up and give him a cup of coffee.
They settle on the couch with the San Francisco Giants day game on the TV, and Bumgarner is picking at the tape keeping his sandwich wrapped up when Posey puts his down on the coffee table and says:
"I got called up this morning."
Bumgarner drops his sandwich in his lap. He stares at Posey. "Are you serious?"
"Of course I'm serious, and that's not even the half of it," and Posey swells with bravado, cocky tilt to his smile. "Called me up to fuckin' Fresno, how do you like that?"
"Holy shit, really?"
"Goddamn right." Posey spreads out his hands, like, what did you expect? "Double-A would be a waste of my time, that's what skip said."
"Jeez, Buster," as the shock fades a bit and Bumgarner remembers the stuff he's supposed to say. "That's so awesome, man, congratulations."
"Thanks, yeah. Thanks."
A moment of silence wedges its way between them, and Bumgarner thumbs the half-peeled bit of tape on his sandwich, which was probably just an excuse for Posey to come over here; they're probably not actually having lunch together. He doesn't want it to get too awkward because he's tired of looking like an idiot in front of Posey, especially now that they might not see each other for however long, when it'll be Posey's last impression of him.
"So when're you leaving?" Bumgarner thinks to ask.
"In, uh, like, two hours, actually." Posey flashes a grin that looks kinda off. "They got a car picking me up so I can get there in time for their game tonight in case they need me."
"Cool, that's cool."
A stony place forms in Bumgarner's gut, thinking about how Posey is going to make the Show before the end of the season and not even remember Madison by the time he makes it up himself. Bumgarner shouldn't care about that. Out of sight out of mind, and god willing it'll work for both of them.
He glances at Posey, who has lost his imperfect grin and is sorta glaring at him instead. Bumgarner pulls back slightly, lifting his eyebrows in confusion.
Posey doesn't look away, doesn't stop looking vaguely pissed off, and asks, "So what's your deal, anyway?"
"What?"
"The whole-" Posey makes a crude gesture that indicates blowjobs, "-thing."
"I, I don't know," Bumgarner stammers as a flush rises on his face.
"You were so serious about it all the time," Posey says like an accusation.
"I didn't mean to be. I was just trying to. Figure it out."
"So. What? You think you're really gay or something?"
"No," Bumgarner says with a blink, honestly surprised by the question. "I still wanna fuck all kindsa girls."
"But also me," Posey says, staring at him.
"Also you," Bumgarner agrees softly. He's bright red now, he can feel it.
"Well."
Posey sets that word between them, leaves it there for an agonizing moment, and then a shadow crosses his eyes and he says in a thick, slightly strained tone, "I'll fuck you, if you want."
Bumgarner gapes at him for a few seconds. Heat coalesces almost painfully in his stomach, tingling out to the tips of his fingers, the ends of his hair, and his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, his hand clenching compulsively on his knee.
Very carefully, Bumgarner puts his sandwich down on the table before turning back to Posey, who is watching him fiercely with his lips pressed together, blue eyes furious and baffled in a way that Bumgarner can sympathize with, knows as well as his own face in the mirror.
"You came over here 'cause of that?" Bumgarner asks.
"No, I, I came to tell you about going to Fresno. Say goodbye or whatever."
"Coulda called. You coulda sent me a text," Bumgarner says, feeling slow and stunned. Buster offering to fuck him is stuck on a loop in his head, just like Buster telling him no way used to be.
Posey looks offended, sneering. "Sending a text to say goodbye isn't buddies, now is it?"
"We're not really buddies. " A quiet internal click, and Bumgarner looks at Posey, realizing that that's true. "I don't think if you were my buddy you'd only want to fuck me when you're leaving in two hours."
That hits Posey like a smack, his mouth dropping open and his eyes bugging out. He sorta reels back, a grimace contorting his features, not good-looking at all for the brief moment before he pulls himself back together.
"That was for you," Posey insists, going a bit wild-eyed. "I thought you, thought that was what you wanted."
"It is," Bumgarner says, hoarse. "A lot--I want it a lot. And that's--you're not even gonna be around anymore."
Swallowing, he drops his eyes down at his woven fingers, rubbing one thumb hard into the cup of his palm. Posey's gaze bores into him, a physical weight that Bumgarner's shoulders are stiff from supporting.
"You'd rather never have it at all?" Posey asks. "I mean, what if this is, like--this is your one shot."
Looking up at the shaky note in Posey's voice, Bumgarner catches his breath at the weird panic tightening the corners of Posey's eyes, the desperate angle of his jaw. Everything about Posey is an obscure plea right now, and a knot wrenches itself tighter and tighter in Bumgarner's stomach because he's starting to understand that he's not the only one who wants more time than two hours--he's just the only one willing to say it out loud.
Goddamn, it's all so fucked up. Clenching his teeth, Bumgarner fists his hands, nails digging into his palms.
"I got no interest in just one shot," Madison tells Buster. "That's sorta the whole problem."
A guide-wire snaps behind Posey's face, the tension collapsing into something stricken and round-eyed, and Bumgarner can't look at him like that, turns his burning gaze to the Giants game television instead, the impossibly pretty ballpark drenched in sun fifty miles north, their cross-fingered future.
"Sorry," Bumgarner mumbles, already fighting the urge to take it back.
Posey is frozen for a second in his peripheral vision, and then he shakes his head sharply and makes a raspy throat-clearing sound.
"What sorry, it, it's your loss," Posey says, sounding fake.
Bumgarner doesn't call him on it, staring helplessly at the television. "Yeah."
"And I-"
Posey stops like someone pressed mute. His teeth click together audibly, and Bumgarner does not look at him because he knows if he does, force of will be damned, Posey will have him bent over the couch inside five minutes, have Bumgarner begging for it and ruined forever. Can't let that happen.
"It's all right," Bumgarner says, fumbling. "It's--gonna be all right. You just, just get yourself to Fresno, just focus on that."
"Speakin' from your many years of experience, huh?"
"No, that's just--that's the important part. Getting there. Everything else can go to hell."
Madison's voice cracks at the end there. It's something his dad said to him not too long ago, point of fact, that lovely rainy afternoon when he got drafted, and with his big hand clasped on the back of Madison's neck, his father told him joyfully, "You're gonna be a ballplayer, and everything else can go to hell."
It's the kinda thing that will echo with you.
"Yeah," Posey says, and Bumgarner glances to see him looking bewildered and wounded, rubbing a hand across his face as if expecting to find someone else's features. "Okay."
He picks up his sandwich off the table and gets to his feet, and Bumgarner follows suit automatically. Posey reassembles his game face, mouth firming up, shutters dropping in his eyes. Bumgarner doesn't bother to hide the fact that he's staring. Last chance and all.
Posey glances at him as they move for the door, his throat ducking with a swallow. Bumgarner opens the door for him, fingers wrapped around cool metal, eyes tracking restlessly over Posey's pinched mouth and stiff shoulders.
"Take care, Buster," Bumgarner says.
"Yeah. You too." Posey walks out and then pauses, looking away down the hallway. "Guess I'll see you somewhere along the way."
"Yeah," Bumgarner manages, and then fast, "Bye," as he swings the door shut behind Posey, sags against it at once because Jesus Christ, this can't be a normal thing that's happening in his chest right now--surely somebody would have warned him if this is what it's supposed to feel like.
*
It's just two months before they see each other again, and by that time they've both made the Show.
Posey gets called up with the other hot shots in Fresno when the rosters expand at the beginning of September, information Bumgarner learns from the internet because it's not as if Posey is gonna call and tell him about it himself. They haven't spoken since Posey left San Jose.
Then a guy from the organization calls Bumgarner shortly after the season ends in Connecticut, and he's expecting to hear that he's being shipped to the fall league, but instead they tell him that Tim Lincecum's back is acting up, and the next thing he knows, Bumgarner is on the first flight to San Francisco.
Bumgarner is nervous on the plane and worse in the cab that takes him to the ballpark, shredding a magazine into confetti that trails behind him all the way across the country. He's got a thick blue binder of hitter's notes for the Padres that the ballclub had FedExed to him, and he studies it haphazardly, too amped up to really get into it. The San Francisco Giants are technically still alive in the chase for the division title, five games out and two teams back, but crazier things have happened.
Like, for example, twenty year old Madison Bumgarner making a spot start in place of Tim freakin' Lincecum.
Everything moves really fast at this level. Once he gets to the gorgeous bayside ballpark, Bumgarner is hustled along, new uniform, new spikes, and then they take him up for a whirlwind tour of the operations offices where his hand gets wrung and his back gets slapped a bunch of times and he is introduced to a ton of people he'll never remember, and then they take him down to the clubhouse and hand him over to his new teammates, who envelop him in a wave of rookie cat-calls and hammer friendly blows on the top of his head.
They seem like a good group of guys. Barry Zito and Tim Lincecum come over right away as emissaries of the pitching staff, and they say all the right stuff, welcome and we've been hearing about you and all that, and they show him around the place, tour guiding. Sergio Romo gives him a bear hug by the coffee maker, lifting Bumgarner up on his toes.
Lincecum doesn't look like his back is hurting him that much, slouching easily against various walls, smiling a lot. He's even smaller than he looks on TV, and Bumgarner is going to have to witness this guy throwing high-nineties with his own eyes before he can really believe it.
Posey isn't around--probably down in the batting cages, if his routine is the same--and Bumgarner is pathetically grateful for that, wanting to get his bearings before having to deal with Buster.
Later, he gets changed into his uniform, major league jersey sliding over his shoulders, major league buttons under his fingers. Bumgarner isn't shaking, kinda detached from the whole thing right now, taking slow shallow breaths.
He goes up to the field to take his warm-ups, moving backwards across the outfield in an ever-increasing game of long toss with the bullpen catcher. It's an optical illusion, probably, the way everything looks bigger up here, like home plate is six hundred feet away from him. It's the steep rise of the stands, thousands and thousands of dark green seats like a sea wave closing around him. Bumgarner focuses on Holm's catcher's mitt, the long whip of his body hurling the ball back to the line. He can hear the wind snapping through the flags at his back.
Dazed, starstruck, something, Bumgarner finishes warming up in the bullpen and escapes into the dugout tunnel before a children's choir troops onto the field to sing the national anthem. There's a clock ticking down in his mind as he hurries down to the bathroom, spikes clattering loud on the cement, and hunches over the sink splashing cold water on his face.
"Breathe," Bumgarner orders, and looks up in the mirror to see himself in his brand-new Giants uniform, and just stares for a minute.
Then Posey comes in.
Bumgarner jumps at the thump of the door opening, his hands curling around the lip of the sink as he watches Posey in the mirror, also wearing a Giants uniform but otherwise exactly as Bumgarner remembers him.
"Hey man," Posey says.
"Hey. Buster," Bumgarner says, a hitched breath breaking up the words.
"Did you hurl?"
"No."
"You can tell me, lotsa guys do that before their first time."
Bumgarner presses his chilled hands to his cheeks and forehead. "'m all right."
"Yeah you look it." Posey has his hands behind his back, leaning against the door. "You ready for this shit?"
"Course."
Snatching a paper towel out of the box, Bumgarner scrubs his face dry, taking a couple deep breaths that smell like wood pulp and hard water. He sneaks glances at Posey in the mirror, something winding tighter and tighter in his chest.
"Good," Buster says, and his shoulders kinda twitch against the door. "Good."
It kinda trails off and gets awkward, and Bumgarner tosses the paper towel, pushes his hands across his hair and puts his cap back on. He exhales through his mouth, shakes his arms out, and thinks sharply to himself, okay here we go, as he turns to leave.
Posey is still blocking the door, staring at him with that weird lost look on his face that really bugs the hell out of Madison; he can never tell what it's supposed to mean.
Bumgarner lifts his eyebrows. "Buster?"
"Yeah," and Posey starts, snaps out of it, shifting to the side. "Yeah they're waitin' for you."
He goes to open the door and Bumgarner moves without thought, pressing his hand flat to keep it closed. Posey goes still, his chin tipped slightly up, and a little huffing breath escapes him.
Anticipation flares in Bumgarner, that same old electricity crackling between them, and he thinks manically that he'll lean forward, close these last few bare inches between them and kiss Posey like he's been waiting to do all goddamn year, kiss him good and hard while holding him against the door, hands on his face, Posey's mouth crushed under his, bodies fast together, and Jesus, he wants that so badly, as much as the field waiting for him on the other side of the tunnel and the jersey on his back, as much as any of this.
Bumgarner tilts towards him, and Posey's eyes widen a fraction before he turns his head to the side, refusing.
"Fuck, you're not still on that, are you?" Posey says hoarsely and false. "Should be over it by now."
Bumgarner doesn't answer. He stares at Posey's cheek, which twitches like his teeth are clenched, and is one hundred percent sure that Posey wants to kiss him too, and with all the crazy shit that has happened to him this summer, he has no idea why this one little thing is still not allowed.
"You got more important stuff to worry about, c'mon," Posey tells him, eyes trained stubbornly away. "Everything else can go to hell, right?"
Right, that's right, that's Bumgarner's dad echoing in his head and it straightens his spine, the palms of his hands tingling in need of a baseball. He nods, and forces himself to take a step back, let his hand fall away from the door. Posey relaxes slightly, his eyes flicking across Bumgarner's features.
"Game face, Mad," Posey says softly, and opens the door for him.
Bumgarner does what he can, deep breath and firm jaw and cap brim tugged down so his eyes can glare out from a thin strip of shadow, pulls his shoulders up and heads up to the field.
He pitches okay. Two runs over five and a third, and then the Giants end up losing the game late.
It's pretty anticlimactic, actually, his whole life spent on build-up and then he finally gets out there and it's just another game where he couldn't quite locate his fastball like he wants to. The umpire kinda screws him over as regards the corners of the strikezone, but Madison figures he's going to have to get used to that for at least the first couple of years. Bengie Molina is a good backstop, a comfortingly solid bulk behind the plate with white tape wrapped around his fingertips so Bumgarner can see the signs a bit easier--he's always appreciated catchers who do that. He throws a couple of scorched line drives that he's certain will split the fielders for doubles, and then in flies Freddy Lewis or Aaron Rowand, streaking across the grass and stretching full-out to make the play. That part is extremely encouraging.
But the adrenaline doesn't last, sapped away by his more urgent concern that they win this fucking game. Something has to go right today.
And then they lose anyway, like Bumgarner isn't actually the hero of the movie, and none of this has been scripted at all. Things that shouldn't surprise him, and yet.
He and Posey are with the team for the last three weeks of 2009, as the Giants fade from the pennant chase and the winds die down in San Francisco. Posey does a pretty good job of avoiding him, impressive considering the club has put them up in the same downtown hotel, and sometimes Bumgarner passes Posey in the lobby talking on his cell phone, poking at the bowl of hard candy on the concierge's desk, in the gift shop buying postcards and a little stuffed SF teddy bear holding a heart. Bumgarner concocts fantastical daydreams about the two of them getting stuck in an elevator, or maybe there will be an earthquake and somehow in the chaos and wholesale collapse they'll be unhurt but trapped together under an aesthetically pleasing pile of rubble, and Posey won't be able to pretend he's not there. But mostly he just lets Posey ignore him. It's been a really long year already.
They're in the same game for one inning, in the dulling canyon of Dodger Stadium, and Posey comes out to go over the game-plan after Bumgarner has finished his warm-up throws. Still no eye contact, Posey gazing steadily over Bumgarner's shoulder. There's a scratch on Posey's cheek, and Bumgarner wants to feel it under his thumb, this one place where Buster's not perfect.
Stupid impossible thoughts. Bumgarner crosses up the signs, throws a slider when Posey's expecting the fastball, which is probably about fifty percent on purpose, because he wants Posey to come back out here again, but Posey only whips the ball back from his knees, and calls for the same pitch again.
*
Then it's the off-season.
Bumgarner flies home to North Carolina by way of New York City, where he schedules a day-long layover, telling his family he's got some friends he wants to visit, but actually it's a fact-finding mission. He gets a room near the airport, showers and shaves and puts on a shirt that's been too tight on him since junior year, and takes a cab into the heart of the city.
The internet directs him to a glitter strip of clubs and bars, heart thundering in his ears as the bouncer squints at his fake I.D., but he makes it in, and then at 1:47 in the morning, in a backroom somewhere in Chelsea, Madison fucks a guy for the first time, hands tied up in his T-shirt, gasping against the slick nape of his neck, his short sticky hair getting in Madison's nose. He likes it exactly as much as he likes fucking girls; that is to say, to a debilitating degree.
He has a long cold winter to put the whole thing in perspective.
Back home in Hudson, he screws around a little bit with an old girlfriend who's mainly using him to make her new on-and-off guy jealous. Bumgarner doesn't mind, interested in this new kind of sex that doesn't mean anything. Couple times a month, he drives out to Raleigh-Durham and lets someone pick him up at a gay bar, or sometimes just kinda lurks near the backroom all night and blows five different guys because he can and he wants to, and no one knows his name or that he's left-handed or that he's gonna be a ballplayer; they'll never see him again, so it doesn't count in any real way.
He has it all figured out by Christmas. He swings both ways, probably always has without knowing it, and that's why he went for Buster so hard, so single-mindedly. Just because Buster was the first, because Madison didn't realize before that. It makes sense, because Madison still remembers the full name of the girl in the second grade who gave him his first kiss: Keandra Dawn Washington with the multicolored plastic beads at the ends of her braids clicking like music when she swung her hair. It was never anything about Buster specifically; they were never even really friends.
So that's settled, anyway.
The time creeps by, and Bumgarner feels like he's aged about five years by the time he leaves for spring training.
Pitchers and catchers report on Valentine's Day. Posey is already there when Bumgarner walks into the clubhouse, stocking his new locker with assorted gear and paraphernalia while chatting with that gray-haired guy who backs up Molina on the big league squad. Bumgarner drags his eyes away from him with some effort, a twinge of anxiety flexing his fingers against his leg.
Bumgarner wanders around looking for the locker with his name on the bit of tape, shaking hands of the guys he knows here and there, and he finds it the last place he wants to: right next to Buster Posey's.
Bumgarner sighs internally, and goes over to drop his bag at the foot of the locker and start unpacking. Posey has gone back with the trainers, but he returns soon enough with two rolls of white tape ringed around his fingers, his eyebrows lifting coolly as he registers his new neighbor.
"Hell, so much for this being the cool section of the clubhouse," Posey says as he puts the tape rolls on the shelf in his locker and turns to Bumgarner, hesitating a moment before offering his hand.
Bumgarner takes it, good firm-wrist shake like his dad taught him, and says, "How you doing, man?"
"How's it look, what do you think."
Posey's eyes crawl across Bumgarner's face and then skitter away, a hand rising to the back of his neck. He's still boyish and serious-looking and handsome and Bumgarner still wants to kiss him, still wants to push Posey's shirt up to his armpits and his pants down to his knees, lay him out on a motel room bed and suck him off for about an hour. Fuck, nothing at all has changed. Bumgarner swallows back acid, the inside of his cheek caught between his back teeth.
"Good to see you," Bumgarner says, directing most of his attention to digging gear out of his bag and placing them in his locker: spikes and extra spikes, batting gloves, deodorant and neat's foot oil and the stuff to put on blisters, a photograph of his family that gets tucked inside a little black copy of the official rules and poked into the back corner of the shelf.
Posey is watching him. Dull heat suffuses Bumgarner's face, hyper-aware.
"Did they tell you where you were gonna be starting the year?" Posey asks him.
Bumgarner shrugs without looking at him. "Depends how I go this spring."
"Probably Fresno, though, right?"
"I dunno. Maybe. Maybe fifth starter," and Bumgarner raps his knuckles softly on the wood of the locker.
"Well."
Just that, that place-holder Posey likes to use, and hearing him say it spurs an acute pang of memory in Bumgarner, déjà vu so intense it's kind of dizzying, and Bumgarner hooks one of the cheap white folding chairs scattered all over, sinks into it before he falls over.
Quick glance, and their eyes meet for a second before Posey looks away, a blind stare briefly into his locker before fumbling the spring schedule out of his pocket and unfolding it, busying himself with taping it to the inside wall. Bumgarner watches Posey's hands at work, the white bite of his teeth ripping a piece of tape off the strip, and can't help but wonder if all the differences between them can be solved by something as simple as once again being on the same team.
Goddamn it. Bumgarner chucks his spare glove into his locker with slightly more force than necessary, disappointed in himself and the world for setting him up like this.
The first few days everything goes pretty good.
Bumgarner's curveball is the first breaking pitch to come back, and right behind it the slider, snapping so satisfyingly off the table. His location is a joke and will be for about a week, but nobody is worried about that. His shoulder aches at night, that good low-down ache that means he's getting stronger. Sometimes the other pitchers hook their fingers in the net at the pitching cages and watch Bumgarner's session, Tim freakin' Lincecum humming, "Daaamn," when Madison breaks off a particularly nice one.
It's all very encouraging. Posey is probably right: they'll start Bumgarner in Trip-A and who knows where he'll be by the end of the year?
He tries not to think too much about that stuff. It's better for him to stay in the moment.
After the game and dinner and a couple of bars, a bunch of the guys go out to a nightclub in Phoenix. It's a huge converted warehouse in a shitty part of town, exposed ironwork above their heads, wired up with disco lights, strobes and reflectors. A writhing throng of club kids and yuppie scenesters fills the dancefloor, shouting conversations at the bar, one of those places where it's too loud to think.
Bumgarner is already most of the way to drunk when they get there, and then Barry Zito buys a few quick rounds of shots for everybody and Madison crosses over into completely hammered.
Posey is there, sitting at the other end of the ratty couch they've managed to stake out, short tables shining with clustered glass, and Bumgarner gets distracted by all that shit that happened last summer, remembering Posey's tongue scorching on the inside of his thigh, and how Posey would pet his hair thoughtlessly when Bumgarner was blowing him, and fold Madison's ears down, mumble yeah good, stroke his thumbs over the smooth high plane of Madison's forehead.
This is no good. Bumgarner comes back to himself with a start when Sergio Romo falls off the arm of the couch and almost lands in his lap. Bumgarner shoves him back, glad that it's dark in here because he's probably blushing like crazy right now.
He gets to his feet, carefully not looking at Posey, and makes his wobbly way through the pulsing crowd, thinking to splash some cold water on his face, find some equilibrium to this drunk.
But then the men's room is jam-packed with beefy tanned guys in shiny club shirts, the stalls full of people having sex and doing cocaine, and Bumgarner gets claustrophobic and short of breath, wheels back out of there. All the windows in this place are twenty feet up the wall, so there's not even any fresh air.
He's dizzy, upside-down brain, and slumps on the wall with his head dropped into his hands. That's how Posey finds him.
"Hey hey, can't pass out here," Posey says, lifting his voice over the thudding endless music, and Bumgarner's head snaps up.
Posey is right there, backlit by the delirious carnival lights with that old smirk on his shadowy face, and Bumgarner is not prepared for that to feel like a sock to the gut. He gasps very quietly, blinking at Posey.
"What, what're you doin'?" Bumgarner asks, so confused.
"Checkin' up on your lightweight ass," Posey says like it should be obvious. "You looked like you were about to fall over."
"I, I, I'm not, I wasn't," and Bumgarner isn't even listening to himself, staring at Buster's neat closed-off face that he's been secretly missing for the better part of a year, and thinking all kinds of fucked-up thoughts about that club in New York City and those other ones in Raleigh, what it means if a guy follows you to the bathroom there, what can happen--and then somehow between the whirling colored lights and fake smoke and sickening throb of music, he loses track; here in this place somewhere between the bus leagues and the bigs, Madison is overcome, and he grabs Buster's face, hauls him in and kisses him square on the mouth.
Posey's lips part in shock, and Bumgarner takes wild advantage, pushing his tongue in recklessly and licking the rich liquor taste out of Posey's mouth, fingers slipping aimlessly over his soft hair and it's so good, rough with teeth and hot and then Posey shoves him off.
Bumgarner's back hits the wall with a solid thump he feels all through him, breath punching out in a gasp. Shock makes him go blank, did that just happen, did he really just do that?
Posey is the same way, staring at him flat with astonishment, his lips shaping what the fuck but it's not loud enough for Bumgarner to actually hear. Bumgarner shakes his head, bugging his eyes at Posey to say I don't know, I'm sorry, and Posey's mouth twists up like he doesn't even want to look at him anymore, and he turns away, leaves Madison against the wall.
"Stupid," Bumgarner whispers, can't hear that either, and so he says it some more, "stupid stupid stupid," looking down at his shoes until his head stops spinning and his stomach stops hurting and he can stand to go find the others again.
*
The next day, Bumgarner is sitting in front of his locker reading the sports section when Posey comes over talking on his cell phone.
"Yeah what time's your flight?" Posey listens, free hand idly digging around in his locker. "Awright, well, you should just take a cab right to the stadium then, I won't be able to pick you up."
Bumgarner blindly turns the page, scowling intently at the newspaper like he's never seen anything so fascinating. Posey leans on his elbow on the side of the locker, tugging his shirt up so that a piece of his hip shows, pale flash in Bumgarner's peripheral vision.
"You don't know from excited, honey," Posey says to whoever he's talking to, his voice scratchy and low and making heat flash over Bumgarner's skin, because he remembers that tone pretty goddamn well. "I've been going nuts without you around, I swear."
Strange, hearing Buster say that, and Madison blinks at the newspaper which has become a grainy colorless blur, his own hands and arms feeling very far away from him.
"I'll call you to say goodnight," Posey says, and Bumgarner can't help but glance up, seeing Posey look right at him as he says to his girlfriend, "Love you too, I'll see you soon."
Posey ends the call and tucks his phone away in his pocket, stands there looking down at Bumgarner, who looks back, stricken.
"Okay?" Posey asks him very softly, like a warning.
Bumgarner's mouth is dry, and he nods, mute. The newspaper crinkles in his grip, tearing a little, smearing ink on his palms.
"Yeah," Bumgarner whispers, because he gets it, he does. He's got no claim on Buster; he never did.
Posey's gaze sinks into him, solemn blue and unnerving enough to short-circuit Bumgarner's equilibrium and send him reeling, tumbling head over goddamn heels, which is so redundant at this point it borders on the absurd. Bumgarner swallows, feels like sandpaper going down. He folds up the sports section carefully, shaky hands hidden in the movement.
"I know better now," Bumgarner tells him, low.
It needs to stand in for a lot, for sorry and I won't do it again and it's safe to be friends with me again, and even for some untrue stuff, like I don't still want to and it doesn't feel remotely like heartbreak, no sir, and Bumgarner can't say how much of that gets through, but he figures, at least the gist. He crosses his fingers under the newspaper to cover the lie, looking up at Posey like it doesn't hurt.
Then Posey nods, drops his eyes, and says, "Good," with a coarse undertone so close to remorse that Bumgarner can't risk thinking about it, and changes the subject to the new split-change grip Timmy was talking about earlier.
Bumgarner latches onto the life-raft of baseball with unseemly fervor, rummaging for a ball in his locker so that Posey can show him, and then hollering for Lincecum to come over and show him properly, and of course Lincecum brings Zito along because when does he not, and for awhile Bumgarner is gratefully diverted by their little two-man vaudeville stoner act. Never having had much patience for it, Posey slips off at some point, and Bumgarner thinks with a hollow feeling that that's probably for the best.
A week later, Posey brings his girl around to the clubhouse, pretty as a picture and sweet as pie, and when Bumgarner asks how long they've known each other, she smiles and says, "All our lives."
Bumgarner smiles back, says, "Just like a story," and then makes up some excuse, goes down to the batting cages to hammer away at pitching machine pitches until the buzzing sound fades out of his ears and he doesn't feel like punching the walls anymore.
It's his own damn fault, really. Of course Posey had a pretty girlfriend waiting for him back home in Georgia. Of course they've known each other since Sunday school and dated since junior year. Of course Buster proposed to her on Christmas Eve, halfway across the wooden bridge over the frozen creek where they used to play trolls when they were little kids. All this, every part of it: stuff Madison should have known. Stuff he knows now, and god forbid he ever learn anything the easy way.
The next day, Bumgarner comes in in relief during the Giants exhibition game against the Diamondbacks. Posey has been in as Molina's substitute since the fifth inning, and he joins Bumgarner on the mound, his helmet and mask cradled in his mitt and tucked against his hip. Bumgarner tugs his cap brim low over his eyes, spitting dryly to the side.
"Awright, they wanna see what you can do with that slider against the lefties, so I'ma call for it down and away. Watch your arm angle, and watch where your front foot's coming down."
"Yeah yeah," Bumgarner says. "I got it."
"No worries if you don't throw a perfect strike to Rivera, I saw him in the PCL last year and that guy'll chase in the dirt if he's behind."
"Okay, thanks Buster." Bumgarner squeezes the baseball in his glove, wishing Posey would get back behind the plate already, put his mask back on so Bumgarner doesn't have to look at him anymore, let him pitch.
"Hey," and the sharp tone brings Bumgarner's head up to find Posey glaring at him, a red pressure line from his catcher's mask bisecting his forehead, his hair a few shades darker and plastered down by sweat. "Get your head in the fuckin' game, Mad."
"It is," Bumgarner replies instantly. "I heard you, I know what we're doing."
"Fuckin' look alive then," Posey says, eyes squinted down to fiercely bright strips of blue in the Arizona sunlight. "Everybody's watching you now."
Posey chocks Bumgarner on the hip with his mitt before turning to jog back behind the plate. Bumgarner stalks around the back of the mound, dusting his hand with the rosin bag and yanking discontentedly at his cap brim, and then steps up to the rubber. All instinct now, digging his toe in and bending forward at the waist, letting his long left arm dangle bonelessly, the ball in his hand almost brushing the dirt. He closes his eyes for just a moment and takes a breath through his nose, tapping into the lizard-brain current of concentration that this job requires, before opening them to find his target once again.
Behind the home plate screen, a dozen scouts level their radar guns at him. In the Giants dugout, the pitching coaches huddle at the rail, hawking chaw into the dirt and glaring intensely towards the mound. There are ten thousand people crowded into this idyllic desert ballpark, capped and obscure behind sunglasses and Posey is right (always has been, about everything): almost every single one of them has their attention locked on Madison Bumgarner right now.
For all the good that does him--Bumgarner (the idiot) still only has eyes for Buster Posey.
THE END
Endnotes: I hope you guys won't think me too shallow if I confess that the biggest stumbling block to these new additions for me is not that they're both already married (this story clearly demonstrates just how much disbelief I can suspend in that regard), but instead Madison Bumgarner's freaking ridiculous name. I mean, 'Lincecum' hardly rolls off the tongue, but Jesus, at least we can call him Timmy. Baseball shorthand being what it is, his teammates either refer to him Maddy or Bummy, also I have heard MadBum and oh my god, what are those choices.
Zito is the nickname-giver on the team, so clearly he's got his work cut out for him with regard to Beanpole McEars over here. And then maybe I will reward Zito by letting him nail Buster (you know he wants to).
But then, Buster! What a fucking cipher that kid is, I can only kinda circle his right characterization, but I'll get to it.