Pitcher

by Kristy Marie

  “Keep going,” I tell her, my voice husky.

  I hear her gulp, and it makes me grin. Tortuously, I pull my hand from atop hers and pull her leg over mine, opening her fully. Her panties are still on, and as much as I would like to rip them clear off her body, I don’t. If I lose that barrier between us, there is no telling the mistakes I will make tonight.

  “Don’t get scared now, McCallister,” I taunt, appealing to the competitive side of her. “Be brave.”

  Be my fucking fantasy.

  My hand drifts along her thigh, across the lace of her panties until it’s resting on top of hers again. The dampness there is almost my breaking point. If my shoulder wasn’t taped up, I’d probably jerk off alongside her.

  But alas, karma is a petty bitch.

  “Lower,” I tell her, taking control of this situation.

  A small sound, almost a whimper, seeps from her lips as I push her hand lower, lining it up for what I want to do next.

  “Now slide one finger in.”

  Her leg quivers against me, and I pin it close to my body.

  “Do it,” I encourage.

  Anniston expels a breath, and I feel her body relax as if she’s accepted the fact she isn’t getting out of this. Her back arches, and the moan she lets out has my dick jumping at my pants, attempting to get free and help her.

  Down, boy, not this time.

  This time? What the fuck am I talking about? This can’t happen again. I’m leaving soon.

  Her breathy voice interrupts my internal struggle.

  “What now?”

  Ugh! What now? Now, I want you to sit on my fucking face until you come down my fucking cheek.

  With my palm, I add pressure to her hand, forcing it deeper inside her. “Add another finger,” I say when she gasps from the intrusion.

  My hand twitches as it’s everything I can do to keep it from diving inside her panties.

  “Spread them apart, stretch yourself…”

  She does as I ask, her stomach sinking in and out with her heavy breaths. I have to end this before I come in my fucking pants. Pushing her hand down and out of my way, I tell her to keep fingering herself, and then I make the most fatal mistake of my life and put the pad of my finger to her clit and rub until she calls out my name.

  If I buy chocolate and dinner it will be like PMS week. Anniston won’t think it’s a big deal, right? Or even if we went out for Mexican food later… Neither of these ideas scream I love you, right? We’re friends and roommates. It would be awkward if we didn’t do something for her birthday.

  She’s single.

  I’m single.

  We have no prior commitments for tonight.

  Granted, I could go out and get laid for my time and dinner, but I’m not in the mood. I’d rather swing by the grocery store, grab a pint of ice cream and some tacos from the food truck across from the campus, and watch game footage with Ans.

  That’s what friends do.

  Chill.

  We would be chilling together on her birthday. Together. But not together.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why do I give a shit? I’m gonna stop for food. She can eat or not. And if she wants some of my ice cream, I might share it with her.

  After the night that will forever go down as one of the best nights of my life, Anniston and I have been different toward each other. Not necessarily awkward, more like hesitant. Each joke is weighed in our heads before we say it, which is never what we’ve done before. Both of us have zero verbal filters, so actually thinking before we speak to each other has made it a little quiet around here, to say the least.

  Passing each other in the hall in a towel is a whole different kind of issue.

  My dick has laid claim to that body, and it’s all I can do to prevent him from convincing me to grab that clingy-ass towel and toss it out the window where it can never cover her body again. Not to mention the lack of restraint on her part. My contact list is now down to fifty-five names. All of them are guys, except for my mom and our dry cleaner. I’ve even found two pairs of her underwear in my gym bag. Anniston McCallister is staking her claim.

  Things are definitely complicated.

  The problem is, she’s still not willing to go to Washington, and I’m still not ready to settle down. We’re a fucking disaster.

  After I spend nearly a half hour debating on what to do for Anniston’s birthday, I step out of the car and drag my tired ass into the locker room. Despite tracking Anniston’s phone—it’s for her own protection, not because I’ve become obsessed—and seeing she’s still at the library studying, I have no motivation to practice. The only practicing I want to do is with her. Practicing with the team is a formality anyway. I don’t learn anything from it other than how to be a team player. Kind of.

  It’s a waste of time.

  Time that I could use for writing down the pros and cons of taking Anniston out to dinner or staying in where no one can steal any glances of her.

  That’s it. I should skip practice. I’m due for a stomachache or some tendinitis.

  “Von Bremen!”

  Also, I wouldn’t have to deal with the smell of armpits and ball sweat after being surrounded with Anniston’s body lotion that I’m sure was developed by Salem witches. I was out… It happens. The shit makes my dick twitch every time I get a whiff. I can’t even narrow down the exact scent that makes me crazy. But I can tell you it makes me think of sunscreen, which then makes me think of her in a bikini. And visions of her in a bikini take me on this path of envisioning her tits underneath said bikini, which all leads to me jerking off until I come all over that fucking lotion bottle.

  Voodoo magic.

  There’s no other explanation for it.

  And yes, I rinse it off for her. Jeez. I’m not inconsiderate.

  “Dude.”

  Someone knocks into me from behind.

  “What’s up your ass?”

  I could not turn around.

  I could grab my stomach and heave. No one would be the wiser. No one would know I was faking sick. Especially not Toby.

  “McCallister is up his ass… Fucking up all those pretty little thoughts of his.”

  Ugh. But Brody would know. You don’t have a catcher you’ve been friends with all four years of college and he not pick up on your lies. And since he’s already talking shit today, I know I won’t be able to blow off this practice without him causing a scene. Who gives a fuck that he’s sort of correct about Anniston fucking up my thoughts?

  With a deep, exaggerated sigh, I toss my phone in my locker and slowly turn around, raising my middle finger so it presses directly into Brody’s chest.

  “Aww, don’t be mean, Von Bremen. I can’t help it if McCallister leaves you with blue balls every day.”

  I could punch Brody in the face to get out of this practice. Not only is it unsportsmanlike conduct, but it will bruise my pitching hand. Problem solved.

  My gaze drags up Brody’s increasing gut, and I make a face. “At least I’m not eating my feelings, dick.”

  Brody, never one to take my shit, barks out a hearty laugh and shoves me into Toby, who quickly rights us both.

  Shame.

  Falling could have sent me home too.

  “Come on, man, what’s your deal? I can’t have you throwing like shit out on the field and running extra laps.”

  I cut him a look. I’ve never thrown like shit. Ever. Not since Anniston’s grandfather helped me hone my craft. And definitely not since Anniston took his place and runs my training schedule like a major league pitching coach.

  Shit is never a term associated with my pitching.

  I sigh, taking a seat on the bench. With my head in my hands, I admit to the floor, “It’s Anniston’s birthday today, and I’m not sure what to do.”

  Brody howls like a woodland animal. “The playboy has been played,” he crows. “Tell me, Von Bremen, does she have you by the balls with one hand or two?”

  Who needs friends really? They are such a pain
in the ass.

  I spit on Brody’s bare feet under me, and I feel pleasantly vindictive when he jumps back and hushes that atrocious howling.

  Toby chuckles under his breath at our exchange and says, “What did you have in mind for her?”

  See, Toby, I don’t fucking know because the last time we really had a quiet night together, I nearly came in my sheets that smelled like her goddamned perfume.

  I groan. “I don’t know. It’s the last birthday I’ll get to spend with her for a while.”

  “Well, well, he has a heart after all,” chimes in Brody who apparently found a paper towel and cleaned his foot.

  “Don’t be a dick.” Seriously, I’ve had a bad couple of days. “You know her birthday is a big deal to her.”

  When Brody’s smug smile turns into something solemn, I imagine him remembering Anniston’s birthday is also the day her mom died. She doesn’t shy away from celebrating her birthday, but she never bothers with a party.

  My stomach cramps thinking of me being across the country playing a game and not being able to celebrate with her. What if she doesn’t celebrate? What if she does? What if she celebrates with Thad?

  Oh God.

  “Look, dude,” says Brody, clasping me on the shoulder, “why don’t you bring her over to the house, grab a cake, and we’ll play some poker. She likes that, right?”

  She does, but I kind of wanted to celebrate it with just the two of us.

  I think of the sounds she made as she came underneath my hand. Maybe Brody is right. Maybe I shouldn’t keep her all to myself. Dangerous things could happen to us. Things we can never erase or move on from.

  I’ve waited this long.

  There’s no need to ruin what we have before I leave.

  Anniston needs a man who will put her first, and as much as I want to believe that man is me, it’s not. If it was, I would break my contract and work for my father. But I can’t. I just fucking can’t.

  And for that reason alone, I agree.

  “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll text her.”

  After practice, a sense of dread settles in the pit of my stomach.

  I really don’t want to go over to Brody’s tonight, but I also don’t want to make these last few days any more awkward than they already are. If this was last year, we would have gone to a party. We always go to parties. Anniston likes hanging out with the guys and talking shit. This shouldn’t be so depressing for me.

  This is what we do for fuck’s sake.

  “You’re home early,” she calls from the front door. “Did they let you out of practice early?”

  Coach Anderson knew I was full of shit when I claimed I had a stomachache, but he still let me go.

  “Yeah, the coach said I was so good that I just took up space in the dugout.” I chug the water in my hand and swallow. “He also said they needed to work with the losers more so there was no need in me staying on account of their suckiness.”

  I shrug and fight a grin, looking at the faint smile on her face.

  “What did you do?”

  My eyebrows arch in shock. “I’m serious. I can’t help it if everyone else sucks.”

  Finally, she breaks her composure and laughs.

  There it is.

  My fucking happy place.

  Exactly the way I like to end my days.

  Her lithe body moves into the kitchen and playfully shoves me away from the refrigerator.

  “What do you want to eat tonight?”

  You.

  “I was thinking we could go to this party over at the team’s house and then finish the night off at Mae’s.”

  At exactly 10:02 p.m. when she made her entrance into the world.

  I shrug at her confused expression. “Since it’s your birthday and all.”

  Her face falls slightly.

  Does she look disappointed?

  Fuck. I never should have listened to Brody. He hasn’t had a girlfriend since he switched to tighty-whities.

  “I mean, if you want to,” I amend quickly.

  It takes her a minute, but she finally smiles and confirms, “Yeah, sounds fun.”

  Fun.

  Yeah, it’s going to be a fucking blast.

  I tried not to seem disappointed when I texted a friend, giving away the two tickets for the Braves game I bought earlier for my birthday. I figured it was the last time Theo and I would be able to attend a game together for a long time.

  He made other plans.

  And that’s fine. It really is.

  Okay, so I’m disappointed, but as long as we spend my birthday together, then it doesn’t matter.

  “Ans, are you almost ready?”

  I give myself one last glance in the mirror. My hair is down for once, styled in trendy beach waves. My shorts are probably too short, but it’s hot as fuck, so I really don’t care. At least they are high-waisted and shave an inch or so off my waistline, so the long-sleeve crop top is extra flattering.

  “Anniston!” he shouts again. Impatient much?

  “I’m coming,” I mutter, grabbing my wristlet off the dresser and throwing open the door, nearly colliding with Theo.

  “I said I was coming,” I tell him with a frown.

  “You never take that long to get ready,” he accuses like he suspects I was back here building a bomb or something. His eyes rake up and down my body leisurely before he swallows thickly. “You look beautiful.” His voice is sincere and reverent, and it makes me want to come clean.

  I don’t want to go to this party. I want to stay here with him and celebrate alone. After the night when we took our loose boundaries to a whole other level, I’ve been even more anxious about him leaving.

  I won’t admit it to him, but I started looking into colleges in Washington. I know you aren’t supposed to follow a man, but Theo isn’t just any man. He’s my man. He has been for years, and if I stay here, I’m going to lose him.

  I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and smile. “Thanks, Teddy. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  It’s not a lie. His jeans sit low on his hips, and he’s thrown on a stupid T-shirt that Brody bought him one year for Christmas. It says, “The king of the backdoor slider.” I laughed at first since a backdoor slider is a type of pitch. One that Theo throws very well, but it’s also a metaphor he and his teammates use for anal. Then I realized how very true that shirt is, in more ways than one.

  I wanted to burn it.

  I didn’t, clearly.

  I can keep my crazy in check… sometimes.

  “You want to take my car?” he asks hesitantly, like we’re on a date.

  No. I’d like to stay here. With you. Naked. In the shower.

  “Sure, that’d be great.”

  Liar. I am such a fucking liar.

  The party is in full swing by the time we arrive. In a matter of ten minutes, Theo has already chugged a beer. He’s working on beer number two while sitting across from me at the poker table.

  I thought maybe his bad mood was because he felt awkward giving me a gift earlier. When we parked on the curb and unbuckled our seat belts, he pulled out a half-ass wrapped gift from the back seat, thrusting it in my hands.

  “You can’t open it until your actual birthday,” he said, looking at his watch and informing me, “at 10:02 p.m. to be exact.”

  I laughed, thinking he was joking.

  He didn’t.

  It was a little awkward, so I nodded and tucked it away, promising to wait.

  Theo isn’t great at buying gifts, but he always manages to do something. Even if it’s just chocolate or toilet paper. I didn’t think it was a big deal.

  Apparently, I was wrong.

  “Your turn, Von Bremen,” Brody observes, kicking at Theo’s chair when all he does his stare down at the table with a definitive frown.

  Something is going on with him, but I don’t know what. Did he have plans and my birthday got in the way? Surely not. Theo has always spent my birthday with me.

  “I fold,” he says
dryly, tossing his cards on the table.

  “What the fuck, man?” Brody is done with his shit already. “We just fucking started. Why did you tell us to deal you in?”

  Theo’s gaze finds mine.

  Because I wanted to be dealt in, and he wasn’t leaving me alone with a table full of his teammates.

  What the fuck are we doing?

  Why are we even here if he’s going to act like an asshole? This isn’t the birthday party I wanted.

  This was his idea!

  “I had a shitty hand,” he lies, eyeing the guy next to me. I think his name is Rhys. He’s a junior, second string utility player, which basically means he can play multiple positions. Utility players are in high demand in the major leagues. Not so much for second stringers though. Although, with Rhys’s all-American good looks, he would be great marketing for a potential team.

  I roll my eyes at Theo’s behavior before he gets up, claiming he needs to get another beer.

  Great.

  That’s exactly what we need—a pissed off and drunk Theo. Tonight is shaping up well. Hello future birthdays, let’s plan a quiet night in front of the TV or at the gym. Either will work. Either is my happy place.

  “Let’s play blackjack since Theo is bipolar. At least the games are shorter for when he needs to change his tampon.”

  I glance over at a smiling Rhys. He nods my way as if he just did me a solid. Part of me wants to shove him to the floor for the simple fact he is talking shit about my man. The other part of me takes offense he might think I can’t play poker without Theo.

  Who do you think taught Theo?

  Dudes, I swear. When will they ever learn women are better at most things than they are? It’s science.

  Brody interrupts my plotting by grunting out something unintelligible. He won’t stand for Rhys talking about his friend either.

  Theo hasn’t returned when Brody deals, and I briefly wonder if I should go look for him but then decide he might need a minute to settle down.

  “So, Anniston,” Rhys starts, licking his lips like a total predator, “what are you going to do when Von Bremen takes off?” He nods to the kitchen where Theo wandered off to. “You’re staying here, right? Going to medical school?”