(Artwork by hazstylestrash)

"For excellence in pitching, your 2016 National League Cy Young Award winner, Harry Styles." As the raucous crowd in San Francisco cheered, the commissioner presented a black plaque with a steel-cast hand holding a baseball.

Harry took the award, traced his fingernail over his name etched into the metal, and looked out at the cheering fans. Camera lights flashed, temporarily dazing him. When he was announced as the winner months ago, Harry knew an address would be expected; still, he wasn't ready. Nerves were crawling up his throat, digging their burning claws into his esophagus. He cleared his throat, met his mother's eyes in the dugout, and began his prepared speech with shaking hands.

"This is the zenith of my career: a World Series ring on my finger and a Cy Young award in my hands. I'm so incredibly proud and humbled. I never could have made it here without my family supporting me, great coaches teaching me, and an incredible team beside me, playing hard and helping me shine." Harry paused and swallowed, looked down at the award in his hands. "I dedicate this award to all the kids who think they can't. Who may've been told they couldn't play sports because of who they are. Little boys who've ever been told to man up to be on a team." He inhaled, steadying himself for what was next. "I heard this myself as a child. I was told to toughen up, be more masculine. I'm gay," Harry almost swore the stadium fell silent, but maybe his memory just muted all the sound melodramatically, "and I'm proud of who I am. All of who I am. And I want young people to know it's okay to be who you are too. Be yourself, unapologetically. As hard as it may seem to be yourself, as afraid as you are of rejection or persecution, just know that you can do whatever you want and be whoever you want, and there will be people out there who will love and support you unconditionally."

The crowd definitely cheered at this point, Harry was certain, and he felt loved and supported, some of his fear dissolving in the roar of their applause.

Harry's mom moved forward from behind the cameras and wrapped her arms around him. He hugged her for a long time. "I love you," she cried into his chest. "I'm so proud of you, baby."

Tearing up himself, Harry kissed her head and smiled at the cameras. "This is my mom, everyone. The greatest woman on earth, who has always loved and supported me unconditionally. I've donated the monetary prize that accompanies this great honor to The Trevor Project, which supports LGBT youth struggling with depression. It gets better." He kissed his mom one more time as he handed her the plaque then waved to the crowd. "Thank you."

Harry's whole body was trembling as he went back into the dugout, met by stunned silence from his teammates. Thankfully, he wasn't pitching today, so he could sit and breathe and think about what he had just done. Maybe that wasn't something to be thankful for. Maybe pitching would have been a valuable diversion. Harry felt small, and scared, and so very vulnerable.

After a few minutes, once the game was underway, his pitching coach sat beside him. "Congratulations, Styles," his voice was low and steady, as always.

"Thank you, coach. I couldn't have gotten here without you."

"You're welcome, Haz, but I meant your speech." He patted Harry's knee with his knuckles as he stood and moved along to sit with the other coaches.

The rest of the game passed by in a daze. In the locker room afterwards, the odd distance and silence continued. Harry changed into his street clothes and left without a word. For the next several weeks, he was isolated. He showed up for practice and games, did his job, and left again. He didn't communicate with anyone unless he had to, and always only about the game. But he often read the sports news. Big mistake. Huge mistake. Hall of fame level mistake. Most of his teammates simply had no comment, but others, including an outfielder Harry considered to be a friend, expressed concern about locker room ogling, lamented the forthcoming media frenzy, called him fame-hungry. Players from other teams said far worse. Fans...he couldn't believe the words that were still in use, the horrible things they called him. He cried himself to sleep more often than not.

At one away game, he was forced to exit early when the fans in the stands became so rude and unruly, throwing things onto the field and shouting epithets, that it was too dangerous for him to continue. At another, their dugout was defaced, graffitied with slurs. His teammates stared at him in that uncomfortable silence. He knew, they knew, everyone knew that his actions had brought this upon them. That if he had just stayed quiet and closeted, none of this hate would be coming their way.

His mother told him that he had to brush off the hate. It was so hard to let the vitriol and viciousness bounce off his back. The few bright moments along the way made it easier. Like when an adolescent girl asked for an autograph before a game in Florida. She told Harry that she had always known she was different. That he made her feel okay about it. Her parents shook his hand and thanked him for helping their daughter find herself. Or when they played the Mets and a whole section was filled with rainbow shirts and drag queens and love, and they chanted his name the whole game, even though he wasn't pitching that day.

The best day was in late June when Corden, the manager, called him into the office and asked him how he felt about the comments in the media from his teammates. Harry shrugged and refused to speak ill of anyone. Corden said, "well, I think it's pretty shitty what they've said, and we don't want them here anymore. I'd have done it sooner, but we needed to line up their replacements. Harry, we've designated Ruiz, Burton, and Gonzaga for assignment." Harry flashed him a look of surprise. "We've got your back, Styles." He shook Corden's hand, nodded silently, and exited to the locker room.

His teammates watched him walk over to his locker wordlessly. He hated this silence. This oppressive silence. Yeah, the most vocally opposed to him and his coming out were now gone, but what about the rest of them? Their silence was loud enough to make his ears bleed. The Giants' clubhouse had always been a joyful place, filled with laughter and playfulness. He missed it. He missed the camaraderie. He sighed and shook his head as he reached to open his locker. He sucked that breath right back in as his eyes took in what was hanging there.

His jersey was rainbow tie-dyed, his name STYLES across the back in darker rainbow, his number, 28, filled with swirling colors. Was this a form of support? It was pride weekend in San Francisco, but they were in San Diego... Or was this mockery? Had they replaced his jersey with this rainbow shit to stir him up? He truly didn't know. Harry turned to find the rest of the players lined up behind him, now donning similarly colorful jerseys. His catcher, Payne, stepped forward with his hand out, "happy pride, Haz." Harry shook his hand in shock. "We should have said so sooner, but we all support you. You're our brother."

"Fuck," Harry turned away, wiping at tears. "Thanks, guys."

Chuckled murmurs of agreement filled the quiet with pleasant noise. "Let's win today for Haz," said Horan, the wild-eyed outfielder who had been the most publicly supportive of Harry. They all shook his hand, hugged him, clapped his shoulder, smacked his butt. It was months late, but it was perfect. For the first time this season, he didn't feel alone. He felt part of the team.

Corden stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips. "Okay, kids. I've got some things to say." Everyone turned toward him, taking a knee or sitting on the benches or leaning against their lockers--he was known for his wordiness. "Styles has shown us the ultimate poise in the face of opposition all season." A wave of assent rippled across the room. "The Padres have made a last minute change, and it's McDowell to start." Fuck. McDowell had been the most bigoted and outspoken hater these last several weeks, and the Padres** were the only team whose coaching staff had overtly denigrated Harry. "You're going to want to get into it with him, with all of them, probably. Don't you let them take you off course, boys. We prove them wrong by being the best. Keep your heads on right, keep your eyes on the ball, and win this fucking game to show them who we are!" The team cheered loudly.

They ran out through the dark tunnel, hands draped over one another's backs. When they got to the dugout, Payne stopped everyone. "We have one more thing we needed to say, Haz." Harry blinked nervously. "We're sorry it took us so long to say we had your back. Out loud, I mean. We sort of thought you knew it, but it was lame of us not to tell you when so many assholes were saying the opposite." The team nodded, reaching past one another to touch Harry's shoulders or arms. Payne spit brown tobacco juice onto the pavement. "We will always stand beside you. Proudly."

Harry simply nodded, and they took the field for the national anthem, sung today by the San Diego Gay Men's Chorus. Harry tried not to let that feel like a dig at him. He held his cap over his heart and listened to the words, the heat of this summer day radiating off the brick and steel buildings surrounding the field. It sounded like a female voice was projecting through Petco Park's sound system. The crowd jeered and threw both objects and insults onto the field. Without comment, Padres groundscrew ushered the singers off the field. "You sing like a girl!" someone shouted. "The best you've ever sounded," another called. Harry knew he was in for another one of those games.

The Giants were up to bat first. There was no trouble other than the continued heckling from the stands. When Harry got up to pitch in the bottom of the first, the heckling grew louder, almost as loud as the lead-off double that Tomlinson knocked into center. Harry turned away in annoyance. There, behind the small white rubber slab on the pitcher's mound, the word fag had been toed in the dirt. Harry dragged his foot across it and breathed slowly. It wasn't the first time someone had used this word against him. It wouldn't be the last. In fact, every time he went out to take the mound, the word was freshly scratched into the soil. And every time, he wiped it away wordlessly. The slur wasn't enough, apparently. When Harry was up to bat in the 3rd, McDowell, the opposing pitcher, blatantly threw at him, barely missing him four straight pitches. He took his base and rounded home two hitters later. The day went on in much the same fashion: Tomlinson just kept getting hits off him, including a fucking homerun in the sixth; and McDowell just kept throwing at him, making contact twice--once on his arm and once on his hip.

The umpires should have ejected McDowell after the second time he threw at Harry. It was against the rules to throw at someone intentionally. They didn't, and it continued. In the dugout, Harry's teammates were riled up, ready to fight. He shook his head, simply saying, "don't. Don't let them win."

Late in the game, Giants up 4-2, and Harry was up in the rotation. Corden pulled him aside. "I think I've got to pull you, Haz. For your own safety."

"Please don't." Maybe it was foolish, but Harry was determined not to let them get to him.

He readied himself and waited for the too-close pitch to come in. He danced across the plate out of its way to avoid getting clobbered on the elbow. The catcher muttered, what a fucking idiot. Harry found it hard to argue as his heart raced, waiting to be thrown at again. This time it was high and inside, and he fell to the ground, shaken. That ball was perilously close to his face. Fuck. He breathed.

Shouting pulled his attention up. The little Padres short stop was marching to the mound, shouting at his own pitcher. "Enough, you fucker." Harry couldn't hear McDowell's reply, but everyone heard the crack of Tomlinson's fist against McDowell's jaw, followed by the collective gasp in the crowd. Time seemed to pause. It was unheard of that a player would strike his own teammate on the field like this.

Finally, the ump shouted, "Tomlinson, Styles, you're outta here." Harry stood and raised his hands in confusion. What had he done to be thrown from the game? "Out, now!"

Harry had no choice but to leave the field. He sat in the visitor's clubhouse alone, replaying the entire game in his mind. What the fuck just happened?

A quiet knock interrupted his ruminations. Harry looked up to see Tomlinson, nervously shifting from foot to foot, a bag of ice on his hand. "You okay?" he asked. Harry nodded. "I'm sorry for...for that."

"Not your fault," Harry shrugged.

"I really admire you," Tomlinson said, so quietly Harry almost didn't hear it.

Harry gazed at him in surprise and shook his head, "I didn't do anything."

"Exactly," he stepped farther into the empty room. "You held your head high and didn't let him bait you into anything. Your restraint is unbelievable."

Harry shook his head again. "I wanted to fucking deck him." Tomlinson laughed and shrugged with his hands out. Harry joined his laughter. "Thanks for that."

He sat opposite Harry, who noticed the way their knees brushed. "You're so brave."

Harry glanced up and held his stare. "I'm not."

"You are. It takes balls to stand up and own who you are, knowing all this bullshit is waiting for you."

"I'd rather strikes."

Tomlinson groaned, "no, you did not. You did not just turn this beautiful poignant moment into a pitching joke."

"You want catching jokes instead," Harry smirked. There was no way this straight kid would get his innuendo. He always loved flirting under the surface with pretty boys who'd never understand what was happening.

"I--" he fumbled, blushed. "I um, I. I'd catch for you."

Harry raised his eyebrows in shock, his face flushing red. Tomlinson was a short stop, not a catcher. Did he actually understand the double meaning? Harry tested the waters further, "Somehow I'd imagine you as a pitcher."

He shrugged. "Either way."

"No fucking way. Really?" This was...Harry was...blushing deeper as Tomlinson nodded, looking down, fidgeting with his hands. "All right."

"Yep." Finally he looked back up. "Always have been but never said so. I mean, publicly. Hence, the whole I-admire-you business from a few minutes ago." He sighed. "You did the one thing I've always been too afraid to do. You said the one thing I've always been too afraid to say."

Harry patted his hand. "It's no fucking wonder. Look at this shitstorm. The one thing the closet offers us is safety."

The smaller player ruffled his hand through hair, lowered his voice, "You're so brave."

Harry jutted out his chin, tilting his head to the side. "Brave? Or stupid?"

"Brave. And beautiful."

Harry smiled at him. "You're quite pretty yourself, Tomlinson. Louis? Right?" A smile tugged at Louis' lips, accompanied by a slight nod. "And an annoyingly good hitter."

Louis let out a little chuckle. "Is that more innuendo?"

"No, I'm truly annoyed at how often you light me up. You've got my number."

"I still can't tell if that's baseball talk or flirting."

"Which would you prefer?"

Louis seemed to consider the question. "Both, I suppose. You're the best in the game. I admit I'm proud I can take you deep."

"Jesus," Harry breathed. "Now who's playing word games."

Louis leaned in closer. "No games, Styles. I'll state it plainly. I think you're amazing, and... I'd like to take you out."

"Out out, or out in private with no one knowing? Because I'm not interested in going back in the clos--"

Louis interrupted him with a kiss. Harry leaned into and deepened it, tugging on the back of his hair, pushing his tongue into Louis' mouth and moving his body between his open knees. When they paused for air, Louis rested his forehead against Harry's and said, "Out out, all the way out, as out as can be. Let's have fucking picnic at Golden Gate Park with flowers in our hair."

"We're in San Diego."

"I meant, like, this weekend when you're back home."

"But you'll have a game."

Louis shook his head. "No," he sighed. "I'm suspended."

"What? No! That's--"

Louis rested his hand on Harry's. "Styles, relax. It's fine. I clocked my own teammate. Of course I got suspended. But, plus side, now I can take you out."

Harry blushed again and snuck another kiss, his lips sliding across Louis' tenderly. "My hero."

Louis touched Harry's face, his fingertips grazing the soft skin of his cheekbone. "You're my hero."

That summer forever changed the game of baseball. It forever changed professional sports, period. Tomlinson and Styles, now historically known as The Boys of Summer, were the first openly gay couple in any pro sport, and by the same time the following year, athletes in nearly every sport had publicly declared themselves out to the world. Unapologetically.

Notes:
*Boys of summer is a common slang term for baseball players in America, as their playing season is April-October.

**The San Diego Padres are a lovely team in real life. I needed an opponent, a bad guy, and they were an easy option after the SD Gay Men's Chorus incident last month.

Please also support Best1DFic and check out my story in their collection One Direction One-shots, vote, and read the selections from last month, too. I'm proud and honored to be included in this book with other fabulous writers. 💖