Starstruck

Chapter 18

A/N: So this is kinda what I've had in mind for Connor's press conference monologue, almost from the moment I wrote the outline. I hadn't really written it down until just now, but I've always kinda had an idea of how I saw it going.

Benji

Connor walks into the large press room. When he'd told the Padres that he wanted to hold an important press conference, and that he wouldn't tell them what it was about, he certainly got a few raised eyebrows, but they let him do it anyway. Slowly, he makes his way over to the podium and takes a seat in front of the microphone, taking a deep breath and blowing it out before he begins.

"So I'm uh—well, I'm going to start by telling you guys a story that probably isn't going to make much sense, at least at first. But I promise it will at the end so just—bear with me."

There's a smattering of chuckles from the gathered reporters, and Connor nervously adjusts his tie before he continues on.

"So a while back—well, I guess back when I was just starting in pro baseball—I think it was actually my very first season in the minors? I don't remember for sure, but anyway, it was some time around there and I had decided to go out for a night. I mean, we were off the next day to travel for a road trip and I was just—bored, I guess, of sitting in my apartment. All I'd seen since I started was my apartment, the gym, and baseball stadiums so I just—I needed to get out and do something, you know?"

Connor pauses again, and he notices a few raised eyebrows in the crowd before him. He knows that this press conference is coming off as unscripted and possibly even candid. It's not unscripted, but he's nervous and that's making everything come out shaky, choppy, and unpolished; it's clearly a contrast to his usually nearly perfect interviews.

"And it turned out that on that night—well, I met someone who just kinda changed everything. They were charming and funny and—well of course they were attractive too. I was smitten pretty much right away and it was clear they liked me at least. It felt like one of those scenes in a movie that seems like would never happen—there was just an immediate connection and we hit it off. I went back to their apartment and we stayed up the whole night. Not like some of you are thinking—we were just talking. And then I left on the road trip and we were texting and calling each other the whole time. It was clear by the time I got back that we really had something. They picked me up from the stadium when we got done, and they were going to drop me off back at my place except—well, the whole apartment building had burned down. And it's just a testament to the kind of person they are that they immediately offered me the spare room in their apartment. I mean—they were just so generous, 'cause not only did they give me a place to stay, but they replaced almost everything I had lost, even though they didn't have to. And it just—it felt like a fairytale. I was already so in love with them, and our relationship just blossomed. They came with me to spring training the next year. And then we moved in together—well, we moved into a place that was just ours, 'cause before we were sharing the apartment with one of their friends. We planned out our whole future together, and we shared so many important moments. My dad dying, my call up to the majors—you know, everything. My life was just perfect—but then it fell apart."

Connor stops and wipes at his eyes, trying to will himself not to break down in front of the entire MLB press corps.

"A few years ago, I made the biggest mistake of my life," Connor says, soldiering on, his voice shaky. "I mean, I didn't know I was making a huge mistake. There wasn't any way for me to really know before it was too late. I thought we could handle it—we talked about it so much, and I was so confident that we would make it but—I was wrong. He just got tired of hiding, and I really don't blame him."

Connor has to halt his speech as frantic whispering threatens to over take the room. He had know he probably was going to have to. Being the first MLB player to come out was going to catch everyone off-guard.

"Just so there's no confusion, you did hear me correctly. I said 'him' because I'm gay, and that someone was my boyfriend Jude. I've spent my entire career hiding him from you because—well, someone I thought I could trust had told me that my career would've been ruined otherwise. I've since learned that all she cared about was the money I could make. But anyway, it was my decision to trust her and that was my mistake. Jude broke up with me a few weeks ago because I was convinced I had to hide." Connor pauses and frowns. "No, that's not right. He broke up with me because I chose to value endorsement deals and photoshoots and multi-million dollar contracts over loving him. I was stupid and selfish and—well he's made it pretty clear that we can't be together anymore. He said his goodbye and he's not going to come back and that's all on me. Now I have to live with the knowledge—the guilt I have because I threw away the best thing to happen to me for—for money. I loved him with all my heart—and I still do. He was the only thing I ever loved more than baseball."

"And baseball—well, my view of the game has changed drastically. Like I said, I loved baseball. Once upon a time, it was the only place I felt safe; the only place where I was totally at peace. I loved the game and I was good at it, and that pushed me to work and become a good player. But I want to be clear: I never expected or wanted to become famous because of baseball. I wanted to play the game, have a respectable career, and sure, I wanted to succeed, but more than anything I wanted to be happy. And when I had Jude and baseball, I was. I was the goddamn happiest man on Earth. But now that he's gone—all I have left are my millions, my batting titles, my NL MVP, and a World Series ring. So that's accolades and a small fortune? No matter what anyone tells you, those things won't make you happy. To me, those things all feel utterly worthless now. And to continue to play baseball—to continue to pour my soul into a game that caused me to lose the most important thing in my life—I'm having a very hard time convincing myself to do that. In fact, when I think about Arizona, spring training—I used to feel excited, but now I just feel sick to my stomach."

The whispering, which had never really stopped, picks up in intensity again. Connor is sure that at least half the room knows what's coming next.

"This team has given me so much. The owner, my coaches, everyone else in the Padres organization, and the fans—I can't thank you all enough. I would have never gotten to this point without you. But I—yeah, I'm done. I just can't do this anymore. I'm retiring from baseball—I will not being returning to the Padres next season. I know that coming out and retiring isn't going to bring Jude back, but I've spent a week thinking about this decision and it's—well, during that time, I've felt more at peace than I have in years. Everything that's been weighing on me so heavily is gone—well, their weight is gone and it's been replaced by something that feels much heavier but, those are the only things I can do something about. With Jude—what's done is done."

"I don't know what I'm going to do next, if I'm being honest with you. Coaching is not really something I want to do. I know that I don't have to do anything at all—I've certainly made enough money to do that if I wanted but long days with nothing but my own thoughts doesn't sound appealing to me. Right now, I think for at least the next year or so, I'm going to work with You Can Play and The Trevor Project. They're both great LGBTQ+ organizations committed to changing the culture around being gay, or bi, or trans or whatever. That's something I believe very strongly in because—I don't want to sit back and let someone else go through what I did."

"So um—thank you everyone for all your support over the years, and for your time today. Goodbye."

Connor stands up and walks out of the room, ignoring the shouts of reporters clambering over each other to ask him questions. There's nothing left to say. So Connor walks out to his car, turns the key, rests his head on the steering wheel, and cries.