Cal’s grandfather asked them to get rid of the snapping turtle. It ate the mallard ducklings, and now, it's eating the fancy goslings Cal’s grandmother is trying to raise. That’s why they are here, Brendan and Cal, standing at the dock’s edge, waiting. Cal’s done this before, a few times, he says, though never with a turtle this size, and he baits a three-inch hook with a chicken wing and lowers it into the water before giving the heavy nylon line to Brendan. Brendan wonders how hard the feeding strike of a seventy-pound snapper is; he’s seen it once: the green-black shell nearly outstripped the circle of his arms, the beak-hooked mouth opened and shut, and tufts of gray down floated on the water. A string of fat bubbles rises to the water’s surface, a foot from the place the line cuts down. Brendan tightens his grip.

“There you are,” Cal says, and leans closer to the water.

Brendan glances over his shoulder at his friend, the dented Louisville Slugger at home in his hands, covered, as are Brendan’s, by last season’s batting gloves. It’s cool for the end of May, the light is starting to die, and Cal makes Brendan a little nervous, leaning like that. But Cal makes Brendan nervous in all kinds of ways, ways that make Brendan nervous with himself.

“Get ready.”

Brendan tries to stay still, not to disturb the hook, not to lean closer to Cal, and nods. He hopes the line won’t slip. If the turtle starts to swim, he’ll wrap the line around his palm and count on the gloves that carried him through a collegiate scouting camp at sixteen, the gloves he fastened-checked-fastened like Nomar each at-bat. When Brendan had moved from Philadelphia to West Branch, in southern New York, Cal had laughed at that, goddamn Yankees fan that he was. Cal let up when Brendan knew where Cal’s glove would be on the double play before Cal knew himself. Fast friends on the middle infield. Neither properly seniors yet, both courted by the same Division I schools. Neither thinking past this afternoon and a few triumphant, pilfered beers when the deed is done. Not thinking about an hour in the back-most seat of Cal’s mom’s van on the way home from a late double-header six days ago or the two hours afterward on Cal's couch. Laughter to cover the sound of zippers pulling back up, the later silence that wasn’t as uncomfortable as Brendan thought it would be.

Another slow string of bubbles flutter upward and break, this time against the nylon. Brendan’s fingers prickle, holding too tightly. A soft shudder ripples upward to his palms, and he edges forward. The snapper’s strike is furious. Cal’s arm snakes around Brendan’s chest, keeping him steady while Brendan yanks back, sets the hook, regains his balance. He leans into Cal for a moment, inhales murky water and cut grass and Cal's RightGuard, then the arm is gone and Brendan starts the pull toward shore.

The reptile’s weight hums in his straining arms, and the snapper is in the grassy shallows now, dark and dripping, and strands of green cling to the shell as it charges. Just as the turtle hits the incline, it sets four broad, clawed feet into the mud and stops. Brendan makes two clockwise circles with his arm, curling the line around his hand, and pulls, slowly. He takes half a step back, dragging the turtle, its tail furrowing mud, webbed feet pushing back, swimming without water.

Cal steps closer, outstretching the bat to push the snapper forward, and Brendan pauses, lets his arms relax a moment, lets the line go slightly slack around his hand, pulls his hat off and resettles it. The turtle lunges, neck striking serpentine to bite at the bat. The slide of mouth and hook sends a shivering noise through the aluminum, and the snapper heaves backward toward deeper water. Brendan’s jerked forward, and the nylon tightens around his palm and cuts into his wrist where the glove ends.

“Hang on, B.” Cal steps into the pond, and the turtle snaps at his bare kneecap, misses. Brendan backpedals, hard, both hands on the fishing line and pulling. Blood runs down his arm, but the turtle’s into the grass now, can’t use its wide feet and thin claws so well. Cal’s behind it, shepherding it along with the bat and with the toe of his sneaker to the flattened top of the bank.

Brendan finally thinks to unwind the line from his hand and walk himself closer to the turtle, hand over hand, foot over foot, right over left until he and Cal and the snapper are in line, the runner caught between second and third and the fielders close the distance. But the snapper isn’t feinting right then left, isn’t ducking and dodging, hoping to draw the throw and break. The snapper is hissing while the algae-covered plates on its back rise and fall too quickly for a creature probably twice Brendan’s age. But it doesn’t move otherwise.

“I’m going to flip it,” Cal says, stepping nearer.

Brendan nods. The turtle’s pressed nearly flat to the ground and Cal has to get his sneaker under the edge of the shell near its front leg. He’s working his whole foot under the shell; he’s not going to turn over seventy pounds of turtle with only his toes. Brendan leans in, leans over the turtle. “I’ll grab the edge of the shell, pull it over.”

“Okay.” Their eyes meet over the turtle’s back; this is just another double play.

The turtle snaps before either reacts. Cal stumbles back, a red tear showing through the mud on his ankle, and he falls. The air whuffs out of his lungs; Brendan hears him trying to curse, sees in his mind the Cayandoga Creek right fielder who slid cleats-up into Cal when Creek was losing by nine runs in the sixth. Who was out by three steps. Who could have broken Cal’s ankle. Who kept Cal out of the first game of the playoffs last year.

Brendan plants his foot squarely on the turtle’s shell and steps over, takes the bat from where it’s fallen beside Cal. He turns, swings the bat exactly wrong, chopping down. The sound will make him sick later tonight, the thick heavy thud of shell cracking. He swings again, and two of the hexagonal plates break off entirely.

“B—”

Again. The barrel of the bat is dark, red and green and muddy.

“B, I think it’s dead now.” Cal is sitting, knees drawn up in front of him.

Brendan drops the bat, drops to the grass beside Cal. “Yeah, guess so.” He watches the cut on Cal’s ankle. It’s really not very deep, just awkward, right over the knobby bone that sticks out sharp above Cal’s sneaker. “It got you.”

“Might have been worth it to see you go all berserk on that snapper.” Cal half-turns, shoves one knee and one elbow into Brendan’s. “Inner-city shortstop harbors inner Conan.”

“Shut up.” Brendan wipes at the line-cut on his own arm and grins to cover the churning of his stomach.

Cal gives Brendan a sideways glance before pushing himself forward, reaching for the bat. “You nearly destroyed my best walnut-and-rock-hitting bat, though. Asshole.”

“Ted Williams used a broomstick. Step up.”

“Says the kid who’d never seen a walnut until two years ago.” Cal puts the bat head-down in the grass, levers himself up. “You have to explain to Gram why the snapper’s too mangled for soup.” He extends a hand to Brendan, pulls him up, and takes Brendan’s other hand, the one that’s cut along the top of the batting glove. He undoes the Velcro, shoves the bloody glove into his back pocket, and holds Brendan’s hand in both of his. His thumb ghosts around the top edge of the cut, soft, then Cal slings his arm around Brendan’s shoulder. They touch fist to fist, knuckles to knuckles. Brendan opens his fist, clasps Cal’s hand, pulls him in for the customary chest bump. Good game. They stay that way for half a minute, until Cal turns away, says, “And we’ll get some band-aids for the idiot who got bit by a turtle and the dumbass who wrapped fishing line around his wrist. You never fly a kite before?”

Cal’s grandmother is peeved by the news about the snapper, so Cal and Brendan retreat to the basement with sandwiches and an order to turn out the lights when they come up. Tacit invitation to Cal’s grandfather’s minifridge and stash of pretzels.

Cal flicks on the television, surfs until he finds ESPN News. They eat in silence, absorbing both commentary and scrolling scores. It’s the quarterfinals of the College World Series. University of Georgia is doing well; they probably won’t win because Auburn is unstoppable this year, led by some kid from central Pennsylvania, three hours south from where they are right now, but UGA’s a contender. A contender looking to replace their short and second duo in two years.

Brendan pops the tab on a can. He really hates light beer, but it’s free and he’s afraid of the conversation beyond beer, baseball, and the dead turtle. So he drinks.

Cal speaks first. “You think the scout will be there Tuesday?”

Tuesday is the start of the state playoffs. Fifth seed West Branch against eighth seed Ganoga Lake.

“Yeah. Us and Ganoga’s catcher. Probably be a couple of scouts.” Including the guy from Louisiana State who’s called Brendan three times now. The one he hasn’t mentioned to Cal. The one he hopes he doesn’t have to but suspects he might because he can’t stop looking at Cal. Can’t help but remember last Monday night, when they actually kissed, when it wasn’t kind of a joke anymore, wasn’t bootlegged copies of copies of cheap porn, when it was hands and lips and terrifying. He sets the half-empty can on the floor, thinks if he can avoid drinking too much, he can avoid talking too much.

He’s safe for now. They talk through the Clemson-over-Oklahoma upset, decide it doesn’t matter because Auburn’s kicking ass, argue, again, as the MLB scores flash by, over who’s a better hitter, Nomar or Jeter. Cal declares Jeter the winner because Brendan’s from Philadelphia but loves the BoSox and no traitor to his own home team deserves to win the argument. Cal steals Brendan’s beer and empties it in triumph. Brendan has to retaliate.

“This shit is terrible.” He kills the taste with pretzels, but they make him thirsty again.

“Yeah.” Cal opens another, raises it, stops. “You have to be home any time soon?”

Brendan snorts. “I’m with you. I could be gone three days and Mom’d be thrilled. ‘Cal’s such a nice boy.’”

“That’s because I don’t spraypaint overpasses or loiter on street corners.”

You don’t have overpasses or street corners here.” The Yankees will be on in thirteen minutes.

“And free beer.” Cal flips through the channels again and again.

When the coverage starts, they watch the lineup. At least Mussina’s pitching. He’s from close enough to home that Brendan doesn’t have to hate him, even if he is a Yankee now.

“For the record, my mom likes you, too.” Cal must be getting a little drunk.

“Would she if—” Brendan bites his lip.

“If what?”

“If she knew . . .” What had happened in the back seat of her van. What it feels like is happening now. He glances at the old couch on the other side of the basement.

“. . . you beat a turtle to death to save me?” Cal’s gaze is steady on the screen. “She’d thank you for rescuing—”

“—‘her little Calvin.’”

“Asshole.”

They drink until the game is over, don’t touch, fall asleep in their armchairs, drive home in time to get to church with their parents.

Brendan’s still at school, watching Ganoga Lake footage with the team. Coach gives his night-before-a-game speech, “Home, homework, sleep,” and sends them out. Some of the team go to their girlfriends’, more go to their Playstations, and Brendan and Cal go to Cal’s to watch Auburn kick the shit out of Clemson and trade chemistry and calculus homework.

Brendan scratches at the mostly-healed cut on his wrist. He’d worn Cal’s wristband over it at practice, and tiny wisps of cotton stuck to the scab. He hasn’t finished his half of the frozen pizza and he’s only copied three of tomorrow’s twenty equations. But he knows that there’s a black mark on Cal’s ankle where fibers from his sock stuck to the band-aid, knows he beat something to death because of or for Cal, and he’s not sorry.

Cal’s left hand keeps pulling at his hair, almost as bottle-blond as Brendan’s now. He’s nervous. He does this on the bus to away games. Before tests. UGA requires at least 1100 on the SAT’s; Brendan thought he’d have to break Cal’s arm to get him to stop tugging at his hair that morning.

Brendan leans closer. There are half a dozen yellow strands on Cal’s notebook. Another falls. Brendan reaches out, grabs his arm.

“Knock it off before you’re bald.”

Cal jerks his gaze up from Brendan’s calculus book. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, you’re making me nervous, too.” Brendan lets go, scratches his wrist again. He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

Cal laughs, a little. He’s looking hard at Brendan. Not like he did that Monday night. Not like he did when he put the white butterfly patches on Brendan’s wrist.

Brendan eats another slice of pizza, makes sure he’s got one wrong answer on his chemistry homework, and drives home.

He reads the note his mother left.

Jim Davies—LSU—will see you at game tomorrow. Good luck. Hopes you’re still considering them.

He still hasn’t told Cal about LSU. He doesn’t really want to go there. He wants Georgia and Cal and everything West Branch’s dynamic duo has always been. But he doesn’t know if he and Cal are still—were ever—what they thought they were. What he thought they were.

Brendan and Cal cut out of Civics class early, claiming that Coach elected them to load up the equipment on the bus. Their teacher knows that’s bullshit but doesn’t stop them. At least they’re both passing.

In the locker room, they dress in silence, putting on their uniforms in the same order. This is a ritual, it always has been, and that Cal is pulling up his unwashed left sock as Brendan pulls up his comforts Brendan. It could be like this at Georgia.

And then they are both dressed, and there are still ten minutes before the final bell rings, before the rest of the team crowds in. Cal turns his mitt over and over in his hands. It’s a Mizuno, like Brendan’s, and those mitts are full of a short history, invisible marks and each other’s signatures across the palms. Brendan catches a glimpse of his, the B the only letter legible. No great signature has ever been neat. Brendan and Cal pretend they’ve never seen each other practicing their own names on the backs of their math folders. They pretend a lot of things. The mitt is still turning. It’s making Brendan dizzy. He reaches, catches one of the leather thongs near the thumb.

“Stop it. You’ll make me throw up. I’m nervous enough already.”

Cal doesn’t stop turning the mitt. He turns around instead, shielding Brendan and keeping on as he was. For the minute, Cal has it both ways. Brendan wants life to be like that. He thinks it can be. Maybe. He swallows, ventures, “Georgia’s got to have nicer locker rooms than this, ones with those shelves and a place to hang up your whole uniform.”

“Yeah.”

Brendan ventures further. “Probably got those great soaking tubs, too.” He lets something sly into his voice, touches a fingertip to Cal’s hip.

“Never been any queer ballplayers.” Cal’s back is still turned. Brendan yanks his hand away.

“Sure there has. Just—” Brendan searches his memory. “—no one talks about it, is all.”

“No one talks about it because you can’t be both. Not here, not in college in Georgia, not in Yankee Stadium or inside the goddamn Green Monster at Fenway.”

“Queers in baseball, the final frontier?” Brendan tries to laugh. It could be an episode of Star Trek, could be the next generation. He does laugh, wishes he hadn’t.

The patter of leather on Cal’s hands echoes in Brendan’s ears. The locker room amplifies the soft slap, the clunking pipes, the barrenness of this place.

Brendan leans down to retie his shoes. After the game, they will ride home in Brendan’s mom’s van, watch the Yankees game under the pretense of Calculus homework, and talk about the UGA scout until Brendan’s mother says something about LSU. They will inch closer on the couch until they are connected, shoulderblades to kneecaps, or they will not. Brendan will call the LSU scout back in the morning, or he won’t. He doesn’t know, doesn’t know any more than he knows how tonight’s game will turn out.

West Branch beats Ganoga Lake, 5-2. Brendan and Cal split four of the team’s five runs and turn three double plays. They anticipate batters, anticipate each other, as well as they have ever done. On the field, they are exactly what every one of the clipboard-carrying scouts in the bleachers are there to see.

Off the field, Brendan isn’t sure. In the dugout, Cal paces, moves to sit halfway up the steps to the on-deck circle, gets up again, paces. He pulls at his hair until Brendan hits him with a handful of sunflower seeds. Brendan isn’t sure, either, about the look he gets in return, but it ends with Cal grinning and shoving his batting helmet down over his head and trotting to the plate to hit his two-run double. When Cal returns, they don’t do their usual fist-to-fist congratulations. But it is the end of the inning and it’s more important that they both get on the field in time to scoop a grounder each while the pitcher tosses his warm-ups.

At the end of the fifth, Brendan sneaks a look at the scouts. The UGA guy is actually talking to Cal’s father. The Louisiana scout nods to him, his smile thin but present. Brendan knows what that look means. He’s got a place on that team, and there he won’t have to worry about what Cal’s looks mean because they’re not interested in another recruit, even one as good as Cal. Brendan’s asked.

Brendan makes up his mind during the bottom of the sixth, after his third hit of the game drives in West Branch’s fifth run. When Ronnie catches out number three in center field to end the game and they jog in to shake hands with Ganoga Lake, Brendan wonders how he’ll tell Cal he’s got to go to UGA alone. How he’ll get used to another shortstop and Brendan will get used to another second baseman. Because it’s not like they’re married or anything, right?

But when they’re back in the dugout, Cal slings his arm around Brendan’s shoulders and Brendan’s fist comes up automatically. Knuckles to knuckles. Cal’s fist opens and he clasps Brendan’s hand, pulling them chest to chest for the first time since Brendan killed the turtle. Cal isn’t looking at Brendan like he was that night, but it’s not like last night, either. And he is looking at him. Seeing him. Seeing them. If something has to change, sometime, Brendan knows it will not be tonight. Knows Cal knows that, too.

# # #

Holly M. Wendt is Associate Professor of English and Director of Creative Writing at Lebanon Valley College. Holly is a recipient of the Robert and Charlotte Baron Fellowship for Creative and Performing Artists from the American Antiquarian Society and a fellowship from the Jentel Foundation. Their writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Shenandoah, Barrelhouse, Memorious, Baseball Prospectus, Gulf Stream, Hobart, Bodies Built for Game: The Prairie Schooner Anthology of Contemporary Sports Writing, and elsewhere. Learn more at hollymwendt.com or @hmwendt.