by Eden Finley
A lump lodges in my throat. “I’m happy to get to know you and glad you finally told me the truth.”
She reaches across the table and grips my hand. “I don’t deserve you. Giving you up was the best thing I could’ve done, but that doesn’t mean I don’t regret it. I doubt you would’ve grown up to be such a great person if you were on the road with me all those years. And now I’m here”—tears fall from her eyes—“I feel horrible that you’ve had to take me in.”
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re going through a hard time, and we’re family. It’s what we do for each other.”
“You should go home to Damon. Go have fun. I’ll finish my soup eventually, settle the check, and then head on back to your apartment when I’m done.”
I’m torn because while I should stay to make sure she gets home okay I really want to go home to Damon. “I know this time you were going to get the check, but how about I go pay and you use your money on a cab back to my apartment so I won’t worry about you getting home?”
“I seriously don’t deserve you.”
I stand from the table and lean into her, kissing the top of her head. “Don’t worry about it. Catch up again soon? Come for lunch again one day you’re feeling up to it?”
“Definitely.”
After settling the check, I can’t get home fast enough. When I walk through the door, Damon’s fresh out of a shower, only wearing a towel.
“You’re home.” A grin lights up his face.
My eyes rake over him, from his wet chest down to his happy trail.
“How’s Cheri?”
“Huh?” I pull my gaze away to meet his amused expression.
“Cheri. She doing better?”
“I think she’s okay. She doesn’t really talk about it much. I can tell the side effects are kicking her ass, though. She can barely eat anything or do anything …” I check my watch. One thing about seeing Cheri go through this is it makes me realize I need to take her advice. Don’t worry about the future so much and go out and have fun. “You should get dressed. We’re going out.”
Damon’s smile falls. “Where?”
“Out.” I’ve been wanting to drag Damon to the batting cages for a while now. I want to see him in his element—where he claims he’s most happy.
He eyes me warily the whole time he gets dressed and all the way to the subway too. “Okay, seriously. Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” One I hope doesn’t freak him out like the last time we were at a baseball field.
“If you can’t already tell, I’m not a big fan of surprises.”
Of course, he isn’t. “Wouldn’t have guessed,” I say.
When we arrive outside the sporting complex, Damon tenses.
“Come on. You need to show me how you almost became famous.”
He rubs the back of his neck as I drag him inside. “I’ll be rusty.”
“You’ll still be better than me.” I’ve always been one of those guys who can play any sport. I pick shit up easily, but I was never a prodigy. Never enough to be great at any of them. “Come on, Lion King.”
A hand clamps over my mouth. “Please don’t say that too loudly.” Damon’s eyes dart around the nearly empty place. He doesn’t remove his hand until I nod.
“You really don’t like that name, do you?” I ask. “What are the chances of anyone spotting you here?”
Damon shrugs. “It happens sometimes—like at Chastity’s wedding. When I say I was everywhere for a while, I mean, I was everywhere. I was the next big thing before I’d even made it to the majors. I don’t like the billions of questions it comes with when someone recognizes me. What happened to your career? Where did you disappear to? They treat me like a has-been, but I’m not even that. I’m an almost-was, and I think that’s even worse.”
“Yeah, I can see how that would suck.” When he doesn’t reply, I squeeze his hand. “Did I make a mistake bringing you here?”
“Nah, I’d love to hit the cages with you. It’s just, anything to do with baseball makes me happy and bitter at the same time. Puts me in a weird mood.”
It’d be hard to hate something you love so much. “If you want to leave at any time, we’re gone.”
With a nod, he leads the way.
At the cages, Damon blows out a loud breath and runs his hand over the row of bats lined up outside the cage.
“Is this a ‘If you build it, he will come’ type thing?” I ask. “You waiting for a bat to speak to you?”
“Nope. The bats who speak to you are shit, because they won’t stop talking to keep their eye on the ball.”
“Funny guy.”
“You started it.” Damon picks up a bat and closes himself in the cage.
If smashing out ball after ball is his definition of rusty, I would’ve been in awe when Damon was in the peak of his career.
My gaze—surprisingly—isn’t stuck on his firm ass the whole time as he takes swing after swing. From his long arms to his powerful muscles, he’s amazing with a bat. And now I’m thinking about his bat and wondering how much longer it’ll be before he gets over it and we can go home.
I never thought baseball could be a turn-on.
He comes out of the cage sweaty but happy. His entire face glows, and his posture is somehow proud and relaxed at the same time.
I hope he’ll look at me like that one day, because I’m coming to realize I really fucking care about the guy standing in front of me.
“I thought pitchers were easy outs?” I ask. “You kicked ass in there.”
“I was decent at hitting. Not the best on the team, but I held my own. God, I’ve missed this.” His nostalgic tone and flushed glow makes my heart break for him.
Baseball was his life and now he has to live without it. He can go to games and watch from the sidelines, but the way he talks about it, it’s as if part of his soul died when he was injured and couldn’t play anymore. He speaks of the game as if it’s a living, breathing thing.
“When was the last time you played?”
Damon’s shoes apparently become fascinating to him. “Since the injury. I went through all that rehab, hoping, but when the doctor said I’d never regain full movement, it hurt too much to even try to recondition myself. Both physically and mentally.”
“How is the shoulder holding up?” I ask.
“Not too bad. How about we hit the night field at the back where I can pitch to you. Let’s see if you can hit my fastball.” His face morphs into that of a child on Christmas morning, and I realize we won’t be going home any time soon. I think in the world of priorities for Damon, it goes baseball, sex, food. But if this makes him smile like that? I’ll gladly stay here all night if he wants to.
“Pretty sure I won’t even be able to hit your slow ball,” I say.
“That’s not a thing,” he says and tries not to laugh.
“All right, but go easy on me.”
He doesn’t go easy on me.
Bastard.
The first ball flies past me before I can even blink.
“Come on,” Damon taunts, “that was only eight-five.” He points to the display, lighting up his speed.
“I’m so glad I’m wearing a helmet for this.”
“You have nothing to worry about. My precision has always been on point.”
“And you’re so modest about it.”
Damon sighs. “You think I’m bad now. Can you imagine how I was four years ago?” He looks at the baseball in his hand and squeezes it tight. Even from here the deep concentration line on his forehead is prominent.
Slowly, I walk toward him. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” he murmurs, still looking at the ball. “Just … this was my whole life. I’ve spent so long being angry at myself, at the world, at my coaches—even though I never told them I was in pain. I kept trying to rationalize that they were the professionals, they should’ve seen the signs. I know it was my fault. My cockiness and the pressure became too much, and I thought I was
invincible. And it’s true I miss it. Standing here, holding this ball, I really fucking miss it. But, you know what?”
“What?”
“It doesn’t feel like home anymore.”
I smile. “That’s a good thing, right?”
“A really good thing.” He sniffs and lifts his head, and I pretend I don’t see the glimmer in his eyes. “You ready for more?”
“Bring it. But, uh, not too hard.”
He grins.
This time, I’m ready. I’m going to hit—
Bam, the ball flies into the net behind me.
He continues to throw bullets at me, but toward the end, I manage to get a few hits, and I’m proud to even accomplish that. Damon’s either too tired, sore, or he’s going easy on me.
“I think I better call it,” Damon says after a while. “My shoulder’s starting to pinch.”
“Thank God. I don’t know how much longer I could keep embarrassing myself.”
“You did better than I expected. That, or I really suck now.”
I wrap my arm around him as we make our way out to the front. “As if you weren’t going easy on me toward the end there.”
His face has guilt written all over it, and for a competitive guy to give that to me …
I lean in and kiss his cheek. “I might keep you. You’re good for my ego.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
DAMON
God, I hate coming home late. It never used to faze me, but now, knowing Maddox is at home waiting for me, I hate it. Only a few more weeks and I’ll be coming home at a reasonable hour. Of course, by then, he’ll be back in his apartment which will suck.
When I walk through the door, he drags me straight into the bathroom and starts undressing me.
“Missed you too,” I murmur.
“We’re seeing your friends tonight or did you forget?” His hands continue their assault on my clothes, and I can’t wait to have them on me.
“I forgot. When do we have to be there at?”
“Ten minutes ago,” he says. “But they’re going to have to wait, because for the last three days I’ve tried to wait up for you and passed out instead. I need you in me.”
And I’m done for. My mouth crashes down on his. He shaved today, so his smooth face is different from the stubble I’m used to, but I still love it. Love his lips, his tongue. I groan into his mouth. “Wait.” I pull back. “We need—”
“Lube and condom already in the shower. You can’t call me a boy scout; I’m just horny. I … uh … went shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“You’ll see.” Maddox pulls me in under the spray and kisses me hard.
My tongue meets his, and my hands wander over his hard body. His abs contract and harden beneath my fingers. When they go to his ass, there’s—
“Is that a butt plug?”
His newfound love of ass play is a novelty to him. It’s like a game, figuring out how many different ways he can come.
“Little to no prep time. I’m ready.” He reaches for the condom and rolls it on for me. Then he grabs the lube and massages a generous amount on my cock. I’m close to blowing already, so I have to stop him.
“Wrap your legs around me.” It comes out like an order, and I half-expect Maddox to tease me further to watch me squirm and complain, but he must be hornier than I expect, because he does as I say without demanding I use my manners first.
Maddox moves so his back is flush against the tile wall. When his legs go around my back, I hold him up with one hand, while the other reaches around and pulls out the plug, letting it drop to the floor. Then in one swift, glorious motion, Maddox’s tight heat surrounds my cock.
“You have to come fast. Not only am I close to coming, but you’re fucking heavy.”
Maddox laughs, and the movement ripples down to my toes.
“So not helping.” I breathe deep to pull me back from the edge.
“I got this,” he says. Reaching between us, he takes himself in his hand.
My head falls to his shoulder as my hips move in short and shallow thrusts. I want to close my eyes to try to make this last longer, but I have an awesome view of Maddox’s hand wrapped around his cock. He rolls his wrist on the upstroke and rubs the precum from his slit down his shaft and then repeats the same motion over and over again. If I wasn’t about to blow my load, I’d be able to watch that for hours. His thumb swipes some more precum, and he lifts his finger to my mouth. I love the taste of him on my lips.
My hips pivot forward and pick up pace.
“This angle,” he pants. “I’m gonna—” He’s cut off by his orgasm ripping through him. His ass clamps down on me, and I grunt as I chase my own release. I can’t take much more, but I don’t want this to end. It’s the perfect dilemma.
My legs threaten to fall out from underneath us when I shudder and Maddox’s ass milks my dick. Maddox grabs onto my shoulders for leverage as I pound into him with what I have left. When I finally still, my arms are heavy, my legs weak, and I notice a pain in my right hamstring. “Fuck, I think I pulled something.”
“If it doesn’t cause an injury, it isn’t fun.”
I slip out of him and practically drop him, but he finds his balance fast when his feet hit the tiles. “We need to get cleaned up and go.”
We rush as fast as we can and are out the door in five minutes, but Wyatt’s place is on the Upper West Side near Columbia, so we’re forty-five minutes late when we finally arrive. It’s not a big deal considering our catchups are always casual, but with the way I’m now limping, thanks to the shower romp, they’re all going to know why.
“Whose place is this again?” Maddox asks.
“Wyatt’s. Blond guy, long hair.”
“Ah, the surfing analyst.”
“Except he doesn’t surf. And I don’t think he’s an analyst. I don’t understand his job.”
Wyatt’s building is so old the buzzer to get in only works to let the people know you’re there. They have to physically come out to let you in, so I hit the buzzer and wait.
“Now, am I going to have to remind you that you will be around other humans tonight, and Wyatt lives in a one-bedroom apartment, so most likely, someone will be listening at all times?”
“Are you implying I’m not able to keep my mouth shut about your sex injury from dicking me out—”
I sigh when Wyatt laughs. Of course, he had to open the door in the middle of Maddox’s sentence. “Yo, Noah,” Wyatt calls out down the hall to his ground-floor apartment. “You owe me twenty bucks.”
Maddox’s cheeks pinken. “I’m never speaking again.”
I frown at Wyatt. “What are you talking about?”
“I bet twenty bucks that Maddox was a bottom. Noah reckons you’re too straight for that.”
“Uh …” Maddox’s mouth opens but nothing else comes out.
I shrug. “If they’re betting on you, it means they like you,” I say to him.
“Okay … thanks? I think?”
Wyatt’s dining area and kitchen are small, but he has a loft bed in the corner, so he turned his actual bedroom into a large living room—large for New York anyway.
Rebecca and Skylar are on one end of the couch, and Noah and Aron are on the floor, sitting close together. Noah and Aron have a weird relationship, and they refuse to talk about it to anyone. I think they may have slept together, but they deny it.
Maddox and I squish in on the couch next to the girls.
“You’re one of us now,” Skylar says to Maddox.
“One of you?” he asks.
“Damon told Rebecca, who told me, who told everyone, you two are officially together now. So, that means you’re one of us.”
“One of us. One of us,” Noah chants.
“Do I get to learn a secret handshake? If there’s no handshake, I’m not interested.”
“Here’s a handshake for you,” Noah says and flips him off.
Maddox laughs. I’m glad he takes Noah’s shit in stride. He can
definitely rub people the wrong way. Although, half the time I expect he purposefully does it to push people away.
There’s no group of people I’m more comfortable around than these guys—not even my own family. And Maddox fits in easily. We sit there basically slinging insults at each other all night, and it’s obvious they approve of and love Maddox. Like I’m beginning to think I do too.
***
Two more weeks fly by, and poor Cheri is still stuck in New York. Maddox says she’s getting nausea from the treatment, and they’re trying to counteract the vomiting with other meds, but nothing seems to be working. She has the option to pull out of the clinical trial, but without it, her MS might get worse, and she doesn’t want that.
She thinks she might be here another week at least. By then it’ll be six weeks total, and I’m selfish enough to say I’m thankful for her being sick. Okay, not thankful—that makes me an asshole. I don’t like that she’s sick, but it’s the reason Maddox is still staying with me.
If there was a way to keep Maddox in my apartment without Cheri being sick, I’d take it.
You could always ask him, dumbass.
Or, I could be a huge chicken shit and hope that once Cheri leaves, Maddox will want to stay and say it himself without me having to ask.
The time living with Maddox has been better than I could’ve expected, but it’s not like he’s there by choice. Anyone would choose a big, comfy bed over sharing one room with an aunt-slash-birth-mother person and sleeping on a tiny couch.
If I tell Maddox I’m ready for the ninth inning when he’s still in the second, it’s going to get awkward.
Has that stopped me from searching apartments in between SoHo where OTS is and Midtown where his office is? Nope. Has it stopped me from wanting to make future plans and fantasizing about coming home to Maddox every single night? Nope.
I know not to say these things aloud. Maddox would run the other way. It’s only been five weeks. A great five weeks, but still. It’s way too soon. Especially for someone like Maddox who isn’t normally a long-term guy.
