by K. Bromberg
He drives me to my climax and instead of milking it out of me—slowing down so I can ride the soft waves of it—he keeps going, keeps thrusting, so before I know it I’m already primed for another one.
I slide my fingers between my legs and rub my clit to help bring me there. I know he’s close too. He moves his hand from my hair to my shoulder to hold me in place so he can slam into me from behind.
He wages an all-out assault on my senses.
The sound of his groan. The slap of our skin connecting. My whimpers of pleasure. It feels so good it borders on painful.
The feel of his cock. Its head as it slides over every spot I need within me. The possessive grip of his hand.
The scent of his shampoo. The smell of sex. It surrounds me. Consumes me.
My name is on repeat with his every stroke. Each time it sounds more strained, more like his control is about to snap.
And when it does, I’m ready for it. For him. He bucks his hips and his fingers mark my skin from their grip.
“Jesus Christ,” he says as he leans forward and lays his chest atop my back, his chin on my shoulder, his mouth by my ear. “Scout . . . you . . . damn . . .” he pants and presses a kiss to the nape of my neck.
“Mmm.” I revel in the heat of his body and the feel of his skin on mine.
“See? Even with only one good arm, I haven’t lost my edge,” he says with a chuckle once he catches his breath.
“A skill set like that has to be illegal,” I tease.
“Well, if we’re going to jail, we might as well break the law again and again so we get our fill worth.”
“Does that mean next time we get to use handcuffs?”
“I like the way you think, Kitty.” I yelp as he straightens up and smacks my ass. “Teamwork at its finest.”
I glance around my apartment one last time.
Nothing here feels like home to me. Not the bed. Not the couch. Not the vanity in the bathroom.
Not the way Easton’s place does anyway.
So it’s time.
To walk away from this—formal surroundings that never really felt comfortable—and jump head first into what comes next.
Officially living together.
I laugh. It’s not like Easton and I haven’t been doing it already, but this next step will make it official.
I came to Austin—to this furnished apartment—to do nothing more than fulfill my dad’s wishes before moving on to the next city. The next ball club. To keep living the transient life I’ve grown accustomed to.
I glance over to the last box to bring to my car. There is nothing significant in it. No mementos to hold close. No memories to remind me of a special occasion. Everything I have that’s meaningful is already at Easton’s or at my dad’s house.
It’s funny how I moved here six months ago, content with my life. With the constant travel. With the lack of permanence. And now, all I can think about is staying in Austin long-term. Winning the contract to satisfy my dad’s wish all the while allowing me to remain in the only place other than my childhood home that I’ve ever really felt like I belong: Easton’s place.
It takes me a second to remove my key from my keychain before setting it on the kitchen counter and heading to the door.
I came here closed off from the world, and I’ll walk out open to the future.
I take one last look around. Give a half-hearted goodbye to the single life before willingly shutting the door on it.
I’m opening a different door now. One toward a new life.
To chances.
To possibilities.
To Easton.
“So whataya say, Doc?” Nerves rattle around as Dr. Kimble continues to manipulate my shoulder without talking. The little noises he makes to himself as he moves it here and there only add to my anxiety.
After his examination is done, he takes a seat opposite me. And fuck if I don’t suddenly feel the need to throw up. A doctor facing you is never good. The whole needing to get on eye level to break the bad news is bullshit.
“I’m not sure, Easton.”
“What does that mean?” My heart feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest.
“It’s healing on par with what I’d expect of it and the amount of days you’re out from your surgery date . . . but I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that your shoulder has suffered significant damage.”
“I thought you fixed it during the surgery.”
“I did, but sometimes what happens in surgery isn’t always how the body wants to heal.”
There’s a buzzing in my ears. My head grows dizzy. “What are you saying, Doc?”
“I’m saying it’s repaired, Easton. I’m saying with the proper rehab, you could report to spring training next year and hold your own. But with every ball you throw, you will risk permanent damage.”
“I don’t—”
“Let me finish.” I nod and try to swallow over what feels like a baseball lodged in my throat. “Like I said, you can return. You can have a killer season . . . but the question is how much longer will it hold up? You need to think long-term here about your health and your life.”
“Baseball is my life.” I can hear the desperation in my voice.
He nods and the deliberateness of it tells me it’s a practiced move. Patience. “I understand that, son. But you need to think of ten years from now. You’ll be mid-thirties. You need to ask yourself now if you’re okay living with an arm that doesn’t do what you want it to then. Hold your wife. Play with your kids. Carry the groceries. That’s a good forty years you’d have to deal with a damaged shoulder.”
“That’s bullshit.” I reject his words immediately and shove off the medical table and pace to one side of the very small room and then back. “You’re saying that to scare me. To make sure I’m cautious. It feels the same now as after I had the first surgery.”
“And look what happened to it after that.”
“It’ll be fine.” It has to be. And even though I say the words, the break in my voice betrays the conviction in its tone.
“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m letting you know the true ramifications to a shoulder that’s been injured twice.”
“But it’s not a definite.”
“No.” He chews on the word. “But it’s my job to let you know the possibilities when you play a position that uses your arm more than any other position on the field. You play a full game. Throw the ball back after every pitch and even though the pitchers change, three possibly four times per game, you remain behind the plate. Your shoulder bears the biggest brunt of any player out there.”
“So what if I don’t catch anymore?” The simple thought causes panic to close my throat. It’s the only position I’ve ever known. It’s my position. It’s the one that controls the game. “What if I played first base so I didn’t have to throw as much?”
“That would be up to you.” His placating tone is like listening to fingernails on a chalkboard. I want to cover my ears and close him out.
“I could still play for ten years and my arm could be perfectly fine.”
“You could, and it possibly could.” His eyes say so much more than his mouth, though.
“Then why are you telling me this?”
“Because it’s my job to tell you the truth.”
I stare at him while disbelief and anger slam around inside me as I reject every single thing he’s telling me.
“Fuck that, Doc. I’m playing. I haven’t clawed my way back tooth and nail over two blown cuff surgeries to just lie down without giving it a good fight.”
“Okay.” He draws the word out only serving to irritate me further. “You have a lot to think about during the coming months.”
“Are we done here?”
“Apparently.”
Fuck that.
Fuck him.
I’m playing. No doctor is going to tell me how my arm is supposed to feel when I’ve been the one playing with it my whole life. I know my body better than
anybody. I’m the best judge of if I can play or not.
But with each step, each corner turned as I walk through the city to clear my head, the anger morphs into disbelief.
I hit the sports complex, Little League fields all around me. Teams of all different ages are practicing in the afternoon heat. There’s the clink of the aluminum bat. The laughter of kids. The stern reprimands of coaches.
The disbelief begins to shift into understanding.
And I don’t want it to.
My feet slow down, and I begin to take in my surroundings. I’ve been here dozens of times. I’ve sat on my grassy knoll in left field and watched games and practices while I’ve cleared my head, but for the first time, I really pay attention.
To my left a dad does some kind of silly dance to make his daughter laugh before tossing the ball to her. She misses it, scrambles after it, and then when she throws it back, sends it sailing wide of him. But as he jogs after it, repeated praise is on his lips. How strong her arm is. How she’ll be a great third baseman someday with that kind of strength.
There is no pressure. No expectations to live up to. Just a dad and a daughter playing catch. Bonding. Spending time together.
To my right is a team of older boys, junior high age. Three dads run the practice. Their instructions are a little harsher than the dad and his daughter but every single word is positive. I continue to watch them as they practice making double plays. Over and over.
My feet have stopped moving. I don’t want to sit in the outfield today. I want to sit right here, in the middle of this. Things I don’t remember experiencing with my dad but know I want to experience with my kids someday.
Kids?
What the hell am I thinking? I never wanted kids.
You never wanted Scout, either.
But the more I stand in the center point of four fields flowering off around me, the more I realize there is life after playing baseball.
There are things I want to be able to do.
It’s top of the ninth.
“You have a big decision to make over the coming months, Mr. Wylder.”
Full count.
Do I want to take the chance?
Bases loaded.
Or do I want a future where I can participate fully? Throw my kids up in the air. Make love to my wife in whatever position I want with two healthy arms. Work in the yard. Play catch with my son. Or daughter.
The pitch is thrown.
I look at everything around me. So many things out of focus before are now becoming crystal fucking clear.
What are you going to do, Easton?
I’m scared shitless. I have months to decide. Nothing is concrete. The love of my life may have shifted from a sport to the hint of possibility.
Strike out?
Am I just being a pussy?
Or swing for the fences?
Then again, I might not be.
And hit a homerun.
I tug my hat lower and look around again. Take it all in. The bitterness I felt earlier at Dr. Kimble is still there. The panicked feeling a constant tickle on the back of my neck.
I pick up my phone and stare at it a few minutes, scared to fucking death to make this call.
I hit send.
“Easton. What are you doing here?”
I fold Adler’s patient file—a blown-out knee—and am so surprised to see Easton here, in the locker room, when I never thought he’d step foot in here again.
“I wanted to take my girlfriend out for lunch.”
I eye him suspiciously because this does not sound like the man I know. “Is this a cover-up for some prank you’re pulling on one of the guys when they come back from their road trip?”
“Who me?” He blinks innocently enough and yet there’s always that mischievous little boy underneath who I don’t trust but love knowing is still there. “Seriously, I know you’re done with rehab for the day—I just talked to Adler on his way out—so come on. Let’s go.”
“Where in the world are you taking me?” I sip my chocolate milkshake while he swings our joined hands between us. The sun is out, the humidity not too horrible, and I have a belly full of all kinds of bad-for-you food Easton insisted we have.
“So you’re a clue kind of girl, huh? You just can’t jump right into a surprise, you have to prepare yourself for it?”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
“Isn’t that the whole point of a surprise? The not knowing what is going to happen?” he asks and leans over and kisses my temple.
“Yeah, but you told me there was one, so now I know it’s going to happen.” I laugh. This line of conversation is ridiculous and amusing.
“What if I told you, there was no waiting because we’re here?”
Startled, I glance at the lush greenery around us and take in the rows of cinderblock walls covered in graffiti. Beautiful, artistic graffiti but graffiti nonetheless.
“It’s oddly beautiful,” I say as I move toward the murals. They are amazing and profound in all their colorful uniqueness. As I walk through them, I can’t resist reaching out to touch some of them and then standing back, trying to figure out what the others mean.
Easton follows me and his silent observation makes me nervous. “It’s called the HOPE Outdoor Gallery.”
“HOPE?”
“Helping Other People Everywhere.”
“But it’s graffiti. How is that helping people?”
“It started out as a movement to raise awareness about socially conscious issues. In reality, it’s just a bunch of artists and musicians who come together to be active and donate their proceeds to certain causes.” I walk a few feet as I mull over his explanation but don’t understand what this has to do with these graffiti-covered walls. He must read my expression because he begins to explain. “These are murals made by some of the artists. They all deal with different issues close to their hearts.”
“They’re fascinating.”
“Are you ready to add your mark to one of them?”
“What?” I whip my head toward him, eyes narrowed, and nose scrunched up.
“We have a little section over here that’s ours to do as we wish.” He begins to walk to the backside of a wall.
“But wait—how—I can’t paint for shit.”
His laugh rings out and echoes off the walls around us. “It’s art. Isn’t it subjective?”
“Subjective, my ass.” I stand with my hands on my hips trying to figure this out. “But I don’t understand . . .”
“I did an event with the founder a few years back. I thought this place was pretty cool and since then have been a silent contributor to some of their causes. So in turn, I have a little section I get to screw up. On the backside of a wall. In the corner—”
“So no one sees it,” I finish for him with a laugh.
“Exactly. So it doesn’t matter how horrible we make it, it only matters that we make it,” he says as he picks up a bucket full of spray paint that seems to materialize out of nowhere. “They knew we were coming.” He winks but I just shake my head and stand my ground.
I look at the many walls around me. I take in their beauty and creativity and feel like I could study them for hours and still not decipher all their hidden meanings. And yet when I glance back at Easton, everything about him commands my attention. He stands in the tall grass amid walls painted in every color imaginable, and yet it’s his true colors that shine the brightest—time and again—and steal every damn piece of my heart.
He smiles that crooked smile of his as he holds a can of paint out to me. “C’mon, Scout, you know you want to try it.”
“I do,” I say, fingers itching to, “but my skills are lacking in the creativity department.”
“We’re back on proving skills again, now are we?”
I roll my eyes and take the can from him. “So we can paint anything we want?”
“Anything.”
“Challenge accepted.”
“Horrible is putting it kindly.”
“Hey, be nice.” I swat at him, but he grabs my hand and pulls me against him. His lips are on mine without hesitation. The breeze blows around us. The grass tickles my bare legs. We smell like the distinct scent of spray paint. But the taste of his kiss is the cherry on the top of this perfect day.
“Is that nice enough?” he asks when he ends the kiss.
“Definitely. I like nice. Maybe we can be even nicer later.”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Pervert.”
“And your point is?” I ask coyly.
“Nothing. You’re perfect as you are.” His smile is wide as his eyes leave mine and glance over my shoulder at our combined graffiti. “Just like that is.”
I turn to face our wall. It’s crude at best compared to the other skilled murals around us, but it’s totally us.
“Have a day” is written across the top of the wall. Drips of paint, where I held the can too close make lines down the lettering. There’s an open book on the wall. One page filled with letters going all different ways. The other page filled with the picture of a baseball diamond. There’s a horrible blob of brown that was Easton’s attempt at a fortune cookie. Just looking at it, I smile thinking of how hard we laughed as we tried to make it look better but only resulted in making it look worse. The same goes with my attempt at outlining a dog. At least the ears and tail can be made out. Then there’s a crudely painted kitty cat in one corner with a number forty-four for our signature.
It’s horrible at best but every single thing on it—all the way down to the round circles that are supposed to be Life Savers—reflects something meaningful to us.
I reach out and link my fingers with his, so thankful for this change of pace and reminder of what matters most. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
