I have the dumbest smile on my face as I sit on the bus to our away game against Washington, and it’s all because Pen and I are having a conversation consisting of only GIFs. It’s stupid and not in any way a real conversation, but here I am, grinning at my phone like an idiot anyway.
It’s been a few weeks since my last away series, and I was really starting to enjoy all the time on our home field and being able to sleep in my own damn bed.
Or Pen’s bed, that one time. Which is where I want to be every night, but I know he likes his space. I don’t want to infringe on that, best friend or not. Even if the dorm room is the only place I can act the way I want with him, it doesn’t mean he always wants me fawning on him or whatever.
Not that I exactly fawn on him…I don’t think.
Hell if I know.
Lately, I’ve been questioning every interaction I’ve been having with him. The way it makes me feel. The weird, lingering ache in my chest when I can’t bring myself to ask for what I want. For what I crave down to a cellular level.
It’s like the night he went down on me for the first time. I couldn’t ask it of him because…I don’t want to force any kind of sexual exploration on him. Sure, he offered because he didn’t want me doing it with anyone else—Pen’s protective nature coming out in full swing. Yet, the last thing I need is for him to feel bad for me or do something like sucking cock out of some screwed-up sense of obligation to our friendship.
Lots of hetero guys are friends with guys in the LGBT community. Doesn’t mean they have to experiment together because of it.
“Waters!” Coach barks from beside me in his deep, booming voice that scares me enough to drop my phone to my lap when I jump slightly.
“Yeah, Coach?”
“Rooming assignment,” he says before looking at his clipboard. “You’re with Castle.”
“Sounds good,” I tell him.
He nods before proceeding further down the aisle, and I let out a sigh of relief. A quick glance up reveals Castle, our second baseman, sitting a few rows in front of me. And while he’s a cool kid—albeit, very shy—I can’t help the pang in my chest that it’s him I’ll be sharing a room with tonight instead of the person I want it to be.
I wish, more than anything, Pen could come up for the games against Washington this weekend. After all, the drive isn’t too far, but his studio is starting to get more demanding, so he chose to stay behind.
I can still daydream about it, though. If he’d managed to stay at the same hotel as us, I could sneak into his room without Castle knowing and fall asleep with him pressed against me after we defile each other’s bodies.
My ass clenches just thinking about it. About his fingers inside me, the warm, velvety heaven of his mouth milking me for all I’m worth. A feeling that hasn’t gotten old, even weeks after experiencing it for the first time.
It’s almost scary how quickly I’ve become addicted to getting naked with him. Touching and tasting him, sure, but also the filthy things he whispers to me while my mouth’s wrapped around his cock or his fingers are screwed up my ass.
Even more, it’s downright freaky how fast I’ve embraced things like sucking dick and having fingers there in the first place.
By now, it’s safe enough to say I’m attracted to Aspen. Absolutely, one hundred percent, no doubt in my mind, not that there ever has been since the damn kiss that started this whole thing. But one thing I’ve discovered through our hookups is I’m definitely attracted to guys in general. Not just Pen.
Now, the thing I’m running into is, the more I feed my attraction to Pen specifically, the less I want anyone else. Take the porn experiment, for example. Once he started getting turned on, it didn’t even matter that the porn was there. I didn’t even notice the two guys going at each other like two wild beasts after Pen started kissing my throat.
At this point, I don’t see anything or anyone besides him.
That happens to be one of the many reasons why I’ve decided to delete my Toppr profile. At least, for the time being.
With my focus being almost entirely on Pen lately, I’m not feeling it anymore. It doesn’t help that I can’t help but compare all the conversations I’m having with whoever I match with to the way Pen and I talk to each other. How easy and natural it is, regardless if we’re in a friends-only zone or lying naked together and covered in cum. I’m not nearly as comfortable with anyone else.
Not to mention, it just feels wrong to be talking to other guys—or girls, for that matter—while screwing around with him. Almost like it’s some form of betrayal. Sure, we agreed on not hooking up with other people while we’re doing this, and just texting guys like balls4lyfe on Toppr doesn’t really cross into that realm.
Still, it doesn’t stop me from feeling any less…itchy.
Which is why I’m currently telling balls4lyfe that I’m not really looking or interested in anything right now. That I’ve sort of started seeing someone—not a lie—and that I need to focus on that more.
The message is long and far more detailed than it needs to be, considering I don’t really owe him anything. After all, I’ve been keeping him at arm’s length a lot more since things with Pen have picked up, not wanting to be the kind of person to lead him on, unintentionally or not.
After reading it over once, I hit send just as the little red dot beside his name turns green, signaling he’s now online and updating his location.
Within .1 miles.
I do a double take, rereading the distance before my stomach rolls. Realization hits me like a Mack truck, panic surging through my veins.
Quickly as I can, I delete my account altogether before uninstalling the app from my phone and tucking the damn thing away in my bag. I don’t know if he had time to read the message or if it will even show up anymore after deleting my account, but it doesn’t matter.
It’s better for him to think I flat out ghosted him than to know the truth.
That I’m his fucking teammate.
The high from our wins over the past two days—and the fuckhot phone sex Pen and I had afterward—has long since faded by Sunday morning. I was hoping to ride that wave into today’s game, but I guess fate had other plans. We’ve been a complete and utter shitshow since the beginning of this game against Washington. It’s like we’re a completely different team than we were the last two days on the field, and while I wish I could say I have no part in the clusterfuck, I’m just as guilty as some of the other guys.
It started out great, going through the first inning with a shutout, thanks to some stellar fielding by Castle, and our shortstop, Reyes. The issue is, Avery’s on the mound today, and he’s been off ever since he stepped foot on the damn field. Even back in the bullpen before the game started, I could tell something was off with him.
By the middle of the third inning, we’re down 4-1, and it’s not looking to get any better when the heaviest hitters in our line-up are either struck-out or send dribblers to Washington’s infield for easy outs.
By the sixth, I’m ready to demand that Coach pull Avery. Why he hasn’t already is beyond my comprehension. He shakes off every other pitch I call, which serves to do nothing but piss me off and hand over hit after hit to Washington until they lead us 8-1. Thank God Reyes is on his game tonight—the only one on the whole team, it seems—because it’s his diving catch on a line drive up the middle that gets us out of the inning before more damage can be done.
At least Coach has enough brains to finally pull Avery before we head out in the seventh. Hopefully our relief pitchers can keep the scoring for Washington to a minimum for the rest of the game.
Of course, I’m entirely wrong, and by the bottom of the ninth, we’re looking at a nine-run deficit.
“We’re not out of this yet,” Coach barks as we head back into the dugout for our final chance at bat. “So get your heads out of your asses and start playing ball like you know how!”
We’re completely out of it, actually, but leave it to Coach to give the most bullshit pep talk of the year.
Avery’s still not happy about getting yanked, even innings later, because he’s slamming around the dugout like the petulant child he is. Apparently, throwing a temper tantrum is something that helps him deal with the way he played today.
Whatever works for him, I guess.
I slide out of my catcher’s gear in favor of my bat and helmet, heading out to the on-deck circle to wait for my turn at the plate.
Hanson—Washington’s starter—was on fire today, giving up only one run, and we haven’t got many hits off him either. The ones we do end up just getting stranded because we can’t piece together enough of an offense to push them around the damn bases.
The bad news for us is that his replacement, Jacobs, is just as good.
Just as I’m thinking it, the crack of a bat sounds out as Reyes connects with the ball in a line drive right back where it came from. Elation spikes through me until Jacobs is quick enough to snatch it out of the air a second later.
Damnit.
I step into the batter’s box and take my signs from Coach where he’s positioned down the third base line. He’s telling me to hold off and make the count work for me, not unlike any other time I’m at the plate.
I do just as he says, making Jacobs work for it, no matter how hard I wanna swing at any zingers he throws my way. Especially the fastball that barely clips the inside of the strike zone.
Everyone in our conference knows I have a weakness of inside fastballs. It’s a surefire way to get me to swing, even if they’re some of the harder pitches to hit. A lot of pitchers and catchers rely on them to get a batter down in the count early on. Hell, I’ve been known to call for them often when I’m the one behind the plate. But when I’ve got a bat in my hands? Those pitches are my bread and fucking butter.
I’m up in the count with two balls and one strike when I pull my front foot from the batter’s box and look down at Coach. He finally gives me the go-ahead to swing if it’s something I like.
Perfect.
My eye stays locked on the ball in Jacobs’s hand with precision focus the moment I step back into the box. I watch as he nods to his catcher, taking his sign before hiding the ball in his glove.
I wait for the pitch, the best kind of adrenaline rushing through me.
The anticipation. The high. It surges through me and makes me feel more alive than I do anywhere else.
When the ball leaves Jacobs’s hand, I can already tell it’s exactly what I’m hoping for. An inside fastball, just waiting for me to smack it out to the outfield.
But something’s wrong.
I realize too late that the ball hurling toward me is a little too inside for me to do anything with it at all besides hope to get out of the way.
There’s not enough time, though, and the ball collides with my ribs. The wind is knocked out of me instantly, and I drop my bat to the ground and curl into myself on instinct. My knees hit the dirt, my entire side vibrating with bone-searing pain as I gasp for air that won’t fill my lungs. It feels like all the oxygen in the atmosphere has suddenly been completely used up.
Coach is at my side moments later, urging me to breathe deeply with a gentle palm on my back. I heave for air a couple times before I manage to finally catch my breath, coughing and sputtering once I finally have a steady flow of oxygen again.
Clapping sounds from around the stadium as I rise back to my full height. Really fucking slowly, because I feel like a kid with asthma trying to run a marathon. The umpire signals for me to take my base, and I make my way down the baseline to first.
In hindsight, trying to get out of the way was probably the worse thing I could’ve done. Taking a ball to the shoulder or forearm is a cakewalk in comparison to the ribs. It sure as hell wouldn’t have been enough to take me to the ground.
“All good?” my first base coach asks when I make it there. “Need a runner?”
Fuck, no, I don’t need a runner. My side might be hurting like a bitch, making it difficult to take a deep breath, but there’s no way in hell I’m stepping off the field right now. Not when my team needs me.
I’m one of the faster guys on the team, and I need to score in order to have any chance of starting a rally. Getting from here to home plate within the next two outs is the only thing I give a crap about. Not my goddamn ribs, even if they did just take a ninety mile per hour fastball to them five minutes ago.
But none of that matters, as it turns out. Getting a runner, my speed around the bases, all of it ends up being irrelevant when two batters and outs later, I’m still left standing on first.
The entire team is dejected as we shake hands with Washington and head to the locker room for an ass-chewing from Coach. Which, of course, only makes the vibe in the air twenty times worse afterward.
By the time I hit the showers, I’m in immense pain. It lances up my side every time I try to lift my arm or twist my body in a mixture of searing and stabbing, and drying off my skin afterward might as well be the equivalent of sliding a dagger between my ribs.
Back in the changing area, I towel off my hair as best I can before slipping into clean boxer briefs. I move slowly to grab my dress pants next, but as soon as my arm extends, a rough hand lands on my shoulder. I don’t have time to react before I’m spun around and pushed back against the wooden cubby. My eyes slam shut as pain ricochets through my side and chest, and when they slide open again, I find my attacker is none other than Avery.
Wonderful.
“Get the fuck off, Avery,” I growl. The arm on my good side lifts to give him a shove, but he’s just as big as me, if not bigger. One arm against his entire body weight doesn’t do jack shit to move him more than an inch, especially when I can barely put any strength behind it.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” he snarls, pressing into me harder. His forearm digs into my chest and it feels like my ribs are splintering under the pressure. Even worse when his other palm slams against the already-forming bruise on my side from where I was hit by that pitch.
The pain—damn near debilitating—comes rushing back instantly, and I hiss through clenched teeth as it makes my vision go blurred. To the point where I think I might pass out if it doesn’t stop. I can’t even speak, let alone shout at him to get off me again, or better yet, to leave me alone. The way he’s pressing against my injury makes even breathing seem impossible.
“This loss is on you, Waters.” The bite in his tone is icy and ruthless as he pushes against me harder. “If you hadn’t fucked with my mind by calling all those bullshit pitches, half of those runs could’ve been prevented.”
Yes, because one person on a field with eight other guys has the lone responsibility for winning or losing.
If I had enough air in my lungs to tell Avery that, I would. Or point out the clear flaws in his math skills. The problem is, I literally can’t form words, let alone summon the brain power to speak them.
Something he takes advantage of, letting venom drip from his words.
“At least you have your little fuckboy to go home to.” The pressure on my ribs increases. “I’m sure he’ll make everything all better with a nice, sloppy blowjob.”
I grit my teeth and push back against him, but to no avail. In fact, all it does is make his sneer turn into something of a smile, clearly entertained by getting a reaction out of me.
“Aw, is he a sensitive subject? You two get in a fight about which one gets to top when you get home?” He lets out a menacing laugh. “I bet you’re the one who gets fucked. All that squatting behind the plate would help you ride your boyfriend’s cock better.”
Embarrassment and fury surge through me at his insinuation, heating my cheeks. My stomach is seizing from the pain and his wicked onslaught of insults, but I tamp down the vomit threatening to make an appearance. I’m not letting this homophobic asshole see me lose my lunch while he’s got me pinned like this.
“Would you cut it with the stupid boyfriend shit?” I snap, finally finding my words before making another futile attempt to shove him off me. “I’m sick of you running your mouth when it comes to Pen.”
“And I’m sick of your queer ass walking around here like you’re God’s gift to baseball.”
Either he’s delusional or he’s lost his damn mind, because that sounds more like something he does. Not me.
Something everyone on this team realizes.
And look at that, a quick glance around the locker room reveals quite a few of them gathered around to watch the showdown between us. What’s more infuriating is that none of them are making any attempts to stop this.
“Reynolds!” Coach barks loudly from behind where Kaleb’s standing. He shoves his way through the team quickly and lands what must be a bruising grip on Avery’s shoulder, if his wince is anything to go by. “Unless you’ve suddenly become the team trainer, I suggest you get your hands off Waters.”
Avery’s nostrils flare, and from the tick of his jaw, he’s barely preventing himself from flying off the handle at Coach. Yet, somehow, he does, shoving off and away from me to his cubby after a muttered, Yes, Coach.
I gulp down oxygen greedily now that I’m free of his wrath, slumping down to sit at the bench as I wait for the agonizing pain in my ribs to subside. When it still doesn’t after a minute, I look up at Coach helplessly.
“Go see the trainer about that side before we get out of here,” he murmurs just to me before turning to the rest of the guys. Some are still milling about, watching the outcome of this with interest. “The rest of you, get your shit together and get on the bus so we can get home!”
