"I always thought my days of having to show ID to get into a bar were over," Greg said with a smile as he fumbled for his wallet in the pocket of his jeans. "Glad I'm not on the East Coast. I'd probably be cursing at you right now."

"Actually, it's been really warm out there for the last month or so. It's hardly been winter. I could probably walk around in a t-shirt out there," Jason said. The doorkeeper's expression was hidden behind the door, but there seemed to be hidden laughter in his words, and it was no longer even hidden after Greg found his wallet and showed Jason his ID. "You're alone, of course, I take it. You wouldn't sell us out to the press, not when you have ownership rights on the other coast."

"If you had to worry about any of us selling the Clubhouses out for the money, I should think you'd worry more about one of the women. I don't think any of them are making enough to be immune to the thought of a giant bribe from the press to out superstars galore."

"Including most of their peers." Jason opened the door. "Not likely. They know the importance of the closet. Besides, need I remind you that there are female co-owners on the deeds for both this place and the Clubhouse in New York? Somehow I don't think the three who are still closeted would want any of this to, ahem, come out. The one I worry about back East, truth be told, is Alex. He's stupid enough to think talking about this place might be a good idea, or naïve enough to think people won't care. Take your jacket?"

Greg nodded and handed Jason his jacket. Somehow, he felt safer behind the closed doors of the Hotel California, even though he was alone this New Year's Eve. He'd begged off spending time with his family, claiming that the Padres wanted him to help corral a free agent they'd been eyeing. It didn't feel right spending this New Year's Eve with them, not when he'd gotten so used to spending it with Tom. Alone would have to be a compromise.

Squinting as his eyes got used to the sudden change in light level from the florescent lighting of the vestibule to the warmer, lower intensity of the bar proper, he wasn't surprised that the place was mostly abandoned. Basketball, football, and hockey were all in season, and the various and sundry offseason folks tended to spend their time in New York and the Clubhouse there. A couple of the West Coast people were at the bar, watching the games their fellow patrons were involved in. A young, broad-shouldered, black woman was at one of the Internet terminals, pecking rapidly at the keyboard as she IMed someone and checked what seemed to be the Mountain West scoreboard. Someone had left a chessboard on one of the square tables near where the window would have been if the vestibule weren't in the way; from the dust on the pieces, it seemed to be a permanent fixture on that table, although Greg couldn't think of who played chess and frequented the Hotel. Sue and Diana, looking relieved to be out of Russia for the holiday, were at the bar chatting with Kevin and clearly trying to cajole the bartender into something. Greg didn't know what the two of them could cajole out of Kevin; they got their drinks for free as a privilege of ownership, so it wasn't as if they were trying to get a discount, and at least two of the TVs were showing soccer, so that couldn't be the problem. He decided that it would be a bad idea to ponder this further, since Diana's imagination had caused mischief for the bar far too often.

Another screen was showing a replay, or possibly a tape, of the previous day's Bruins-Predators game; the bar was so quiet, except for Diana's wheedling, that the sound was actually on and audible. There was someone watching the game, and Greg did a doubletake before sliding onto the barstool. "How did you get here?" he demanded.

"You know the back rooms at the Clubhouse? Temora keeps a transporter in hers. It's like Star Trek or something similar." Tom's deadpan fell apart quickly, if undramatically. With a small smile, he explained, "Useless as it was, I came out here a few days ago on a last-ditch attempt to seduce Barry Zito. I figured I might be able to exert some unofficial pull, though I'd rather not explain it to Minaya if I do persuade him."

"I have to admit, I was a little nervous about you seducing Zito until you brought up your GM. I know he has a thing for lefthanded pitchers. Zito, not Minaya."

"Greg, every GM has a thing for lefthanded pitchers. Maybe it's a sign of your eventual career once you retire- if you do actually retire and don't instead prove yourself to be immortal. There's a betting pool about that, if Burk's to be believed."

Greg sighed, half-grateful that Tom had provided him with this opening, half-disappointed that the conversation had to happen in the first place. "Whoever's got mortal in the pool wins," he said. "I don't know how much longer I have in me. I know I'm getting near the end. If I weren't, do you think I would be traveling from team to team the way I am? How many years did I spend with Atlanta before going back to Chicago? I'm on my third team in three years. Cagey old veteran for hire. Need someone to stabilize your clubhouse, provide a few quality starts, and teach your young arms how to fool a slugger? Call 1-800-GMADDUX."

"Should be a 1-900," Tom observed. Greg tossed a nut from the convenient bowl at him.

"I'm not going to pitch forever. We know that. You're not either, as much as you don't want to admit it. Have you ever thought of what'll happen to us when we're both retired and in that lull between the end of our playing careers and the beginning of our coaching careers? We always said we were going to stop this when you left the Braves, but we saw each other enough as division rivals that it didn't matter, right? Then we said we were going to stop it when I went to the Cubs, but then we figured that it was okay because it wasn't that far, right? Then we said that the LA-New York thing was ridiculous, it was too far and too clichéd, but then we ignored that without a really good excuse. I guess by that point it was okay as long as we were ballplayers. Everything's okay when you're on the road, after all."

"Do you want to stop?" Tom signaled to Kevin that they needed drinks, and the tall Aussie sent beers in their general direction. "Is that why you came up here? This would be a pretty ironic place for that kind of declaration, you know. Not to mention that you'd lose free drinks until Righty's opens back in New York."

"I don't want to stop, and even if I did, I don't want to stop right now, and even if I wanted to end it, I wouldn't choose New Year's Eve, or a Clubhouse. Sufficient qualifications for you?" Tom nodded, sipping his beer and waiting for Greg to continue, because there was clearly a continuation lurking beyond that question mark. Someone else might have expected that to be the end, and would have interjected something, but Tom had known Greg long enough to detect when it was time to shut up and let the man work out his issues. "We started this thing not thinking about the future."

"Unless there was sex in the future."

"I meant the far future, not the immediate future. When we're out of the majors, how are we going to pull this off? We're not going to have the ready-made excuse of traveling with the team to get us to each other, and we both have families who want to actually spend time with us after years of hardly ever seeing us. People will get suspicious if we keep visiting each other. Are you ready to be outed? I'm not. Even if I were-"

"You're qualifying again. That's not like you." There was concern in Tom's eyes now, and he leaned closer to Greg, laying his pitching hand on Greg's. "Stop worrying so much. We haven't reached the point where that's a concern, and when we do, we'll figure out a sensible, logical solution that satisfies us and our families, makes sense to everyone, and allows us to both have each other and the love of our families."

Greg didn't even hesitate in his response. "Just how much did you have to drink before I got here?"

"Surprisingly little. Kevin keeps getting drawn into Sue and Diana's schemes over there. I think they're trying to get him to get them into Australia without going through customs or immigration or something. Beyond that, I heard the word handcuffs and I really stopped listening at that point."

"Do you really, honestly think we'll be able to continue this once we're retired? Without people asking questions? Do you think it'll be the same? What will we have to talk about, if not approaches to pitching?"

"Hockey," Tom suggested. Greg rolled his eyes. Tom continued, "Of course it won't be exactly the same as it's been all these years. How long have we been together? People change over the years. I don't know if we'll find a way through. Maybe you're right. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe this time when we say we have to give it up, we'll really have to give it up. That's probably the way it'll go. Really, it's a surprise we've been able to keep it together this long." He scooted the stool closer, and Greg followed suit.

"Is that what you want?" Greg asked quietly, almost too soft to be heard over the low volume of the TV. "Say it if it is. Say it and I'll walk away."

"Hell no. When did this conversation get so turned around, anyway? Clearly something went wrong if we've managed to reverse positions this quickly without enough beer to get drunk."

"You've always been good at reversing position quickly and sober."

"Not so loud, Kevin will get jealous of your unbelievable good luck." There was a long pause while Tom marshaled his thoughts and tried not to get distracted by the game on the screen over his head- or for that matter, by Greg's hand, which was currently on his thigh and making its presence felt. "I guess we've both been worrying about the same thing. It makes sense. Signing one-year deals makes you realize just how much time you don't have left, especially after trying to get more. We're the same age, and we've spent too much time thinking alike for our mental health. Just means we need to get used to the idea of talking about feelings so we don't have these mixups any longer."

Greg paused, gave Tom a very odd look, and abruptly shoved his hand down Tom's pants. Tom let out a very undignified squawk. Kevin looked up from his conversation with Sue and Diana and said, "Oi, knock it off, you pervs! Take that business upstairs, that's why we have the fucking rooms, for the purpose of fucking."

"I was just checking to make sure he hadn't been emasculated," Greg protested. Kevin seemed surprisingly satisfied with that answer and returned to his conversation with the erstwhile Huskies. Greg spoke more quietly when he gave his full attention to Tom. "Just because we happen to be men who have a same-sex relationship, that doesn't mean we have to give in to the clichés of gay men being women with dicks. I *like* your macho stubbornness and refusal to admit that you feel anything that's not related to baseball."

"So we'll let it lie. Cross that bridge when we get there and all those other clichés. As long as we're still part of the Show, we'll be together?"

Greg nodded. "That's a very good plan. I realize it's not midnight out here yet, and the game's on tape, right?" When Tom nodded, curiosity flickering across his face for a moment, Greg continued, "Kevin gave me a very good idea for something to keep us busy while we waited for midnight and champagne. We might as well take this business upstairs to those fucking rooms, right?"

There was a knowing smile on Kevin's face as the two pitchers passed by the bar, and he tossed them a room key before either of them ever thought to ask. They disappeared upstairs, leaving Kevin and the ladies to be very grateful that they'd invested in very good soundproofing.