Chapter Text
33, 34, 35.
Derek counted silently in his head. His chest and his triceps were already burning from the rest of his workout, and the pushups weren’t exactly helping. But the offseason was designed for building muscle and getting stronger, so he gritted his teeth and kept going.
48, 49, 50.
He avoided collapsing straight onto his face after the last rep, but it was a close thing. He rolled onto his back instead and stretched out his chest, sighing as the sharp burn settled into a familiar deep ache. One of the other guys working out tossed him a towel, which he caught with a grateful nod before wiping the sweat off his face.
Derek really wanted to just lay there for a little while, until his heart rate came back down, but he heaved himself up into a seated position and started to stretch, first his chest and then his back. He moved onto all fours for a couple flows between cat pose and cow pose, enjoying the sensation as the warmth spread up his spine.
Ever since their series of seminars last spring, most of the guys on the team had taken up yoga. Derek’s motivations were a little different (i.e., he wasn’t as interested in the pretty blonde with the little shorts), but he couldn’t deny the benefits. He tucked his toes under and pushed back into downward dog, wincing. His hamstrings felt a little tighter than usual; he’d have to keep an eye on that.
Finally, once he felt less like a piece of pulverized meat, he gingerly got to his feet and left the weight room, waving goodbye at the guys still working out. The trainers’ room was right next door, and he let one of the guys wrap a bag of ice over his shoulder. “20 minutes, okay? Then do it a couple more times later today.”
Derek knew the drill, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah, thanks.”
There wasn’t much he could do with his arm immobilized, so he hopped on one of the stationary bikes and set it to an easy resistance. There was a TV in the corner, turned to a random soccer game, and Derek watched it half-heartedly while he reviewed his workout in his head. He hadn’t done anything too strenuous, just a glorified game of catch, really, with the pitching coach, but it felt good nonetheless. He had almost six weeks before they started official spring training, and he was feeling confident and prepared. Most days, anyway.
Finally he was done, and he tipped the bag of ice out into the sink. The locker room was blessedly empty, and Derek yawned as he stripped off his Dodgers shirt in front of his locker. He stuffed it into his bag, rummaging for his clean one, and noticed that he had a text from Erica.
Derek grimaced. New people weren’t exactly his favorite thing, especially when they intruded on his weekly brunch with Erica, but he didn’t want to be rude. He checked the time—he shouldn’t be late, not if he took a quick shower and the traffic was decent. Which, considering Los Angeles, wasn’t exactly something he could count on.
He hurried through his shower and threw his clothes on, wincing when they stuck to his still-damp skin. After packing his bag up, he slung it over his shoulder and headed out.
“Derek!”
Derek looked up, a little startled, but he smiled at the sight of Matt Dennis, one of the veterans on the team who’d been most welcoming to Derek last season. “Matty, hey,” he said, leaning in for one of those bro hugs that he secretly hated. “How’s it going?”
“Good, good. How’d the throwing go today? Feel good after that time off?”
Derek nodded, his face brightening. After their season ended in early October, he was instructed by their coaching staff not to touch a baseball for the rest of the year. He knew he needed the rest after his first full season in the majors—and consequently, the most innings he’d ever thrown in a year—but he had been eager to get back to it, after the longest break from pitching he’d taken since he was a kid.
“Yeah. Yeah, definitely. Feels great.”
“Good. Take care of that golden arm, okay?”
Derek huffed and rolled his eyes, but Matty just slapped him on the shoulder with a grin and kept going toward the locker room. Golden arm, right, he thought, rotating his shoulder unconsciously. He just hoped he could live up to it.
The traffic gods were on his side today because it took him under 20 minutes to get across town and find a parking spot within a block from the café where he and Erica always went for brunch. It was a little hole-in-the-wall with pretty decent food that magically wasn’t ever too crowded, even on a Saturday. And Derek had never gotten recognized there, which was a serious bonus. Still, he pulled the brim of his cap low over his forehead and didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he entered the restaurant and wormed his way to the far corner of the back patio, where they usually sat.
Erica was already there, sitting next to a dark-haired guy with his back to Derek, and she half-stood in her seat, waving. He nodded back and hugged her when he was close enough, letting her lean up and kiss him on the cheek. “Hey there. It’s good to see you.”
“You, too, Der,” she said, squeezing him and gesturing to the guy. “And this is Stiles. Stiles, Derek.”
What the hell kind of name was Stiles? Derek thought, but he pasted on a bland smile as he shook Stiles’ hand. “Hi.”
“Hey, dude,” he said, smiling broadly. “Nice to meet you.”
Their usual waitress came right over and patiently took their orders, even though Stiles was the only one actually looking at a menu. Derek got the same thing every time, an egg white omelet with roasted potatoes and one piece of bacon, while Erica cycled through a half dozen of her favorites.
“So, Stiles,” Erica started, twisting to face him. “Fill me in on the gossip.”
Stiles laughed and started talking about someone that Derek didn’t know or care about, so he closed his eyes, exhaling at the feel of sun on his face. There were a lot of things that he didn’t like about LA, but being able to sit outside on an early January day sure wasn’t one of them.
Erica was definitely capable of holding a conversation—which was one of the reasons Derek liked her, honestly—and Stiles was even better. Or worse? Whichever it was, it left Derek to sit in peace and enjoy his omelet while their chattering washed over him.
“So do you ever talk?”
There was a pause, and Derek looked up. Stiles was smirking and looking straight at him, and Derek realized that he’d been speaking to him. He patiently finished chewing and took a slow sip of his coffee. “I bet you talk enough for the both of us.”
Stiles burst out laughing, looking a little surprised. “Yeah, well, that’s probably true. Sorry for monopolizing the conversation there.”
“Oh, please, he was thrilled,” Erica said, rolling her eyes, and Stiles laughed again.
“So how long have you two been friends?”
“First week of freshman year,” Derek said. He realized that he should probably contribute something to the conversation; he wasn’t a total hermit, after all. “We lived next to each other and both had shitty roommates.”
“We kinda became de facto roommates, and it’s been happily ever after since then,” Erica chimed in, winking at him. “Well, without the love part. We kissed once when we were drunk, and it was not good.”
“Hey,” Derek said mildly, pretending to be offended, and Stiles snorted.
“Oh, and you introduced her to Boyd, right?”
Derek nodded, smiling when Erica blushed. He and Boyd were drafted by the Dodgers the same year, and they became friends almost as soon as they met. Derek immediately introduced him to Erica. “Yeah. That was me.”
“Talk about happily ever after,” Stiles said, smirking, and Erica laughed as she brought her hands up to cover her face. “I’m gonna need to know more.”
Derek tuned out again after that—he was way too familiar with the details of their early relationship—and only started paying attention again when they started talking about TV shows.
“New season of Game of Thrones starts tomorrow, I can’t wait,” Stiles was saying, and Erica rolled her eyes.
“Borrr-ing. For all the nudity in that show, there aren’t near enough dicks,” she said. Stiles laughed, and Derek rolled his eyes. “Derek watches it, though.”
“Yeah? So are you excited that they’re finally moving past the books?”
Derek frowned. “Absolutely not. They should have waited.”
“Ah. You’re one of those stodgy book readers, aren’t you?” Stiles asked, smirking, and Derek huffed.
“No,” he said, even though he totally was. “I just think it makes for a more thorough viewing experience to have read the books.”
“Oh, I totally agree, I’m a book reader, too. Just not a stodgy one,” he said, his eyes bright, and Derek rolled his eyes.
“It’s either going to spoil the books or be different from the original intent. Neither option is very appealing.”
“Well, first of all, even if they’re deviating from the original plot points, the show has been different enough from the source material in the past that reading the book should still be enjoyable. And if it’s different, that’s even better! With such a sprawling world of characters, there’s definitely more than one way to reach a satisfying conclusion.”
Derek wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t totally convinced. “We’ll see.”
“You should come over to my place tomorrow and watch it, if you want,” Stiles said easily, and Derek hesitated. Erica was giving him an excited look—she was always after him about “needing to make new friends,” or whatever. Derek always told her that he didn’t have time for more friends, but surprisingly, he wasn’t actively disliking Stiles’ company.
“Okay,” he said slowly, and Erica grinned at him. “Yeah, sure.”
Derek drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, triple-checking the address that Stiles texted him to make sure it matched the place he was parked in front of. The house was cute and kind of quirky-looking, small but clean and clearly well-maintained.
He heaved a deep breath and then frowned when it came out a little shaky. He was…weirdly nervous? What the hell? He was pretty decent at making casual acquaintance-ish friends, after years of playing on many different baseball teams, so why was he so anxious about it? That’s all this was. Stiles had just moved to LA, he was probably just looking to meet any new people that he could.
Derek shook his head at himself and got out of the car, walked up the little stone path, and rapped sharply on the door. Stiles swung it open just a few seconds later.
“Hey! Awesome, you’re here. You had no trouble finding it? Ugh, duh, obviously,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Come in, come in.”
Derek smiled, in spite of himself, and stepped over the threshold. “I brought beer,” he said, lifting the six-pack, and Stiles bowed a little in his direction before taking it from him.
“Fantastic, what a houseguest. Thanks, dude.”
Derek stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked around. The little foyer opened up into a large living room, with a weathered leather couch and a couple comfy-looking armchairs, all angled toward a big flat-screen that was currently showing an NFL game on mute. “Nice place.”
“Thanks,” Stiles said over his shoulder as he walked further into the house, toward what Derek assumed was the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, whatever. Sorry about the mess, still unpacking, you know.”
There were a few open boxes strewn across the room, but other than that it was pretty neat. Two big bookcases were already set up on the far wall, stuffed full of books and other random knickknacks, and there were two framed pieces hanging next to them. They looked somewhat familiar, funnily enough, so Derek took a step in that direction. He oddly felt like he was invading Stiles’ privacy, but they were hanging in his living room, so it was fair game, right?
He carefully stepped over a box hiding behind the couch and leaned in for a closer look, then blinked. The framed items were baseball scorecards. Keeping score on paper, with the requisite symbols and diagrams, was an old-school way of watching a baseball game, so much so that barely anyone ever did it anymore, save for baseball players and sportswriters and some avid fans, usually older ones. Were these Stiles’? Or just some kind of vintage decorating thing?
One of the scorecards was in neat loopy writing, probably a woman’s, while the other was in a kid’s childish scrawl. Both were dated, from 2002, and signed at the bottom. Derek could make out Stiles, in blocky all-caps writing, and he frowned.
“I thought you didn’t like baseball,” he said, raising his voice so Stiles could hear him.
“Never said that!” Stiles called out from the kitchen. “Love it, in fact. Totally obsessed.”
“But you didn’t—”
Derek cut himself off, blushing, and Stiles appeared in the wide, open doorway between the living room and the kitchen, leaning his shoulder against the wall.
“Didn’t recognize you?” he asked, smirking.
Derek cleared his throat. The tips of his ears were burning, god. “Uh, yeah.”
Stiles snorted and stepped toward him, holding out an opened bottle of beer with a Batman koozie on it. Derek took it and let Stiles clink the necks together. “Well, I’m glad to hear that my acting skills are up to snuff because I most definitely did recognize you. I practically shit my pants when you walked in. Glad to know that I hid it well.”
“You did.”
Derek appreciated it, actually—he always felt uncomfortable when people fawned over him just because he was blessed with the genetic ability to throw a ball really fast. But he didn’t know how to say that without being weird.
“Erica neglected to mention that her ‘best friend from college, Derek,’” Stiles said, complete with the air quotes, “was Derek Hale, fucking rookie of the year.”
Derek rolled his eyes and took a long swig of beer as he sat down onto the couch. “I was not rookie of the year.”
“Shoulda been,” Stiles retorted, collapsing down next to him. “That fucking offensive bias, I swear.”
Derek huffed a little laugh. He did have the best stats of all the rookie pitchers last season, but the Cardinals had some phenom third baseman who hit about a million home runs and got more votes for the award than Derek did. “You a Dodgers fan, then?”
Stiles grimaced. “Fuck, no. The Mets.”
“How the hell are you a Mets fan?” Derek asked, wrinkling his nose. “Didn’t you grow up with Erica up north?”
“My mom was a Mets fan,” Stiles said, and even if Derek hadn’t caught the past tense, he was all too familiar with that wistful smile.
He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said softly, looking down at his hands dangling between his legs. “When I was 10.”
Derek felt bad that he inadvertently guided Stiles into telling him something so personal, and he strangely felt the need to even the playing field. “I, uh…my dad and my little sister passed away when I was in high school. Car accident.”
Stiles grimaced. “Shit.”
Derek nodded and took another gulp of beer. It had been close to 10 years, almost, and he still couldn’t talk about it without tears pricking at the back of his eyes.
“Well,” Stiles said loudly, smacking his knee. “That took a downer turn.”
Derek snorted and looked up, blinking a few times.
“My mom was the one who—she was fanatical about keeping score, you know, and she taught me. Now I can’t go to a baseball game without doing it,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the scorecards, and Derek followed his gaze.
“Those are really cool. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any fan under the age of about 60 keeping score,” he said with a little smirk, and Stiles laughed.
“Yeah, trust me, there’s no faster way to make friends with every senior citizen in a ballpark. It’s pretty awesome.” Something dinged in the kitchen, and Stiles hopped to his feet. “Food’s ready. You hungry?”
“Sure,” Derek said, shrugging. It smelled pretty good, anyway.
He put his feet up on the coffee table—its scuffs indicated that it was probably used to that—and found the remote to unmute the TV, although he turned the volume down.
“Nachos,” Stiles said, setting a big plate down on the coffee table with a flourish. “Dinner of champions.”
Oh god, nachos. Derek kept to a pretty healthful diet, even in the offseason, and he tried to hide his grimace.
But evidently he didn’t hide it all because Stiles rolled his eyes at him.
“Okay, well, first of all, it’s rude to insult your host’s food,” he said, smacking Derek on the shoulder. He flushed and started to apologize, but Stiles kept talking. “And second of all, they’re healthy nachos. So relax, mister health nut.”
“How do you make healthy nachos?” Derek asked, leaning forward to peer at them.
“Easy. Whole grain chips, homemade salsa, black beans, chicken breast, avocado, not too much cheese.”
“Wow,” he said as he reached for one, suitably impressed. “Are you a health nut?”
Stiles chuckled a little. “Kinda, sometimes. I ended up taking over the household cooking a little while after my, uh, when my mom died, and since my dad is always borderline high cholesterol and blood pressure, I learned to cook a lot of healthy food. I just figured you probably liked that kinda stuff, so—”
“Thanks,” he said, through a mouthful. “These are really good.”
“Oh my god, you caveman,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Swallow your damn food.”
Derek chewed loudly, just to be a dick, and ducked when Stiles flung a throw pillow at him. Yeah, maybe this would turn out all right.
Stiles got invited to their brunch the following week, also, but strangely, Derek didn’t mind as much as last time. He even tried to contribute to the conversation.
“I started reading your book,” Derek said, smirking when Stiles groaned. “It’s good, I like it.”
“Oh, god,” he said, covering his face as he groaned again. Erica just laughed. “That’s so weird.”
“What, why?” Derek asked. He wasn’t lying—fantasy usually wasn’t his genre, but he’d burned through the first 100 pages in one right, much faster than he usually read. And at least according to what he learned from his internet research, the books were critically-acclaimed and had both spent a lot of time on the New York Times Bestseller list.
“It’s just weird when people that I know read them, I dunno,” Stiles said, shrugging.
“I’ve read them both, obviously,” Erica chimed in. “When does the third book in the series come out?”
Stiles hummed. “I don’t know if there’s a date yet. I’m working on the fourth one right now.”
“So if I ask real nicely, you’ll tell me what happens?” Erica says, batting her eyes while she poked her lower lip out, and Stiles leaned forward, maintaining eye contact.
“No,” he said finally, when their noses were about an inch apart, and Erica laughed, tipping her head down against his shoulder. Stiles grinned and wrapped his arm around her shoulder to haul her closer to his chest.
“Sorry, love, no spoilers. Not even for people as beautiful as you.”
Erica groaned dramatically and turned her face into his shoulder as she hugged him. “You’re the worst.”
Stiles smirked at Derek over her head, and he just rolled his eyes.
He managed to slip his credit card to the waitress while Stiles and Erica were bantering about something, and he signed the little slip before they even realized what was happening. They each tried to stuff cash in his pockets on their way out the restaurant, but Derek was stronger than both of them and was able to hold them off.
“Bye, Erica,” Stiles said, hugging her tightly before waving at Derek. “We still on for tomorrow, yeah?”
Derek nodded and kept walking with Erica toward their cars.
“So you guys have a little ongoing Game of Thrones date now?” she asked, grinning, and he rolled his eyes.
“Yeah. He’s…not the worst.”
She elbowed him in the side and laughed. “Wow, Mr. Hale, high praise.”
“You guys seem close,” Derek said diplomatically, and Erica smiled with a little sigh.
“Yeah, Stiles is great. And oh my god, he grew up hot. I had the biggest crush on him in high school.”
Derek frowned. Hmm.
There was almost nothing Derek loved more than routine, and he was pleased that his Sunday nights with Stiles already felt familiar. Stiles made nachos, while Derek brought beer and got to sit on his ridiculously comfortable couch.
“So I was kind of lying when I said that I Googled you,” Stiles started. “I mean, I did a little, but then it felt sorta weird because I know you, and all that means is that you’re gonna have to give me your baseball resume yourself.”
Derek snorted. “What do you want to know?”
“You—well, you obviously went to college, duh, since that’s where you met Erica. Did you ever think about entering the draft after high school?”
Derek shrugged. “No, not really. My mom was really adamant about me going to college, and it’s hard to pass up a free ride to UCLA.”
“And then you got drafted.”
“And then I got drafted,” Derek confirmed. “After my junior year.”
“First round, pick number six,” Stiles said, with a little grin, and Derek rolled his eyes. “I do know that. Then what?”
“Well, you know there’s only a few months left in the season after the draft, so I went to the rookie league in Arizona. I spent the next year going between AA and AAA in the minors, and then last year I got called up to the majors.”
“Wow.”
Derek took a long drag off his beer and drew one leg up underneath himself on the couch. “Wow, what?”
“That’s just—really impressive. Most guys spend several years in the minors, not just one. And then you had a great season last year, in your rookie year.”
Derek shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “I guess.”
Stiles snorted and leaned forward to grab a nacho, breaking the long string of cheese with his tongue. “I guess, he says. I’m getting the impression that you’re uncomfortable with praise, which means I’m gonna praise you all the fucking time, I hope you know.”
“Do you want me to talk about how successful your books are?” he shot back, and Stiles grimaced.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” he said, waving his hand as he took a swig of his own beer. “So…does that mean you didn’t graduate college?”
Derek huffed a little laugh. “No, I haven’t. Not yet, anyway.”
“Not yet?”
“I’m taking online classes to finish,” he admitted. “Just one a semester. I should graduate in December, if all goes well.”
“Whoa, really?” Stiles asked, his eyes wide. “What’s your major?”
“History.”
Stiles snorted. “Wow. Not even a bullshit phys ed major or anything,” he said, and Derek laughed.
“Nah. I like history. I tried to take extra classes while I was there, since I knew I was probably gonna leave after junior year.”
“How in the world do you find the time? That’s amazing.”
Derek shrugged. “Like I said, I like it. One class at a time isn’t too bad. And it—I mean, I definitely want to get my degree because it’s not like I’m gonna play baseball forever. But it’s also really important to my mom that I finish.”
“So you two are close then?” he asked, and Derek hesitated. Stiles must have sensed his discomfort because he sat back in the corner of a couch with a little laugh. “You can talk about your mom all you want if you let me talk about my dad, okay?”
Derek smiled and nodded. “Yeah, we are close. And my older sister, Laura.”
“And they live in New York, right?”
“Yep.”
They chatted a little bit more, about Stiles’ progress on his draft over the past week and Derek’s workouts, but Derek couldn’t wait much longer before bringing up what had been on his mind.
“I just gotta say this, okay?” he said. This was probably going to be awkward, but…Erica was important. He braced his hands on his thighs and took a deep breath.
“Uh, okay,” Stiles said, drawing out the word. His eyebrows were raised. “What is it?”
“I, uh, I know you and Erica are close. But you know she’s seeing someone, right? Boyd, he’s my best friend.”
Stiles furrowed his brow for a second, then he burst out laughing. “Dude,” he exclaimed. “Seriously, you think I’m interested in Erica?”
Derek flushed. Clearly he was wrong, but… “You two are very physically affectionate,” he said lamely, and Stiles snorted.
“Oh my god, so many things to say to that. Okay, first of all, men and women can be friends. Also, I’m not that guy, I’m not a dick. I would never cheat or knowingly help someone else cheat. And last but certainly not least, Erica’s not exactly my type. I’m gay.”
Oh.
Oh.
Holy shit.
“Oh,” Derek said dumbly. He didn’t say anything else, but his facial expression must not have been great because Stiles frowned.
“If you’re gonna start spewing some homophobic bullshit, you can leave right now,” he said, his mouth set in a hard line as he jerked his chin toward the door, and Derek winced.
“No! God, no, not at all. I just—I was just surprised, that’s all. I swear. Sorry.”
“Okay,” Stiles said, clearly still a little wary.
“I, uh, have a cousin who’s gay,” Derek tried, then immediately regretted it. He closed his eyes and wished that he could rewind the last 10 seconds. “Shit, that’s as bad as saying you have a black friend, huh?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” Stiles said, grinning now. “But I’ll forgive you. You know, since you have a gay friend now and all.”
Derek groaned, tipping his head back against the couch as Stiles laughed. “Okay, I’m gonna stop talking now.”
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”
“Sorry. Again.”
“It’s fine, really. I’m kinda glad it came up because I didn’t really know how to tell you? Which is super dumb. I mean, I didn’t think you would…care or anything, but you know,” Stiles said, shrugging. “Athletes can be weird.”
“Not the ones I’m friends with,” Derek said carefully. “But yeah, I get that.”
“Do you know any gay players?” he asked, and Derek shook his head.
“No,” he said immediately. “Definitely not.”
“There must be, though, right?” Stiles pressed. “I mean, it would be statistically impossible if there weren’t.”
Derek paused, his mind whirring. Huh. “Yeah…yeah, I guess,” he said slowly. “I’ve never thought about it that way before.”
“Glad I could expand your worldview,” Stiles said cheerfully, patting him on the shoulder. “Ooh, it’s about to start. The remote’s on your side, buddy, so get to it.”
Derek obediently changed the channel to HBO, just as the theme song started, but he didn’t get immediately sucked in like he usually did—he was too busy thinking about what Stiles had said.
The following Sunday, Derek paused on his way out the front door and twisted to face Stiles. “I have a, uh, a thing next Sunday, and I might be late.”
“Okay,” he said easily. “You wanna reschedule to another night? I can just record it.”
“No,” Derek said hurriedly. Somehow, without him really even realizing it, their Sunday nights had become the best part of his week. “No, it’s fine. I probably won’t be late, but I wanted to let you know just in case.”
“Yeah, sure. So what’s up? You got a hot date? I don’t appreciate being second fiddle, you know,” Stiles said with a smirk, propping his hands on his hips, and Derek rolled his eyes.
“No. I…it’s embarrassing,” he said finally, and Stiles grinned.
“Well, now you really have to tell me.”
Derek sighed. “I signed a deal with Under Armour a couple months ago, and I’m doing a photo shoot.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles said, cracking up. “You’re gonna have to pose shirtless, that’s fantastic.”
Derek paused, his hand going to his stomach reflexively. “I—I hadn’t even thought of that.”
Stiles laughed even harder and clutched at the door frame. “Holy shit, your face is priceless.”
“Do you really that’s uh, what they’re gonna do?”
“Uh, yes. How did you not think about that?”
“I thought it would just be baseball!” he protested. “As in, you know, my profession.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “To Under Armour, your profession is being hot enough to sell underwear or whatever.”
Derek ignored the spots of heat on his own cheeks and huffed. “I’m leaving now.”
“Bye, hot stuff!” Stiles yelled after him, and Derek flipped him off over his shoulder.