Winterball

by Holley Trent

  Bart had seen Evan pissed before. It was par for the course with athletes. Eventually, all the frustration from the game had to come to a head and they had to vent it, but this seemed like something else.

  Jealousy?

  No way. Evan couldn’t possibly be jealous of Clint. And what would it mean if he were?

  Clint rocked back on his heels. “What’d you do to him, Bart? Bratty isn’t one of Ken’s temperatures, nor Olivia’s for that matter, so I don’t know how to surf this.”

  “Bratty?” Evan scoffed. “What am I, twelve?”

  “It’s just a term, Evan.” Bart said. He retook his seat as the waiter approached with the long-delayed menus. “Certain dominants use it to refer to a submissive who acts out because he or she wants attention. Personally, I think the title suits you.”

  Evan gripped the table as if to stand.

  “Sit down.”

  Evan did, but scowled.

  Clint knelt next to the table. “Look, Bart’s not going to play dominance and submission games with you,” he said low. “I learned a long time ago that he doesn’t have the disposition for it. He might tell you that you’re a brat, and you probably are, but he won’t want to do anything about it. If all you want is a good, hard fuck, and he hasn’t given it to you, maybe it’d be in your best interest to ask him why.”

  “I know why. He thinks that I’m offering him my ass because I’d do anything to keep him from leaving the team. He hasn’t considered that maybe I like him, and that my feelings don’t have shit to do with baseball.”

  Clint raised an eyebrow at Bart.

  Bart didn’t know what to say.

  “See. He can’t even say anything,” Evan said. “He doesn’t care.”

  “What could I possibly say, Evan? We’ve been playing ball together for two years. You’ve never left any clue whatsoever that you were interested in me as anything other than your catcher.”

  “I gave plenty of clues. You just weren’t reading them. Come on, Bart. You think all those nights that I brought women back to the room to fuck that I couldn’t have done it someplace else? At first, it was just convenient, but then I saw that I could get a rise out of you. That was the only attention you really paid me off the field.”

  Clint mouthed Brat at Bart, and stood. “You don’t really need me here, and I need to go catch up with Beaudelaire. I’m in town until tomorrow. Hit my cell if you need anything.”

  “Like a body bag?” Bart said.

  “Why?” Clint asked. “I’m sure you’re still living out of a duffel bag. Just use that. Doubt you’ll need it, though. Evan’s too pretty to maim.”

  “I still think he needs to be roughed up a little.”

  Evan lifted his chin defiantly—an I’d like to see you try move if Bart had ever seen one.

  “Probably,” Clint said with a laugh. “Just remember—” Clint backed away and mouthed, Lube.

  Evan drummed his fingertips on the tabletop some more, glowering at Bart, and the waiter returned.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  Evan picked up his menu, but Bart said, “No. We’ve changed our minds. We’re going to eat upstairs.”

  The waiter nodded and pocketed his pen. “No worries. That happens all the time here.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Manhandled. Really, there was no better way for Evan to describe Bart’s treatment of him.

  He’d yanked him to his feet and pulled him through the hotel at such an aggressive clip, other guests must have thought they were fleeing a fire. Evan didn’t even care that they were staring at them, probably placing Bart’s face, if not both of theirs. If folks identified him, so what? He didn’t care about anonymity anymore. This was Bart, not some random stranger from the street. He wouldn’t even care if word got out that they’d been seen at the Den together. The way Evan saw it, there was no better person to be seen anywhere with.

  Bart barely loosened his grip on Evan as they climbed the stairs.

  “Use your words, Bart,” Evan said.

  They reached the landing and Bart gave him a hard smack on his rear. “Move. Your. Ass. How about that?”

  Evan rubbed his ass and kept walking, but tottered a bit, as if drunk from the contact. He simultaneously both wanted Bart to never do that again, and to do it harder and often.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Bart had barely gotten the door open and his hands were at Evan’s pants, undoing his button. He pulled down the fly and yanked the jeans to the floor.

  “Step out of those,” he commanded. And then he walked away, as if he just knew Evan would do it.

  Evan stood there, flapping his jaw for a few beats, while Bart sat in the chair near the French doors and pulled off his boots.

  “You need help undressing? You never seemed to have any problems with that in the past,” Bart said.

  Evan shut his mouth and kicked off his shoes.

  Bart peeled off his plain black shirt and stood with a hand at his belt buckle. Seeing the prominent bulge in Bart’s jeans had scrambled his brain yet again. He’d had that thing in his mouth—knew how long and fat it was—and knew what Bart planned to do with it.

  “Are we really going to do this?” Evan had meant to ask himself, but Bart answered for him.

  “You seem to be begging for a sound fuck, and I’m going to give you one. It’s up to you to decide what happens after it.”

  “After it?”

  “Evan, either take off your pants all the way, or I will bend you over and fuck you with them tangled at your ankles.”

  Again, he froze, because to his brain, that didn’t seem all that bad.

  Bart sighed and grabbed Evan by the arm. He pulled him the few steps over to the high-backed armchair nearby and pressed his chest down to the back. “All right, then. You stay right there.”

  And Evan did. Behind him, he heard the whir of a zipper descending, Bart’s footsteps, and then a drawer being opened and shut.

  “Clint was right,” Bart said from near the bed. “I don’t play dominance and submission games. I’m not going to train you to do what I tell you. I’m not into that. But, if you don’t do something I want, I have no problem with adapting and giving you what you need.”

  “What do I need?”

  “To not be the one in control.”

  It was true. “I’m used to the catcher calling the shots.”

  “Well, this time, you’ll be doing the catching.”

  Moments later, Bart’s electric presence behind him prickled the hairs on his neck and something cold and wet pooled at the top of his cheeks.

  He clenched.

  Bart slid a finger into the gap and spread lube over Evan’s anus. “Loosen up for me. It’ll feel a lot nicer.”

  “Not as easy as it sounds.”

  Bart ceased probing Evan’s ass with his fingers, and leaned in to whisper, “We can stop now if this isn’t your speed. I’ll get you that plug I mentioned for the next time I see you.”

  “And when’s that going to be, Bart?”

  His fingers returned, slicked with even more lube. Evan didn’t think he was going to answer.

  Intense pressure built as Bart pressed his fat head against Evan’s virgin hole. He clenched again.

  “That’s up to you, Evan.”

  Evan’s back arched as Bart pushed in farther and ignited a burning ring that had Evan pulling away. His shoulder blade cramped. Yet another hitch that Bart would be rolling out later, given that it was entirely his fault.

  Bart put his hand on Evan’s hip and held him in place. “Relax.”

  “Bart—”

  “You trust me?”

  Evan exhaled. Trust was easier when he didn’t feel like a pole was being rammed up his ass. He nodded, though, and curled his toes into the rug.

  “The temptation will be to pull away and keep me out. You’ve got to fight that, though. Bear down, and let me in.” He massaged Evan’s parted cheeks and skimmed his fingertips along his sac.


  Moaning, Evan did let him in. He breathed through the unnatural burn—the stretch of his ring—and shouted when Bart’s head pressed past his prostate.

  In as far as he could go, Bart pushed his front against Evan’s back and whispered, “Stay still for a moment. Relax. I’ll make it good for you.”

  Evan didn’t respond, except to turn his head and tip it back for the kiss he didn’t really expect Bart to give him.

  But, he did. He delved his tongue deeply into Evan’s mouth, pressing it into submission the same way he was doing with Evan’s body. Maybe he didn’t consider himself particularly dominant, but Evan wanted that from him. He’d become accustomed to it on the field, and in their friendship off the turf, and expected it now, as they made love. He trusted Bart to know what the right thing to do was, and hoped Bart would be willing to give him what he needed.

  Bart pulled back from his mouth, grabbed Evan’s flaccid cock, rubbed his rough palm over the head, and tugged. “Ready?”

  Evan nodded.

  Bart began to slowly withdraw, and it took everything Evan had to overcome the compulsion to push him out all the way. He concentrated on the feel of Bart’s skillful jerks on his dick, the tentative thrusts into his ass becoming a background sensation.

  He couldn’t manage that for long, though. As Bart’s strokes lengthened—became less forgiving—Evan found himself trying to slam his ass against him so he’d hit that place inside him harder and ignite more sparks, more fireworks within him.

  Bart squeezed Evan’s balls in a ring made from his fingers and whispered, “I bet I could make you come without touching your cock.”

  He gave Evan a punishing thrust that had Evan swearing.

  “All I have to do is keep hitting that spot, right?”

  “I want you to touch my cock.”

  “I will.” He pulled Evan’s earlobe between his teeth and swirled his dick inside Evan, stretching him. “You’ll let me touch you all I want, won’t you?”

  Evan nodded.

  “Just me? Or am I just an away game lay for you? You gonna find someone else to fuck next week?”

  He pulled out and slammed his cock in deep while jerking Evan’s dick hard.

  Evan shouted again. He’d heard Bart’s words, but the question scrambled in his head. Had no cohesion.

  Bart thrust again, and rubbed Evan’s own lubrication down his shaft. Fuck, dripping pre-cum like a horny little tramp. Bart had to know what he was doing to Evan, how complete his undoing would be when it happened.

  “Answer me, Evan.” He thrust again, and picked up the pace into what felt to Evan like double-time.

  Evan bit down hard on his fist and tried to ride it out—not embarrass himself by spewing all over Bart’s hand before Bart had finished.

  “Answer. Me.” He punctuated each word with a thrust, further dissolving Evan’s English-speaking abilities.

  “Huh?” Evan’s voice came out in a rasp. What the fuck was the question, anyway?

  “I’m not going to have you sleeping around on me, Evan. If you want me to fuck you again, you’d better make sure I’m the only person you’re being fucked by.”

  Oh.

  “Do you hear me?”

  The inner workings of Evan’s pelvis flared to life and started the ticking time bomb of ejaculation. His balls drew up tight against Bart’s hand, his dick went harder still from all the blood rushing away from his fuck-addled brain to his crotch.

  “Do.” Thrust. “You.” Thrust. “Hear.” Thrust. “Me?” Thrust.

  “Fuck, Bart, yes!”

  Bart grunted, gave another hard tug, and buried himself in so deep, he pulled a scream from Evan’s throat. Evan’s eyes watered as his body shuddered against Bart and his semen flooded Bart’s hand.

  Bart’s cock pulsed inside him, and Evan closed his eyes and reveled in the other man’s labored breathing.

  “I mean it, Evan,” he said after a minute. Slowly, he withdrew from Evan.

  His hair tickled Evan’s neck as he laid his forehead on Evan’s shoulder. “I mean it,” he repeated.

  “Me, too.”

  “You sure you’re capable?”

  “Of not having sex with anyone else? Oh, yeah. I wouldn’t want anyone else to fuck me. Am I capable of being able to pitch worth a shit with you off the field? Nope.”

  He kissed Evan’s neck. “It’ll be all right. You’ve gotta adapt. I’ll help you.” He gave Evan’s ass a little swat and moved away. “Kick your pants off the rest of the way and come on. I’ll start the shower.”

  “All right.” A bit of the anxiety Evan had been carrying around in his chest eased as he stepped out of his pants and pulled his shirt over his head. Hell. Even the kink in his shoulder blade seemed to have gone away after that.

  “I’ve seen you naked in the showers for two years,” Bart said as Evan stepped into the bathroom. His pale eyes sparkled with mischief. “This is the first time I’ll get to touch you in one.”

  Evan stepped over the tub’s side.

  Bart followed and closed the curtain.

  “You gonna clean me up?” Evan asked, offering him the bar of soap.

  Bart grabbed his face between his hands and kissed him hard. “A little. I like you a bit grimy.”

  Evan chuckled. “Well, you can have all the grime you want from now on.” He rubbed the soap over his chest and felt his smile falter. His gaze fell to the tub floor.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “’Fraid to ask. It’s dumb.”

  “Not asking would be dumber.”

  “Are you—”

  “Look at me,” Bart said softly. He took back the soap and tipped Evan’s chin up so he’d meet his gaze. “Am I what? You’re not going to ask me about baseball again, are you?”

  “No. I’m pretty much convinced you’re done with that. I just—wondered if you’d—”

  “If I’d what?”

  “Take me home. No one’s ever asked to take me home with them.”

  “You gonna make me ask you just so you can tell me no? I can’t take you home, Evan. You’ve gotta be in the Dominican Republic tomorrow night.”

  Evan cringed. He must have sounded like an idiot, but he had to put it all out there. “I want you to ask me so I’ll finally have a reason to say yes. I want to know I’m welcome there.”

  Bart pulled him into his arms and sighed. “You’re welcome wherever I am. Now, or months from now.”

  “You’ll let me come stay with you before the Roosters’ season starts?”

  Bart sighed again.

  Not a good sign from a man who didn’t sigh.

  “Evan, I’d bet my motorcycle you won’t be playing for the Roosters come spring. But, whoever you’re playing for, you’re welcome to come to me. I won’t turn you out, and you know it.”

  Evan pulled back. “What do you mean I won’t be playing for the Roosters? You know something I don’t?”

  Bart grinned, and worked the soap around his flaccid cock. “Yeah. I know you’re an excellent pitcher, who’d be unstoppable if he got out of his own head. You don’t need me calling the shots. You know what to do now.”

  “Bullshit, but thanks. Means a lot coming from you.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Come on, he’s doing all right,” Clint said to Bart as they nursed beers at a bar near Bart’s home in Charleston.

  Bart fixed his stare on the television mounted in the corner and watched his boy shake out that kinky shoulder. He stepped onto the mound, lifted his hat off his crew cut, and wiped sweat from his brow. Seventh inning, third game of the season as relief pitcher for the Strikes.

  “I should have been there,” Bart said, closing his eyes as Evan wound up.

  “Better that you’re not. You’d distract the shit out of him. Strike one, by the way.”

  Bart opened his eyes in time to see Evan catch the returning ball. “Thanks for helping him hammer out his contract clauses, by the way.”

  Clint grunted. “They wanted him bad enough t
hat they probably would have given him pretty much anything. I think asking for extensive sports psychological services was a reasonable item. He’ll only get better and better, and they’re counting on that.” He sipped his beer and added in a mumble, “Starting catcher is a fucking dingbat, though. He doesn’t call shit. Fuckers are trying to steal bases on him.”

  “Don’t tell me that! God, Clint.”

  “Strike two. Your boy looks good in blue and gray. Better than we ever did.”

  “Yeah, I know. He’d look good in any uniform. Proud the Strikes wanted him, though.”

  Bart looked up at the screen and saw the batter swing and miss. Third strike. The camera panned to Evan and showed his relieved exhale.

  “You flying out to see him?” Clint asked.

  “Yeah. Tomorrow. Next game in the series is Thursday, so he has a day off.”

  “Single room?”

  “Sure as hell hope so, because unlike Evan, I don’t get off on having an audience.”

  “You should have negotiated that into his contract, too. Should have said something to me. You know I would have taken care of it. Olivia says I owe you big-time for that dresser you made. I think she’s got me on lockout until I properly repay you. She couldn’t believe you wouldn’t take the cash. I’m getting real sick of her and Ken having all the fun. Watching’s nice sometimes, but for fuck’s sake—”

  “TMI.” Bart laughed. “Hey. I’ll send her a note and let her know you did offer.” He turned back to screen as the next batter walked up to the plate.

  Evan looked a little more confident now. His shoulders were relaxed, his jaw less tight. He’d get through the game just fine, just like Bart said he would.

  The camera zoomed in, and Evan must have noticed because he looked over at it, tipped his hat up, and mouthed a promise Bart knew was meant only for him.

  Bart grinned.

  “Did he just threaten the camera guy? Fuck, wasn’t that one of the things you always got in trouble for back in the day?”

  “Nah, he was talking to me.”

  “What’d he say?”

  Bart took a long swig of his beer and tossed a few bills onto the counter for the bartender. He could finish watching the game at home. He needed to pack. “Just reminding me that he knows who calls the shots.”