This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Wild Pitch
© 2015 Sloan Johnson
Cover Art: Cover Me, Darling
Cover Photography: Johnny Kane by Eric Battershell Photography
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Sloan Johnson, [email protected] http://authorsloanj.com
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Prologue
The four of us lined up, two on each side of Mason in front of the stainless steel bean at Millennium Park. We tried to keep from bitching too much about the fact that we’d all rather be anywhere other than posing for wedding pictures. That wasn’t entirely true; we’d gladly freeze our asses off to make Mason’s future wife happy if she wasn’t the Ice Queen. It seemed fitting that the weather had turned unseasonably cold the night before their nuptials.
I stood directly to Mason’s left, plastering on a smile I hoped no one would realize was completely fake. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep from flagging down a taxi and throwing him inside.
The photographer snapped a few shots and checked them on the LCD screen of his camera. “Okay, those look good,” he called out. Even he looked miserable, and he was dressed in a thick wool coat and bright scarf. “Let’s get a few of just the groom and his best man, then the groom with his father and we’ll get someplace a bit warmer.”
The rest of the guys tried to act cool as they speed walked over to where our winter coats were piled on the ground, leaving just the two of us alone. “All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You” by Heart blared from Mason’s pocket, signaling at least the fifth call of the day from Teresa. For all of her obsessing over every detail of this wedding, being superstitious of the bride and groom speaking before the wedding apparently wasn’t on her radar.
“Hey, sweetie,” Mason answered, flipping me off as I rolled my eyes. It was immature, but I couldn’t help it. He was so in love with her he couldn’t see what a controlling, manipulative bitch she was. I couldn’t hear what he was saying as he walked away, but it sounded like she was freaking about something. Again. She’d made Bridezilla look calm and laid-back about three phone calls ago.
Mason scrubbed at the back of his neck as he disconnected the call. When he turned to face me, he looked miserable. “There’s still time to back out,” I teased. “We could jump in a cab and be at the airport in less than twenty minutes. By the time people start piling into the church, we could be at cruising altitude on our way to somewhere warm and sunny.”
My cock twitched at the thought of joining the mile high club with Mason. It’d never happen, but that had never kept my mind from wandering into fantasy territory. Mason stepped closer, reaching up to straighten my tie. His gaze remained fixed on mine as he ran his hand down the center of my chest. I blinked, telling myself I had to be imagining the look of longing in his green eyes. It was as though he might actually be considering my suggestion.
“I can’t do that.” He sighed, curling his fingers around the lapels of my wool tuxedo jacket. “This is what I want, Sean. I know the two of you’ve had your differences, but I can’t think of many women other than her who would put up with me.”
“That’s no reason to get married, Mace,” I argued, trying to keep my voice quiet enough that we wouldn’t be overheard. The other groomsmen quickly turned away when I glanced their direction. Over the years, our friends had joked that Mason and I were like an old married couple, not only because of how we bickered at times, but also because of times like this. Mason didn’t shy away from getting into someone’s personal space and had no problem seeking comfort when he needed it. Mason’s parents were old hippies who didn’t believe in raising their son to believe that men should hide their emotions and he didn’t. Right now, he looked utterly terrified of getting in the town car to head over to the church. I’d seen guys going to prison for life who handled their fate with more ease and grace.
“I know, Sean, but this’ll be good for me,” he conceded. I was about to tell him how screwed up it was that he hadn’t once mentioned how much he loved her when his dad, Bill, joined us.
“Everything okay over here?” He raised an eyebrow, more to me than his son. I got the impression he wasn’t thrilled with this expansion to the family either.
“Yeah, Dad. We’re all good.” He patted his dad’s back before walking back to the front of the sculpture.
I followed, wondering how I’d get through the ceremony without blurting out my objections when the minister asked for them. Mason and Teresa were the last two people who had any place getting married, and that wasn’t only because I’d wanted him since we met.
Twenty miserable minutes later, we were dismissed with strict instructions to be ready for more pictures an hour later. The short ride to the church would have been somber had Mason’s cousin not brought his iPod with him. I draped my arm over the back of the seat and leaned closer to Mason.
“Hey, I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” I told him. I stood by my statements, but he didn’t need my shit on his big day. He needed me to suck up my feelings and support him. That’s what good friends did.
Mason shrugged. “I get it, Sean. The two of you have always been like fire and ice. I don’t think that’ll ever change. It’d be nice if my best friend and my wife could be in the same room without wanting to rip each other’s throats out.”
His hand dropped to my knee and my entire body stiffened. I looked around nervously, wondering what the guys would think if they saw my arm around his shoulders and his thumb rubbing the soft wool of my pants. I reminded my now achingly hard dick that he didn’t mean anything, that Mason was just being Mason. The faint smile he flashed before straightening in his seat felt like both the greatest reward and a punch in the gut.
It hit me that I was just as much of a problem in his mind as she was in mine. All Mason wanted was for everyone to get along. His ability to play the peacekeeper most of the time was one of the many traits that attracted me to him. If it meant not seeing him threatening to crumble, I’d promise him just about anything. “Mace, I’m never going to go out of my way to be her buddy, but I promise I’ll work harder at trying to get along. For you.”
Mace looked up at me with bright eyes. “Yeah?”
“Of course,” I said quickly. “It’ll be tough, but I’m not going to be your Yoko.”
Mason w
rapped his arms around my shoulders in a tight hug. “Thanks, Sean.”
The car pulled up in front of the church before I could make an ass of myself. Mason and I got out first and Bill greeted us by thrusting two gloves and a ball into my chest. “The boy needs to settle down. Take him out to the courtyard and throw the ball around for a bit. I’ll come and get you when it’s time to go inside.”
Catch. I could do this. It’d been a long time since I’d thrown the ball just for fun, but I agreed that it was just what Mason needed to keep from freaking the hell out about saying ‘I do’. And I could focus on not hitting him in the face rather than trying to figure out how to get Mason to walk away before it was too late.
Chapter 1
The sight before me when I walked into the visitor’s locker room shouldn’t have been a surprise. Until I rounded the corner and saw Eric standing in front of his locker, I’d almost managed to convince myself that the deal would fall through in the eleventh hour. I wanted management to realize that Eric was an asset to the team. Then again, neither of us were foolish enough to believe that’d happen. Seattle had a weak outfield and the Mavericks needed strength in the batting order. That’s why we said our own goodbyes last night after we all went out for one last dinner together.
“I hear the weather’s always nice in Seattle,” Eric said as he emptied his locker. He was the type of guy who never let anything get to him, yet he looked about ready to break down. When he glanced up at me, his eyes were dull and rimmed with dark circles. He shrugged as he rifled through his bag. “Maybe this will be a good move for me. It’ll be nice to not worry that Ackerman’s going to tell me to pack my shit every time I see him walk down the hall.”
He was trying to put on a brave face, but I imagined he saw the announcement that he was no longer a Maverick as a sign of his inability to perform up to standards. Like myself, he’d grown up watching the Mavericks play and dreamed of stepping onto the field as a player someday. When he’d gotten the call, it only took him a few days to buy a house right on Lake Michigan. He’d hoped to stay in Milwaukee until he decided to hang it up. Unfortunately, ball players understand from the time they sign their first contract that there are times when their best may not be enough. Without notice, the club has the right to trade them to another team without even asking if they’re interested in the deal. It’s all part of the game.
Eric sat on the bench running down the center of the aisle, slumped forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’d worn Mavericks’ gray and blue uniform for the last time. I wanted to give him some reassurance that this was a good career move for him. Seattle had different strengths and he’d be more of an asset to their team. I sat next to him and draped my arm over his shoulder. He scanned the room to make sure we were alone before leaning into my touch. I shook my head and let out a long breath, trying to figure out what to say.
“This is one of the few things I hate about the game,” I grumbled. “You’re a great guy and an even better player. It’s going to suck not having you around.”
Not having Eric jogging to catch up to me as we walked to the dugout at the end of the inning was only one reason I was going to miss him. When Eric first joined the team, I’d been the only player who didn’t have a roommate on the road. We developed a friendship that wound up reaping great benefits for both of us once we got to know one another well enough. Unlike most of the guys, we weren’t free to troll the nightclubs looking for packs of groupies eager to spend a night sweaty and naked with a major league baseball player. That wasn’t a bad thing because we also didn’t worry about girls sneaking compromising pictures to share with a thousand of their closest friends on social media. We needed to be much more discreet because loose lips would spell the end of a gay athlete’s career if it was a giddy fanboy snapping selfies.
Faint voices in the distance warned us that our time alone was almost up. When I hugged Eric goodbye, I buried my face in his neck, inhaling his scent to commit every possible detail to memory. I wasn’t in love with Eric, but I suppose my feelings for him were somewhat akin to love on some level. He was one of very few people I trusted with my secrets and we worked well together in every aspect of our lives. Looking back, I wondered why we never tried to have more than a casual relationship. I suppose it was at least partly because a day like today was probable.
“Don’t be a stranger,” I whispered as I pressed my lips to his neck. I pulled away from him a split-second before the door opened. I had to get out of the locker room and into the bullpen before I lost the tentative hold I had on my emotions.
Jason Klein followed me to the bullpen and I almost felt bad for the guy. With the mood I was in, he’d either be chasing balls when they fell short of the plate or he’d have a bruised hand from the force behind my arm. In the seven years I’d been in Milwaukee, I’d never been this bitter over having to say goodbye to a friend. I appreciated that he knew me well enough to realize today was a day I needed him in the bullpen with me, not one of our other catchers. We needed the time to get in sync with one another before facing the Bulldogs on the field.
Get it together, I scolded myself as I tapped the chain link three times before stepping up to the pitching rubber for warm-up. I had less than an hour to leave my personal feelings behind and pitch as if my life depended on it. And just like every other day, it did, because Eric’s hasty departure was a reminder that none of us had job security.
I rolled the ball around in my hands as I struggled to push everything but this pitch out of my mind. My shoulder ached as I released the first pitch, so I took a step back and stretched a bit more. Angel Johnson, the pitching coach, watched me closely, more than likely nervous that I’d strained something and wouldn’t be able to make the start.
“You okay, Tucker?” he asked, never getting too close to me. He knew my little quirks better than anyone, and short of me lying on the ground clutching my throwing arm, I needed people to stay out of my personal space before the game.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him as I got back into position. I stuffed in my earbuds, cranking up volume to block out the fans in the first row hollering back and forth about which bar to hit after the game, Angel’s commentary, everything.
The next few pitches were better, but nothing to write home about. I felt more like a prospect at the start of training camp than the team’s leading starter. And given the scowl on Angel’s face, I looked about the same.
It’s okay, you still have time, I reminded myself. Okay, so not much time, but some. There were forty-three minutes until the first pitch. I closed my eyes and tried to count the stitches as I slid my fingers across the horseshoe, blocking out everything but the next pitch. Jason smiled for the first time since we’d started warming up as he threw the ball back to me.
The pitches never got pretty, but by the time we stopped for the “National Anthem,” I had reached a point where I wasn’t worried I was about to have one of the worst outings of my career. Jason patted my shoulder as the final notes echoed through the park and we said a quick prayer before making our way to the infield. I wasn’t a particularly religious man, but Jason was, and this was part of his pre-game routine. Given all the shit he put up with, it wasn’t a hardship for me to bow my head with him. And today, I needed all the help I could get, even from the Man upstairs.
I hated playing games on the road. If this were a home game, I’d be up there on the mound and everything but the next pitch would cease to exist. Instead, I was stuck in the dugout, my leg bouncing so fast it shook the entire bench. By the time the Bulldogs’ Sully Monroe threw a beautiful fastball over the plate to strike out Ricky White, we were up by two. That allowed me to breathe a bit easier as we took the field for the bottom of the first.
The start of the inning was a total nightmare. Cooper Townsend sent my second pitch of the afternoon sailing over the wall into the bleachers behind left field, cutting our lead to one. The next two batters wou
nd up on base with a combined eight pitches and only three strikes between them. I wiped the sweat from my brow and adjusted my cap as Jason jogged out to the mound. It was never a good thing when the catcher had to come out for a pep talk this early.
“Man, I get that it’s a rough day, but you have to leave it behind,” he told me. “Don’t let the first three define you. You’re better than this and we both know it.”
“You’re right,” I responded. I am better. When I looked toward home plate, I cracked a faint smile. Jason glanced over his shoulder and gripped my biceps tightly.
“Strike. Him. Out. If there’s one man in their lineup that you can’t let get past you, it’s Atley. He’s cocky enough, you’ll be hearing about it for the next twenty years.”
I nodded and straightened the bill of my cap. Jason was right, as usual. And the man knew what to say to spur me into action. We’d paired up so many times, I allowed myself to close my eyes for a few seconds, and Jason was crouching behind the plate when I opened them.
Mason settled into the batter’s box, and unless it was a trick of the light, the man winked at me. It wasn’t anything sexual, more of a “Hey buddy, it’s good to see you. I hope you don’t mind that I’m getting ready to send your ERA through the roof,” type of gesture. Cocky son-of-a-bitch. He’d been my best friend for the past seven years. We met when he was a wet-behind-the-ears rookie and I was quickly becoming a staple in the triple-A pitching rotation, but right now, my only objective was to take him down.
Jason signaled the pitch and I shook it off. Mason would be expecting a fastball. He was a closet geek who loved analyzing numbers and statistics for fun. While most players cheered for their teammates, he’d sit back and mentally tally the pitches thrown so he’d have an idea of what he’d be up against when it was his turn at-bat. He used to boast that he could figure out a pitcher’s preferences and pattern within the first inning.
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