Playing the Field Volume 2 Box Set

Batter Up-2

At twenty after seven, Rob pulls to a stop in the unloading zone at the front of the Hyatt. He’s early, but he couldn’t help it. He’s horny, what can he say? He hopes he recognizes Mike without the windbreaker and baseball cap. Hazel eyes, he reminds himself. Sexy smile. Body that won’t quit.

Hell, if he sees anyone fitting that description, he’ll be happy. Mike or not.

Throwing on his hazards, he lets his engine idle in front of the hotel and checks his reflection in the rear-view mirror. His black hair looks like ink against his pale forehead—he has a bit of color to his arms and neck, what his mother always called a “farmer’s tan,” but most of his face is usually shielded from the sun. The tips of his ears, though, they’re a bit pink. He runs a hand through his short-cropped hair as if to smooth it down, but the thick, straight strands don’t budge. Raising his chin, he stares for a long moment into the icy, almost see-through blue of his eyes, then lets his gaze roam his freshly shaven cheeks in search of any spots he might have missed. Too late if I did, he thinks, rasping a hand across his jaw.

To his right, he catches movement and glances over. The hotel doors open but the woman who exits is definitely not Mike. She looks at his truck a moment, then at him, and smiles. He raises a hand in greeting. As she passes in front of his cab, he notices a distinct wiggle to her hips that wasn’t there a moment ago.

Sorry, honey. Not interested.

He looks at his watch, then back at the hotel. Mike still has about eight minutes left to go. Reaching for the keys, Rob turns off the engine and waits.

What if someone told him who I was?

The sudden thought is like a splash of cold water on his rising libido. What if he found out and isn’t coming now? What if—

A saner voice intervenes, calming him. Who would’ve known? None of the Waves—this is their first season in the Rebel’s division. We’ve never played them before, which is part of the reason you were at the Diamond at all this afternoon, remember?

True. But if Mike asked any of the stadium employees about the lone fan in the stands during practice, they would’ve given him away. Rob Ritchie? they would’ve said with a laugh. He doesn’t work here. He pitches for the Rebels. You mean you didn’t know?

And there goes any chance Rob has of getting some ass tonight. Once Mike realizes they’re going to be playing on different teams come Tuesday…

I’ll mention it myself, Rob thinks. He doesn’t know exactly how he’ll bring it up—he should’ve said something earlier, he knows, and the longer he waits, the harder it’s going to be to say anything at all. But if Mike doesn’t know already, Rob will see how the evening plays itself out and, at some point, he’ll mention it. By the way, you asked if I liked the game. I sort of play it, too. I was only at the Diamond today so I could scope out how well you guys play.

Well, no, he won’t admit that, but he’ll come up with something. Before things go too far, before it gets too late.

Movement in his peripheral vision makes him look towards the hotel again. The sliding doors open, and here’s Mike. The windbreaker and baseball cap are gone; so are the jeans and, from the look of it, the medical bandage, too. He wears a pair of tan walking shorts that show off strong, hairy legs, a matching tank top, and over that, an unbuttoned shirt with a blue/green pattern that brings out the color in his eyes.

Sweet Jesus, Rob thinks, watching the guy look his way. I don’t just want a piece of that. I want the whole damn thing.

When Mike sees him, Rob raises a hand to wave. Without breaking his stride, Mike turns in mid-step and heads in his direction. Rob unlocks the passenger side door a moment before Mike opens it and eases inside. “Hey.”

The thick scent of cologne fills the truck’s cab. It’s something sporty, and beneath it is the fresh hint of shampoo and shaving cream. The smell grabs Rob’s balls in a vise grip, and his c**k throbs at his crotch. He flashes Mike a quick grin. “You cleaned up nice.”

“I can manage when I have someone to look good for,” he says as he shuts the door. “You look nice yourself. Love the truck.”

“Ford F-150,” Rob says, turning the key. The engine roars to life beneath them like a caged lion. “It’s a real guy-magnet.”

“I can imagine.”

When Rob shifts into gear, Mike’s hand covers his. Warm, heavy, still slightly damp from his shower, the touch tells Rob exactly what type of evening Mike hopes they’ll have. Once out of the hotel parking lot and back on the street, he turns his hand over and clasps Mike’s fingers in his.

Me too.