by Roz Lee
“Positive.”
“News to my ears.” The team manager hung the clipboard containing today’s lineup on the back wall then returned to the clubhouse.
Sean folded his arms over the top rail of the dugout fence then rested his chin on top. No one had to tell him the Mustangs were his last chance. Since leaving the Pioneers four years ago, he’d been traded two times. If he blew it here, his career was over.
Several more players entered the dugout. Resuming his seat on the bench, he fell into the general camaraderie. Most of them had been in his shoes, new guy on the team in the middle of the season, so they made him feel welcome. He laughed off a comment about restricting his swinging to the batter’s box then looked up to see Bentley Randolph step out of the tunnel leading to the clubhouse.
The object of all his fantasies accepted good-natured ribbing from their teammates, then as if to prove all was well, or maybe because they were the only two in time-out, he walked over to where Sean had staked out a place on the bench, and sat.
“See?” he announced to the dugout, “no problem. We’re pals now.” He half turned to face Sean. “Right?”
“Right. Pals,” he confirmed. He flashed a smile Bent’s direction then focused on the pregame activities taking place on the field.
Shit. He had to concentrate on something other than the way the man sitting beside him smelled—like fresh soap with an earthy scent unique to him. He especially needed to think about something besides the way the shadows in the dugout made Bent’s eyes look like dark lakes and his full lips appear a deeper rose than usual. So damned kissable. He ached with the need to taste him, right here, right now—the whole world be damned if he did.
The team took the field for the national anthem. Afterward, Sean chose to stand at the fence, hoping being close to the action would help, but all he could think about was Bent sitting on the bench behind him. They were trying too hard to make it look like everything was all right between them when nothing ever would be. Bentley wasn’t going to acknowledge his feelings, and he’d promised his teammate he wouldn’t push him to. Shifting his weight to his right leg again, he forced his brain to focus on the game in front of him.
After seven innings, the Mustangs were up by three runs and the atmosphere in the dugout was guarded joviality. Spirits were high. When Jason Holder added a two-run homer in the bottom of the eighth inning and his brother Jeff came out of the bullpen to seal the deal, Sean found himself caught up in the moment. For the first time since he heard he’d been traded to the Mustangs, he felt as if it might work out. All he needed to do was focus on his job, shove his personal life back into the closet where it had been until Bentley walked in, opening the door, and everything would be okay.
Simple.
* * *
He’d spent three days looking at Sean’s ass while his own squirming backside rode the dugout bench. With a smile pasted on his face, he congratulated his teammates on their successful three game sweep against the Anglers, all the while he seethed inside. In a profession where there was always someone younger, someone eager to make his mark, a player couldn’t afford to sit out a single game, much less an entire series. Over the three game home stand, it was obvious Rick Powers was capable of playing left field with the big boys, and he would smile while he did it for millions less than Bentley’s contract.
Bentley kept his morose thoughts to himself as he packed for the road trip. No need worrying Ashley. She’d bought the same story he’d told team management to explain what happened in the clubhouse, and as far as she knew, a three game suspension would be the end of it.
He knew better. The media was having a field day with the unexplained benching, speculating on what had caused the Mustangs to discipline two seasoned veterans. Bruising on both their faces led to mostly accurate speculation about some kind of physical altercation, leaving the reporters shaking their heads as to a reason behind it.
“You’ll be back on the field tomorrow, won’t you?” Ashley handed him a stack of folded briefs to add to his suitcase.
“Yeah, I will. Doyle said three games.”
“That’s good.” She returned to the dresser, pulling a drawer open. She counted out the number of socks he would need. Juggling them across the room, she dumped them unceremoniously on the bed.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
She was doing it again—that thing she did when she was pissed at him. It was far from yelling and screaming, yet it wasn’t the silent treatment either. She talked to him, but in clipped, coldly formal sentences. It drove him nuts.
“Just say what you want to say,” he said, halting his packing to confront her.
She folded her arms across her breasts and glared at him. Brittle silence descended on the room, broken only by the distant hum of the air conditioning unit straining to keep the Texas heat at bay. Cold sweat formed on his nape but he refused to look away.
“I want to know what’s going on with you.”
“I’m going on the road.” He gestured at his half-packed bag. “That’s what’s going on.”
She sighed then, like a popped balloon, dropped to the edge of the bed. “Bent,” she implored, “I know something is wrong. I’ve known you long enough to know when you aren’t telling me everything. Something happened with Sean Flannery, and I want to know what it was.”
“Nothing happened. He’s new in town. He came by to get some advice on where to look for houses.”
“He’s been traded enough to know the relocation service can help him find a place. Even if he did come here for help, why you?”
Bent shrugged. “I don’t know. We played on the Pioneers together for a while. I guess he thought he could trust my judgment.”
“So, he comes over to ask advice then, as soon as he leaves, you decide you want to get married and have kids.”
One of the reasons he loved Ashley was because she wasn’t stupid, but right at the moment he would give almost anything for her to be at least a little oblivious.
“He’d been gone for a long time when you came home. It might have seemed sudden to you, but it wasn’t to me. I’ve been thinking about marrying you for a few months.
“But you hadn’t bought a ring, or planned something romantic for your proposal?” She held one hand up, her high ponytail swishing over her shoulders as she shook her head. “I’m not buying it. Impulsive is not your style.”
“Maybe I’d been out in the sun too long. I don’t know, Ashley. I’m sorry I wasn’t eloquent or romantic, but none of it changes the facts. I do want to marry you and have kids. I was being honest with you.”
“I know it is. I wouldn’t have said yes if I thought otherwise, but ever since you came home with a black eye, you’ve been keeping something from me. You won’t tell me how you got it, or why you were fighting. I love you, but I feel like you’re keeping secrets from me. I don’t like it.”
“The black eye was nothing. I told you it was just a clubhouse disagreement.”
“That got you benched for three games! You and Sean Flannery.”
Bent pressed his lips together, refusing to acknowledge the truth of her statement.
“Go on. Pack.” She waved her hand at the gaping luggage. “Go on the road. Leave the ignorant little girlfriend behind to worry about you.”
Tears welled in her eyes. Her lower lip trembled. Shit. He walked around the bed, holding his arms open for her. She walked into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist, then proceeded to sob against his shoulder.
He hated her tears. He never knew what to do to make them stop.
“Babe. I’ll be fine. No more fighting. I promise.” He hoped to God he was saying what she wanted to hear.
“Use your words, not your fists?” She snuffled into his shirt.
That’s more like it. Smiling, he kissed the top of her head. “You know, you’re going to make a wonderful mom.”
“You think so?”
She hugged him tighter, her femini
ne frame feeling good pressed against his length. He stroked her back with one hand while he held her close with the other.
“I know so. You’re intuitive, loving, wise, and protective.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt. I hate seeing your face bruised up. I wanted to hit someone myself.”
He chuckled, imagining her fighting off bullies for him. “It won’t happen again,” he promised.
Her hands slipped down his back then inside the waistband of his shorts. His cock, half-alert already came to full attention as her hands played over his bare skin, kneading, exploring. So different from the way Sean had touched him, but just as arousing.
He pushed thoughts of big, callused palms and blunt fingers out of his mind to focus on the woman in his arms. He wanted her and no one else.
Leaning forward, he brought his face even with hers. “I want you.”
Her lips opened, invited him in. He accepted the invitation, covering her mouth with his, plunging his tongue deep to taste her.
She intoxicated him, made his cock swell and throb with need. Her fingers found his cleft, played there a bit though her arms weren’t long enough to allow her better access. He flexed those muscles, startling a groan from her.
He held her close with a hand pressed between her shoulder blades while his other one snuck between their bodies to stroke the satin skin of her stomach. Inching lower, his fingers found her soft mound, then lower, her moist slit. She writhed against him, encouraging him to explore deeper. Blood rushed to his groin, making him lightheaded, desperate.
“I need you. Now,” he said. Pulling his hand free, he created enough space between them so he could work the fastenings on her clothes.
Her fingers were as eager as his until just his T-shirt remained. Reaching over his shoulder, he fisted the fabric and yanked it over his head.
Fusing their bodies tight, he kissed her. Her lips were pliant, responsive. She might be furious with him, but she wasn’t resisting. Lifting her, he laid her on the bed beside his open valise. God, she was beautiful. How could any man ask for more? She spread her legs, inviting him into her heat. He drove into her again and again, cherishing everything she was to him—lover, friend, a piece of his heart.
Sweet heaven. His mouth feasted on every part of her he could reach, his hands memorizing every place they touched, startling muted gasps from her lips. Bracing himself, he rose above her, changing the angle of entry. She adjusted, rocking her hips up to meet his thrusts, her neck arched. Gasps turned to moans that were like gasoline thrown on the flames of his desire.
She reached for his hips, grasping for purchase as he rocked between her soft thighs. Digging her fingernails into his flesh, she held him fast. Answering her demand, he thrust harder, faster. He recognized the signs of her impending release—the tensing of muscles, the moment of stillness when it overtook her.
“Yes,” he growled. “Give it to me, babe.”
Panting, she bucked beneath him. Her hot sheath clamped down on his cock, blinding him to everything but the feel of her surrounding him, drawing on his flesh, stealing his sanity and his control.
As her orgasm eased, tension ebbed from her and, seemingly, into him. Collapsing on top of her, he reached under her, angling her hips to take all of him. Her hands fell away from his ass to lie limp at her sides. Her breasts pillowed his chest, her thighs cradled him as her contented sighs urged him to his own release.
Fire consumed his insides, licking along his spine all the way to his groin. With short, hard thrusts, he ground against her. He spilled his seed inside her in great, wrenching spurts. He’d never loved her more.
* * *
“Mind if I sit here?” Sean indicated the last empty aisle seat on the plane.
“Help yourself.” Tanner Haversford, the single occupant of the row of seats said, turning back to peer out the window.
After folding himself into the seat, Sean fished around for the ends of the seatbelt. Tanner didn’t appear to want company, and truth be told, he wasn’t feeling too sociable himself. His hip hurt like a son of a bitch, thus the reason he wanted an aisle seat—more room to stretch his leg out. He couldn’t tell anyone or he’d go straight to the Fourteen Day Disabled List before he’d played a single inning in a Mustangs uniform.
A short time later, the plane lifted into the air. Reclining his seat, he stretched his leg into the aisle then closed his eyes.
How had his life gotten so fucked up? One day he had a promising career in the Major’s, and the next, he was moving from team to team faster than a tournament ping-pong ball, doing his best to forget the one man he thought might be his soul mate if not for the man’s homophobic tendencies.
His professional fortunes had turned on one bad slide intended to break up a double play then his personal life had slid down the drain of a locker room shower—all in the span of a few months.
Pathetic.
He’d held it all together for the last five years, but he could feel it slipping away since his trade to the Mustangs.
This is your last chance. Gotta get it right here or your career is over.
A sharp pain shot from his hip to his ankle. Shifting his weight, he prayed no one had noticed the grimace he was sure made it to his face. He opened his eyes, scanning the rows around him. Everyone was wrapped up in their own little worlds. He noted a few reading books and magazines. Others tuned out the engine noise with headphones connected to iPods. No one was paying any attention to his discomfort. Even if they did, he could blame it on the seating.
They aren’t any more comfortable than I am. Damned cramped rows. Just once, I’d like to play for a team with their own plane. I bet the Yankees don’t have to put up with this shit.
He squirmed some more, found a better position then relaxed again. A couple more hours and they’d be in Los Angeles. Tomorrow he’d be on the field for the first time as a Mustang. Closing his eyes once more, he tried to visualize a positive outcome. It wasn’t as if he was totally washed up. He was damn good at first base, and his batting stats were decent. He wouldn’t be hitting in the top of the order, but he was okay where he was. He’d never hit leadoff or clean up—had never wanted to. Too much pressure.
Middle of the lineup is fine. I know what’s expected of me there. Move runners over. Get on base if you can. Make the pitcher work to get you out. All doable. Even banged up. Piece of cake.
If only he knew what to do about his personal life.
Nothing you can do. It’s his play now. He knows how you feel.
No. He knows you want to fuck him, but that’s all he knows.
You should have told him.
I couldn’t tell him. Just touching him scared him out of his mind. Imagine if I told him the rest.
You still have to work with him.
I know. If there was any other way…. But there isn’t. I made him a promise, and I’m going to keep it. I just hope to God he stays the fuck away from me.
Chapter Four
Bentley shrugged, gave his neck a good twist left, then right, to release the tension. Lifting the bat, he stepped into the batter’s box and dug his cleats into the dirt. It took every bit of his self-control to keep from looking over his shoulder at the man standing in the on-deck circle. Why, God, did Sean Flannery have to bat next in the order? Wasn’t it enough he was on the field nine innings every fucking day?
It was a long way from left field to first base, but as far as he was concerned, it was too damn close. Fucking first base saw a lot of action during a game. He couldn’t just ignore it, or the man whose job it was to defend the square rubber milestone—no matter how much he wanted to.
They were three games into the road trip, with six more to go in two more cities. Which meant Sean was everywhere. Their rooms were on the same floor of the hotel, and if he didn’t know better, he’d swear the man was stalking him. He always managed to show up at the bank of elevators at the same time Bent did—as if the guy had inside information about when he was leaving his
room. Some of it was to be expected. The team had arranged catered meals for everyone in one of the hotel banquet rooms. Players could take it or leave it, go out on their own, but more times than not if a person wanted to eat, it was better done in the private room where fans and the press weren’t allowed.
This morning, out of desperation, he’d ordered room service. Eating alone in his room was better than being in the same room with Sean. Today’s breakfast was the first decent meal he’d had since they arrived, because his stomach tied itself in knots whenever Sean was around.
Like now.
Fuck.
The first pitch came in fast and perfect, breaking inside just as he swung. The bat sliced the air, too high.
Hearing the stinging slap of the ball hitting the leather catcher’s mitt then the umpire’s inevitable call, “Strike!” brought a curse to Bent’s lips.
Outside the box, he wiped sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve.
Focus. Runners on. Bring ‘em in.
He went through his batting ritual before stepping into the box again. His shoulders felt like they were caught in a vise.
Relax.
Forcing his shoulders to loosen, he concentrated on the next pitch, watched it follow the same trajectory as the previous one—only there was something different. Disbelief paralyzed him for a nanosecond. Adrenaline shot through his system. He swung.
Thwack!
Vibrations shimmied through his hands, along his arms to the rest of his body. Time slowed. Dropping the bat, he took the first step toward first base—in no hurry as the ball sailed high and long. Deafening silence cloaked the stadium, the crowd holding their collective breath.
The ball cleared the right field fence, dropping into the grasping hands of some lucky spectator.
Yes!
Bentley smiled as he circled the bases, vaguely aware of the jeering crowd, save for a few Mustangs fans who celebrated with him. Rounding third base, he jogged toward the small clutch of players waiting for him at home plate—Todd Stevens and Jason Holder who had been on third and second, respectively. There was one more waiting for him. Sean Flannery had come over from the on-deck circle to take part in the celebration.
