by J. M. Snyder
Somewhere around the fifth inning, the visitor’s coach grows wise to Rob’s strategy…or maybe Mike’s told on him, pointed him out, pegged him as the guy watching as the Waves ran through their paces on Sunday. Whatever the reason, Rob’s no-hitter takes a nosedive in the second half of the game. Players hit low bunts, or hold back on swinging altogether to walk to first. Once there, they steal second, and third. Rob has to start watching the edges of his vision, even if it means seeing Mike.
At the top of the seventh inning, the Waves finally send him up to bat. The one wildcard in Rob’s game; the one player he hadn’t seen at bat. He rolls the baseball in the palm of his hand as he watches Mike approach home plate. Mike stops, knocks the bat against his cleats, positions himself…left-handed, Rob muses. He should’ve known. Even the guy’s dick curves a bit to the left…
Then, as Rob gets ready to throw, Mike switches sides. Right-handed now, he grins across the field at Rob, who has to reconsider his pitch. Shit.
What the hell. Rob lobs the ball toward home plate. Mike swings, hits it with a loud crack that can only mean a foul, and the ball flies out over the stands beside first base. There’s a brief clamor among the crowd as people dive to catch it, and a bat boy darts out from the home team dugout to bring Rob another ball.
When he lines up his next shot, Mike’s still grinning at him. I’ll wipe that off, he assures himself. Just you wait.
Another throw, another swing, another foul. This one hits the ground just outside the foul line before any of the Rebels can catch it. “Damn it!” Rob curses, glaring at the first baseman who should’ve had the ball. Should’ve had the out.
The ball finds its way back into Rob’s grip. He narrows his eyes as he stares down Mike. Enough playing around.
He pitches. Mike swings. The ball makes a hollow thud as it connects with the bat and, before Rob can react, the ball comes whizzing toward him. He holds up his mitt, but too late—the ball catches him right below the collarbone, smack dab in the middle of his chest. At the speed it’s traveling, he doesn’t feel it at first, just watches it strike him and go bouncing away.
Then he feels the kick, hard and fast, glancing off his chest and almost knocking out his breath. He gasps, touching the spot on his chest where the ball struck, but the ball’s no longer there—it’s rolling in the grass between the pitcher’s mound and home plate.
Rob’s vision blurs. Angry, he storms after the ball and reaches it in two long strides. Plucks it from the ground, whirls in rage, and throws without thinking, without seeing, just throws it toward first base and heaven help the asshole who gets in his way. The fucker! Who the hell does Mike think he is? Hitting him with the goddamn ball?
His aim is true. The ball pelts toward first, but it wasn’t the baseman Rob aimed for and he knows it. The crowd’s silent now, every eye on the field, waiting, watching, hoping it strikes home.
It does. Just before Mike’s foot can touch first base, the ball pings off the back of his batter’s helmet with a loud sound that seems to echo throughout the Diamond. He goes down like a sack of grain, sprawling across the baseline. The first baseman snags the ball on the rebound and touches Mike’s back just to be sure he’s out.
The crowd goes wild. Rob feels a fierce vengeance rise within him. Bet you’re not smiling now, are you? he thinks. It’s the final out for the inning and he heads toward the dugout, triumphant.
He makes it as far as the baseline when he feels something hot and heavy jump on him from the back. Mike, pissed, wrestles Rob to the ground and pins him down. Fists punch him in the back and arms, and when he turns his head, the side of his face is rammed into the wet, compacted dirt. “What the hell was that?” Mike asks through gritted teeth. “You lied to me, asshole. Said you worked here. Said—”
“I didn’t say shit.” Rob twists beneath him, all too aware of the weight of Mike’s body and the tight, firm muscles once pressed so dangerously against his. “What are you bitching about, anyway? You weren’t the one who got fucked.”
“Oh yeah?” Mike grapples with Rob, struggling to keep him down. “Sure feels like it to me.”
“I didn’t mean,” Rob starts, but before he can say anything else, the rest of his team is there, pulling them both apart. Rob finds himself hauled to his feet, strong arms holding him back as his teammates form a protective circle around him.
From between their shoulders, he sees Mike, disheveled and dusty, eyes smoldering like embers burning against the tanned skin of his face. A shot of lust curls through Rob at that look, so angry, so primal, so raw. He wants that man, right there, pinning him down and fucking him until they’re both empty and spent. He wants that Mike. The sex was good, he can’t deny it, but with that emotion feeding it, he thinks it could be phenomenal.
More than anything else, he wants to find out if that’s true.
Mike’s team dust him off, hand him a mitt, and take the field. Rob’s teammates lead him to the dugout, where he retreats into the cool darkness and throws himself against the bench. His body hurts from being tossed to the ground, and he still feels the pain in his chest where the ball hit, but right now the only ache he wants to concentrate on is the steady throb between his legs. The one Mike put there.
The one, God willing, Mike will satisfy later.
* * * *
When the game ends, the teams file out onto the field in a traditional display of good sportsmanship—each player high-fives the other team one man at a time, muttering, “Good game,” as they move on down the line. The coach says Rob can sit it out, if he wants, given what happened earlier; the fact that the Rebels won eleven to six certainly doesn’t make the Waves any nicer. But Rob lines up with his teammates and keeps his gaze on the stands as he slaps hands with the visiting team. He sees Mike in his peripheral vision but doesn’t look at the guy straight on.
Still, there’s an undeniable spark between them when their hands touch. Then the line moves on, and the spark fades like the afterimage of a camera flash.
He toys with the idea of calling Mike—they need to talk, if only to clear the air between them so they can hook up again. A week is a long time, and Rob will be pissed if he loses the chance for five nights’ worth of good, hot sex.
In the end, he doesn’t call. Instead, he lingers in the showers after the rest of his teammates have cleaned up, and by the time he’s ready to get dressed, he has the locker room to himself. He takes his time, giving Mike enough of a head start to make sure the guy will be back at the hotel when Rob leaves the Diamond. He doubts the Waves will go out celebrating tonight. Why should they? With Rob’s strategy, the Rebels won the game.
By the time he’s ready to leave, it’s almost ten o’clock and dusk has deepened into night. Amid the bright stadium lights, Rob’s shadow strides ahead of him as he heads for his truck. He deposits his duffel bag on the passenger seat, then slides behind the wheel. Revs the engine once, a loud roar in the night, then peels out of the now-empty parking lot as if he’s late for a date.
In a way, he is. He hopes he is.
Mike’s hotel is just three blocks down from the stadium. Rob snags the same secluded spot he parked in previously, but without Mike’s keycard, he can’t use the side door and has to enter through the lobby. He sees a few of the Waves at the hotel bar, drowning their loss in beer, watching the Phillies play on the big-screen TV. As he passes, he glances over once, twice, trying to see all their faces, trying to find Mike among them. When he’s satisfied Mike isn’t there, he heads for the elevator, then to the third floor.
He finds Mike’s door easily enough.
For a full minute, he stands outside. He remembers the feel of Mike’s belt loop held tight in the crook of his finger as the shortstop led the way to this door. He remembers the lust that rose within him when the door shut and they were alone. Finally, alone.
He remembers how the baseball punched him in the chest. Mike’s tackle that sent him flying into the dirt. The weight of the man above him, pinning him down.
The lust curled within him at the hard cock he felt jabbing into his lower back when Mike straddled him in the middle of the field, right out where anyone could see.
Before he can change his mind, he raises a fist and raps on the door, hard, decisive, demanding an answer.
He hears footsteps shuffle on the other side of the door, then the knob turns and the door swings open. Mike peers out at Rob for a second, not recognizing him, not really seeing…then his eyes widen and he starts to slam the door shut.
Rob doesn’t let him. He gets a foot over the threshold and sets his shoulder against the door. “Wait.”
“Fuck you,” Mike spits. He shoves the door harder.
Rob shoves back. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to keep the door open long enough for him to duck inside. He bobs around Mike, steps clear of the door, and feels it brush against his back as it swings shut with a heavy thud.
“Listen,” he starts.
That’s as far as he gets before Mike’s fist connects with his stomach. It isn’t a hard blow, but it doubles him over with surprise. “I don’t believe this,” Mike mutters. “How dare you show up here! What the fuck—”
“Just listen,” Rob pleads. He steps back, against the mirror on the wall and raises both hands in surrender.
Mike’s fist curls at his side, but at least he doesn’t swing again. His jaw bunches in anger, his chin juts out defiantly, and his eyes flash beneath the waves of hair across his brow. “All right,” he agrees. “I’m listening. What the fuck do you have to say?”
To be honest, Rob hasn’t thought this far yet. “I had a good time the other night,” he tries. It’s a start, anyway. “I could’ve sworn you did, too.”
“You lied to me!” Mike cries.
Rob shakes his head. “I didn’t say shit. You’re the one who thought I worked at the Diamond. When you said it, what was I supposed to do? Say no, I’m spying on y’all to see how well you play?”
A little of the tension goes out of Mike. “You could’ve said—”
“I could’ve,” Rob agrees. “But then it looked like you were interested in getting with me, and telling you I pitch for the Rebels would’ve spoiled the deal. Don’t tell me you didn’t like it.”
“I don’t like being played,” Mike says, but his voice drops to its normal range and his hand unclenches, just slightly. “After what I went through with Archie…”
Rob lowers his hands. “He did you wrong, I know. But you and me, we’re just having fun. Our teammates, the coaches, the fans…hell, no one has to know. Where we stood on the field tonight means nothing now that it’s just the two of us.”
The hint of a smile pulls up one corner of Mike’s mouth. “You hit me with the damn ball.”
“You hit me first,” Rob reminds him. “You had on a helmet and didn’t feel shit. I’m not wearing armor under that jersey, let me tell you.”
He rubs the bruised spot on his chest as a reminder. Concern flickers over Mike’s features, and he closes the distance between them. “Did it leave a mark? Let me see.”
Rob stands still as Mike unbuttons his shirt. He doesn’t stop midway, as Rob feared, but instead unbuttons it the whole way, from chin to navel. When he spreads it open, his smile takes hold at the undershirt Rob wears. Pulling it free from Rob’s shorts, he pushes the undershirt up. “Let’s get this out of the way…”
Rob helps by holding up the undershirt as Mike studies his chest. He feels gentle hands smooth over his muscles, then one finger tweaks his right nipple and, in the confines of his shorts, his cock jolts to attention. “Aww, poor baby,” Mike murmurs. “Is it this little red spot here?”
He pushes a thumb into the center of Rob’s chest and grins at the way it makes Rob wince. “That’s for not telling me you were with the Rebels. And this…”
He leans down and presses his lips to the spot, leaving a damp imprint of a kiss on what will surely be a pretty bruise in the morning. “This is because you were right. If you had told me, we wouldn’t have had such a wild time.”
As Rob holds up his shirt, Mike kisses one nipple. Opening his mouth, he takes the tender bud between his teeth and bites down gently, which causes Rob to gasp in delight. Mike’s tongue swirls around his nub until it stands, hard and pert. In his shorts, Rob’s cock throbs with want, and his balls grow heavy with desire.
Mike moves to the other nipple and repeats his ministrations. By the time Mike stands to cover Rob’s lips in a tender kiss, Rob’s knees are weak and threaten to drop him to the ground in a puddle of jelly. “Please,” he sighs into Mike. “Can we do it again? Can we—”
“Only if you promise to stay the whole night,” Mike whispers against him.
How can Rob refuse?
THE END
Victory Lap
Josh Helton woke with his alarm at six-thirty Saturday morning. As much as he would have loved to hit the snooze button, roll over in his covers, and go back to sleep, he knew he had to get moving. If he cried off now, he’d have no one to blame but himself.
The hardest part was that first step out of the bed. Throwing back the covers wasn’t too difficult, but his body wanted to just lie there, spread-eagled on the mattress, savoring the cool breeze generated by the ceiling fan. The thought of getting dressed, getting into the car, and driving to Bryan Park exhausted him. He could run tomorrow…
And you’ll feel the same way then, his mind whispered. It was true. That attitude is what helped put on the hundred pounds you dropped over the summer. So get that lazy ass in gear and get moving.
This time, he did. He swung one leg over the side of the bed, then the other. Then hauled himself up, whole body protesting the motion. But once he was sitting, it was easier to stand. And once he stood, he realized he needed to pee.
That got him moving, down the hall and into the bathroom to relieve his aching bladder.
Once that was done, he had no excuse. When he returned to the bedroom, the disheveled bed didn’t look as appealing as it had when he’d been in it. He pulled the covers into some semblance of order, stepped out of his boxers, and dressed. Tank top, running shorts, heavy socks despite the August heat. Sweat bands on his wrists, though he thought they looked silly. He had a headband, too, but he wasn’t going to wear it. That was so 1970’s, and no matter how retro fashion might be, he wasn’t about to rock that. Instead he opted for a hand towel, draped over his shoulder. He tied on his sneakers, grabbed his wallet and car keys, and was out the door in under a half hour.
As he started the car, he glanced at the dashboard clock and felt a sense of accomplishment. He hadn’t started his run yet, but he was out of the apartment on a Saturday before seven in the morning. The 10K race he planned to enter in March was as good as his.
* * * *
Three months earlier, if someone had suggested Josh might consider training for Richmond’s annual 10K run, he would’ve laughed in their face. At thirty-three, he was overweight and out of shape, and the thought of running anywhere broke him out in a cold sweat. All those late nights eating pizza and drinking beers had settled into a band of fat around his midsection. Anyone who willingly entered a race of any length was crazy, Josh thought. No one would ever catch him at it.
Then came the chest pains.
They were innocuous at first, just slight little stabs when he moved a certain way. He told himself they were growing pains—they felt like them, anyway, the same little twinges of pain that used to shoot up his arms and down his legs when he was younger. Fifteen years younger, sure, but wasn’t he still a growing boy?
He began to notice how winded he got walking up the short flight of stairs to his terrace apartment. Seventeen steps and he’d be huffing like a steam engine. Climbing out of the car took more energy than needed. Sex with his boyfriend Robbie became an Olympic event. By the time they were finished, Josh was flushed and sweating, too tired to even get out of bed and clean himself off. He’d fall asleep before Robbie even pulled out, most of the time.
Then Robbie s
tarted with the teasing.
Little things at first. “Move your big ass,” in a playful tone as Josh walked past the television. “God, I want to hit that chunk,” and a slap on the buttocks before sex. Afterwards, as Robbie pushed Josh onto his side of the bed, it was, “It’s like moving a beached whale. Give me some room, will you?”
The words began to hurt. So did the occasional slaps—love taps, Robbie called them. “Man up,” he’d say, aiming a fist at Josh’s arm. “You’re a big man. You can’t feel this.”
But Josh could. The slaps became punches, the pinches grew vicious, sex became a battle between them. Finally Josh had had enough. He moved out.
Stopped eating.
Started exercising.
The pains went away—the ones in his chest, shooting down his left arm. The ones Robbie inflicted, too, those disappeared. Pizza was passed over in favor of roasted chicken and salads. Beers for water. He shed ten pounds the first week and was so surprised when he didn’t have to suck in his gut to button his jeans, he joined a gym.
It was there he saw the poster for the 10K run. He knew about it, of course—everyone who lived in Richmond knew about the annual event because it shut down all the major roads downtown for an entire day. A local supermarket was a huge sponsor, so every grocery bag had details of the event emblazoned on it. Race schedules were posted in the papers and online at all the news websites, giving motorists plenty of notice about closed roads and alternate routes. In all his years in the city, Josh never once felt the urge to run in the 10K. It was for marathoners, or professional runners, or crazy exercise nuts who liked to push their bodies to the limit.
Not him. Never him.
At least, not the old him. But this newer, leaner, meaner Josh? This no-nonsense man with the slimmed down body and now-defined abs? This healthy eater, this sexy single, this Josh? He might could run it.
