The team’s up by a few runs in the 6th, Puck having hit a three-run home run two innings before. With Kurt on the mound and a three run lead, the game is as good as over. He and Blaine are in a great rhythm and even though he loves when Blaine calls for time and visits the mound, it’s not needed tonight. They’re completely on the same page, Blaine dropping down signs and Kurt hitting them perfectly.

It happens too quickly for Kurt to remember, really. The last thing he remembers is staring in at Blaine behind home plate, reading his sign for a curveball on the inside of the plate. He remembers peering over his glove, concentrating on hitting Blaine’s mitt. He remembers tugging on the brim of his hat before gripping the ball tightly, ready to strike the batter out. He remembers the ball leaving his hand as it made it’s way to home plate. Remembers a blur of white and red coming back at him, and then he remembers falling.

When he finally opens his eyes, he’s laying on the pitching mound, the brown clay digging into his elbows. The big bright lights are right in his eyes as he stares up, but he can hear Blaine’s voice. “Kurt, Kurt! Are you okay?” He recognizes the voices of his other teammates, his manager, a few of the trainers. There is a pain sharper than anything he’s ever felt starting at his knee and traveling up his leg.

“Come on, Hummel. Don’t be such a fag. Walk it off,” and Kurt knows without having to look that it’s Dave Karofsky, their first baseman. Kurt visibly winces at Karofsky’s harsh words and he’s just glad he can play it off as the pain in his knee.

“Shut the fuck up, Karofsky,” Blaine growls. “He got hit with a come backer, asshole. You saw how fast that ball came back at him. It hit him right in the knee, it could be shattered. So maybe it’s not a good idea if he walks it off, you fucking idiot,” sarcasm and anger dripping from his voice.

“Whatever, I’m just saying he needs to stop being such a pussy and get up. I got hit with a fuckin’ 95 mile an hour fastball between my shoulder blades two games ago and you didn’t see me laying on the ground,” Karofsky scoffs, almost as if he can’t believe Kurt is still laying on the ground.

Blaine rips off his catcher’s mask and stands toe to toe with Karofsky, his catcher’s pads in between them. “He can hear you, asshole. He’ll get up when he can. And if you ever call him a name like that again, you’re going to regret it.” Kurt has never heard Blaine like this before. Blaine has two tones of voice; nice and even nicer. Kurt has never seen him as anything other than happy and easily excited, but when he glances up, he can see Blaine’s fists shaking at his side.

Karofsky laughs, actually laughs, in Blaine’s face. “I’d like to see you try,” and before Kurt knows what’s happening, Blaine is pushing at Karofsky’s chest and then their manager is holding them apart.

“Anderson! Karofsky! What the fuck are you two thinking? There are scouts in the stands!” Tanaka yells, his body holding strong between Blaine and Karofsky. “Get off the mound and back to your positions. And don’t even think about doing anything like that again.”

Kurt feels pressure underneath his arms as he’s lifted up by two of the trainers. He puts his arms over each of their shoulders and limps over to the waiting ambulance.

Kurt’s laying in bed, knee elevated and covered in ice, when he hears Blaine come down the stairs. He has his bedside light on and is reading from a back issue of Vogue when Blaine walks into his room.

“How’s your knee?” he asks softly, not coming in any further than the doorway.

“It hurts, but nothing’s broken. They said I have to miss my next start and use crutches for a few days, but I’ll be fine,” Kurt recites to him what he had heard from the doctors at the hospital.

Blaine crosses into the room, fingers trailing along the wall and then over Kurt’s dresser. He pauses and stares at Kurt’s bed, Kurt’s long body directly in the center.

“You could have really gotten hurt,” Blaine says, voice just barely above a whisper. “What if the ball smashed your knee? What if it hit you just a few feet higher?” His eyes won’t meet Kurt‘s, instead focusing on the wall behind Kurt’s bed.

“I know,” Kurt says softly. “You take the same chance every time you step into the batter’s box.”

Blaine lets out a loud sigh, as if he’s trying to find the words he wants to say, but not succeeding.

“Just -- be careful, okay? Please?”

Before Kurt can answer, Blaine turns and leaves the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

//

He’s antsy, feet bouncing in the dugout, cleats getting caught in the dirt. It’s been five days since he took the come-backer off his knee, he should be starting this game. His body clock works in five day intervals and to be sitting on the bench and watching his teammate standing 60 feet and six inches away from home plate just feels wrong. The only thing he can cling to is getting to watch Blaine without worrying about a three-one count or holding a runner on to first base.

Kurt loves watching Blaine hit. Toes lightly digging into the dirt, an old habit he told Kurt he picked up in high school. He says it calms his nerves, concentrates him on the moment. Blaine’s knees dip slightly, bat cocked up and behind his ear. They use wooden bats in the Cape Cod League, different from the normal aluminum bats of college. Blaine explained to Kurt he had to change his grip on the bat slightly, the smooth wood feeling different in his hand than the hard metal.

The pitcher from Chatham is bent at his waist, looking down into his catcher for the signs. He nods slightly and hurls the ball in at Blaine. The ball arrives at home plate just beneath Blaine’s knee, the bat barely leaving his shoulder. He hears a teammate call out, “good eye, Anderson!”

Chatham’s catcher tosses the ball back to the pitcher’s mound. The pitcher rolls the ball around in his glove before stepping on the white rubber. This time when the ball gets to home plate, it’s in the middle of everything and Blaine swings through. The crack of bat hitting ball fills Kurt’s ears and he watches as Blaine takes off, rounding first base before sliding in safely at second. Blaine picks himself up, dusting off the rust colored dirt on his home whites. He takes his batting gloves off and tucks them into his back pocket and Kurt lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

He glances up into the stands and sees all the scouts, black radar guns pointed towards the field. The Major League Draft is in five days, fives days, and it’s causing a lot of guys to press at the plate. The scouts jot down notes in their notebooks (power to the opposite field, quick bat, speed out of the box) while Blaine takes his lead off of second base.

Karofsky’s up next, the best hitter in their lineup. Kurt always feels conflicted; he knows Karofsky hitting well means their team is winning ball games, but Kurt thinks that if Karofsky struck out every single time he went up to the plate, that would be okay, too.

But he doesn’t strike out. He connects on the first pitch he sees and sends the ball shooting into the outfield. Blaine breaks for third base on contact and is on his way home when the Chatham centerfielder hits the cutoff man. The second baseman relays the ball to the catcher who’s blocking the left side of home plate, but Blaine slides in safely to the right. He’s up quickly, Finn patting him on the back as he steps up to the plate. Kurt pointedly ignores Karofsky, standing on second base and clapping his hands together.

Blaine grabs Karofsky’s bat from where it’s laying by the batter’s box and makes his way to the dugout. He drops the bat at the foot of the dugout before taking off his helmet and making his way down to Kurt. He slides in next to him, their shoulders bumping together. Blaine grabs a paper cup filled with water and takes a sip before dumping the last of the water over his head. Kurt grips his hands on the metal bench and quickly looks out at Finn fouling off a breaking ball.

He hears Blaine sigh next to him as he looks up into the stands. He eyes the scouts, their eyes locked in on their radar guns as the pitcher from Chatham winds up.

“I’m so nervous about the draft,” Blaine confesses as Finn fouls a ball back into the stands. Blaine’s eyes are darting back and forth, from one scout to another, wishing he could see what they were writing down in those notebooks.

“You’ll be fine,” Kurt reassures him, his hand slowly moving to Blaine’s knee. He lets it sit there briefly before letting go, remembering they’re in a dugout filled with teammates.

“I hope so,” Blaine mumbles. He grabs his shin guards that are sitting on the beach next to him and bends down to put them on. He chest protector comes next, pulling it on over his head and tugging the straps until it’s tight.

“One day when you win MVP, I’m going to be able to tell reporters, ‘I knew him way back when he was only a kid. And his pitch calling was horrible. Don’t know how I survived that summer’,” Kurt says lightly, smiling when Blaine’s face breaks out into a grin. At the plate, Finn grounds out to the first baseman for the last out of the inning. Blaine pops up, pulls his catcher’s mask down over his face and starts to make his way back to the field.

He turns back quickly to tell Kurt, “and I’ll be able to tell reporters, “Kurt Hummel winning the Cy Young doesn’t surprise me at all. He’s incredible and I taught him everything he knows’,” before rushing back onto the field.

//

Five days later they’re sitting in the Howel’s basement, their summer home, TV turned to ESPN2. The baseball draft isn’t anywhere near as glamorous as the NFL or NBA draft, only the first few rounds even shown on TV. Blaine has his laptop sitting on his knees, waiting to follow along online when ESPN stops airing the results. He’s a bundle of nervous energy, jittery limbs and bitten fingernails.

Kurt’s outwardly calm, mindlessly thumbing through a magazine he picked up from the kitchen table upstairs. He wants to be calm for Blaine, but his insides feel like mush. He’s not even sure he wants to be drafted, he can’t even imagine how Blaine is feeling; Blaine, who has worked every day since he was eight with the goal of playing for a big league team in mind. Late practices, taking extra ground balls, staying and hitting the batting cages after everyone else on the team had gone home.

They recognize a few names from the Cape League go in the first round; a pitcher from Hyannis, a left fielder from Bourne, a short stop from Falmouth. They know getting drafted is a reality, the kids they’ve played against all summer have already started getting picked, and Blaine seems to be only breathing once every few minutes.

The first round is over, all thirty picks gone, and it’s only a quick break before round two starts up.

It hits Kurt like a train when it actually happens. He remembers with stunning clarity that the article he’s reading is about the Royal Wedding, about Kate Middleton’s wedding dress. He remembers that Blaine is toying with the remote, flipping it from his right hand to his left. He remembers that even though it’s windy outside, the curtains on the window are still.

“With the forty-third pick of the 2011 draft, the Texas Rangers select Blaine Anderson, catcher, Ohio State University.”

Kurt stares at Blaine, Blaine staring at the TV. He hears their host parents shout upstairs and Blaine’s phone rings almost immediately. On the TV they’ve already moved on to the next pick.

Shaking himself out of his haze, Kurt claps Blaine on the shoulder and squeezes. It seems to jerk Blaine back to reality, his head snapping to Kurt.

“You did it, Blaine!” Kurt says, trying to be excited for him. This is what Blaine wants and that should be enough.

Blaine nods dumbly, his mouth hanging open slightly. His phone stops ringing for only a few seconds before starting up again.

“Is this really happening?” Blaine mutters and Kurt can’t tell if Blaine’s actually asking him or just thinking out loud.

“Of course it is! I’m so proud of you. And The Rangers! Back in a blue and red uniform,” Kurt tries to joke, remembering stories on the beach that Blaine told him about high school.

“I should probably call my parents?” Kurt’s not sure why Blaine’s phrased it as a question, but he can’t imagine how overwhelmed Blaine must be. Kurt tries to think about what his reaction will be if he gets drafted. He’ll call his dad, for sure. He’ll probably have to talk to an agent if he’s drafted in the next few rounds. His teammates will probably want to celebrate with a bonfire on the beach tonight.

But it doesn’t happen. Fifty rounds of draft picks and not one team calls Kurt’s name. He knows, logically, that it was a long shot anyway. There are thousands of kids across the country who are eligible for the draft, and only a small number get chosen. But he also knows who scouts the draft picks. And even though he’s sure none of his friends back home would out him, he knows that it’s old men from the middle of the country who are reporting back to the owners of the teams about which kids to pick. (“He’s soft, if you know what I mean,” “Not sure he can handle the pressure of the big leagues,” “He wouldn‘t be good for clubhouse chemistry,” “The kid’s a decent pitcher, I’m just worried about his make up as a ball player.”) Kurt realizes that it’s not just about talent. He could be the next Nolan Ryan but those scouts see the way he talks and acts and that’s the only thing that matters.

After the last draft pick is chosen, Kurt sits quietly on the couch. Blaine is still sitting next to him, and even though Kurt reassured him a hundred times it was okay to leave the room and talk to the people who were trying to get in touch with him, Blaine insisted on staying. He said he wanted to be the first person to congratulate Kurt on getting drafted.

“I’m sorry, Kurt,” Blaine says.

“Don’t be sorry. You got drafted,” Kurt replies humorlessly.

“I know. But, I’m just sorry, okay? And there’s always next year, right?” If anyone else had told him that, if anyone had the nerve to tell him to wait until next year, Kurt would have lost it. But Blaine truly means it, means it in only the best way possible and is honestly just trying to make Kurt feel better.

“Yeah, next year.” Kurt replies. Blaine’s cell phone goes off again, the theme song to SportsCenter cutting through the tension in the room. “You should probably answer that.”

Blaine knows enough not to apologize again, to not apologize for something he wants and for something he’s worked so hard for. So he just looks at Kurt, his eyes reading I am so so sorry that you’re hurting before picking up the phone and walking into his bedroom. He shuts the door behind him, but Kurt swears he can still hear Blaine talking about signing bonuses and Texas in the summer and leaving Ohio far far behind.

//

They’re almost out the door, relaxed in a way a baseball player can only be when they know they’re out of the playoffs, that their season is coming to a close. They’ve got a few more games that don’t matter; everyone knowing whether they got drafted or if they’re going back for another year of school. Cotuit finishes with a winning record, but just barely. Falmouth and Wareham make it to the playoffs in their division and while Kurt’s vaguely upset at missing the playoffs, the experience as a whole was great even if he didn’t get drafted. He pitched against some of the best college players in the country and did better than anyone expected.

Blaine’s hands are full, towels and a cooler in one hand, beach chairs in the other. He stops short, his hip making contact with the screen door that leads out to the yard and down to the driveway.

“Kurt, you mind grabbing my wallet? I think it’s on my night stand. I’ll throw this stuff in the car,” Blaine calls to Kurt who’s in the kitchen grabbing a few bottle of water for them. Blaine’s already stepping outside so Kurt doesn’t bother calling anything back. He quickly bounces down the stairs, takes a quick left into Blaine’s room. His eyes scan the room and he sees Blaine’s wallet sitting on top of his copy of Moneyball. He grabs the brown leather and is about to go back upstairs when he sees a bit of paper sticking out from inside the book, the top printed with an address he recognizes.

The paper is sort of crinkled but Kurt can clearly see MapQuest printed on the top. He takes a closer look at the paper and sees what Blaine printed out the directions for.

Ohio State University to University of Cincinnati - 1 hour 53 minutes / 108.52 miles

Kurt stares at the paper, the blue line crisscrossing across the state of Ohio. His mind is blank, not believing that Blaine has mapped out the route from one school to the other. His hands are shaking just slightly as he grips the paper. He vaguely hears the stairs creaking, Blaine’s voice calling down and asking where Kurt is. Blaine’s out of breath when his head pops into the doorway.

“Hey, did you get lost?” his eyes bright, his voice full of humor. He stops short when he sees the stark white paper in Kurt’s hand.

“Why?” is the only word Kurt can muster at the moment. His head is swimming with possibilities. Does this mean Blaine’s going back to school? and maybe he printed it out before he got drafted.

Blaine sighs, opens his mouth before shutting it again.

“Everything I ever wanted in life, I got,” Blaine starts. “When I wanted to make the varsity baseball team when I was a freshman in high school, I did it. I wanted to be the starting catcher for Ohio State, I worked harder than everyone else and made the line up. When I heard about the Cape League, I practiced late every single day and tried harder than anyone else on my team when I knew there were scouts in the stands,” he takes a deep breath, moving a few feet closer to Kurt.

“And then I met you. We ran into each other that first day and it was like an instant connection. I don’t know if you felt it”, Kurt almost laughs as Blaine continues, “but I did. And then I got to know you and learned how amazing you are. I wanted to make myself believe that I wasn’t falling for you. And I kept telling myself that this summer wasn’t for that. This summer was about impressing big league scouts and getting drafted and nothing getting in my way. And I wanted to keep you off of my mind, to push aside my feelings for you. I wanted to make myself believe that I didn’t have feelings for you. I mean, I didn’t except to meet someone so absolutely perfect this summer.” Blaine’s now standing directly in front of Kurt, hands looped around his waist. Kurt’s trying to form words, his mouth opening and then shutting when he brain stays empty. It’s too much to take in all at once, to hear Blaine tell him everything he’s wanted for three months.

“Kurt, I’m going back to school. I didn’t accept Texas’s offer,” Blaine tells him, looks him right in the eyes. Kurt’s head is swimming and he feels a little light headed, the words he wants to say getting caught between his mouth and his brain.

“But Blaine, all you wanted was to get drafted,” Kurt finally manages to say, still not quite believing what Blaine told him.

Blaine shrugs lightly, his arms still wrapped around Kurt’s waist. “I’m only going to be a sophomore when we get back to school. I have three years to get better and maybe get drafted higher. I still get to play baseball. Getting drafted was what I wanted when the summer started; you’re what I want now.” Kurt closes his eyes and takes a quick breath in. He wants to believe Blaine, wants to believe him so badly.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks, voice full of nerves.

“I already told the Rangers no, that I’m going back to school. I told them last week, Kurt. It’s final.”

And Kurt can only think of one thing to do. He wraps his arms around Blaine’s shoulders and pulls him in for a kiss, Blaine meeting him halfway. Blaine tries to deepen this kiss, licks across Kurt’s lips and into his mouth, but Kurt can’t stop smiling. Blaine pulls back with a questioning look on his face and Kurt just laughs and presses fast, light kisses across his lips.

“I’m sorry, I’m just so happy,” Kurt explains and Blaine grins back.

They both stumble over to Blaine’s bed, kicking off their flip flops in the process. They fall onto their sides, arms wrapped around each other and lips everywhere. Blaine is impatiently tugging Kurt’s shirt up, while trying to pull his swim trunks down. Kurt laughs lightly and stills Blaine’s hands, pulling off his own shirt and bathing suit while Blaine does the same. They’re back together quickly and Kurt gasps because the time on the couch was nothing like this. Blaine’s mouthing at his neck, sucking slightly and running his tongue over the skin when it starts to get too red. They’re naked and hard and pressing together everywhere and Kurt can’t stop shaking.

“I tried to imagine never kissing you again, never touching you again,” Blaine gasps in between kisses, reaching down to grab Kurt’s dick, gripping tightly. Kurt’s eyes squeeze shut and he slams his hips forward.

“I couldn’t do it, Kurt,” Blaine continues, stroking harder. “I couldn’t not be with you.”

Kurt whines and blindly reaches his hand down to wrap around Blaine. He’s close already; Blaine’s hands and Blaine’s kisses and Blaine’s words. He tightens his grip around Blaine’s cock, fast and a little rough but it’s exactly what they both need.

Their kisses have mostly dissolved in to open mouth breathing across each other’s cheeks, lips, neck, chest. Kurt can’t really say his orgasm catches him by surprise, but when the head of his dick accidentally bumps up against Blaine’s hip, that’s it, he is so fucking done. He lets out a sharp cry, digs his nails into Blaine’s shoulder with his free hand as he comes all over both of them.

“Kurt, you’re so fucking hot -- I can’t,” Blaine says his eyes snapping shut as he lets out the most amazing sounds Kurt has ever heard. He rocks into Kurt’s hand for what feels like forever until his hips finally come to a stop.

“I’m so glad we’ll be doing that over and over and over again,” Blaine says, a sleepy but completely happy smile on his face. Kurt nudges him in the shoulder, but smiles too.

“Come on, we did have plans to go to the beach, ya know. It’s going to be our last time there before everyone starts heading home.”

The beach is mostly empty all afternoon for them, the end of August meaning less tourists as school starts back up. Most of their teammates are in the water having a blast with the rough waves due to a storm out at sea, white caps breaking across their backs and shoulders. Blaine and Kurt are sitting just close enough together, backs up against a rickety fence where they first sat down all those months ago. Blaine’s drawing designs in the sand with a twig he found; a baseball, the Indian’s mascot, and more than a few hearts.

“Ya know, the first time Ohio plays Cincinnati is April 4th,” Blaine tells him, toes digging into the sand. “It’s a Tuesday.”

Kurt tries to keep the shock off his face, wondering when Blaine would have even thought to look that up. Kurt didn‘t even know the schedule was finished for next season. “Well, if I’m starting, don’t think I’ll go easy on you.”

“I caught you for three months. I know how that mind works. Fastball, fastball, splitter in the dirt, change-up,” Blaine says with a smile on his face.

“Hey, you’re the one who called for those pitches!” Kurt says a little loudly, pretending to be angry. “I’m going to tell my teammates all of your weaknesses. That you can’t hit a high and tight fastball to save you life.”

“I’m pretty sure I have bigger weaknesses than that,” Blaine says, hooking a bare ankle around Kurt’s. Kurt’s cheeks color just slightly and it’s easy enough to blame it on the August heat.

They lie back, feet and shoulders and hips digging into the sand. Blaine is humming something that reminds Kurt of ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and Kurt can only think how fitting it is that the summer is ending where it all began, their toes in the sand and their backs to the boardwalk. And how he can’t wait for spring.