Playing the Field Volume 2 Box Set

Batter Up-6

Some time later Rob stirs. He lays half on top of Mike, both of them above the bed covers, their bellies sticky with c*m where their flesh presses together. Pushing himself into a sitting position, Rob glances across Mike to the clock on the bedside table. It’s shortly after midnight. As Rob swings his legs over the side of the bed, Mike murmurs, “You really have to go?”

“It’s getting late,” Rob says.

Mike laughs softly. “The old nine to five, eh? Some of us have to work tomorrow, I know.”

Another opportunity to tell him what Rob does for a living. A moment’s silence, and the opportunity is gone.

Rob stretches, savoring the snap and pop in the small of his back, then runs a hand along Mike’s bare leg. The hair on Mike’s thigh puffs up under Rob’s touch. “You’re here for a week, right?”

He feels Mike’s hand trace the curve of his spine. “About that. You want to do this again?”

“Give me your number,” Rob says. It doesn’t really answer the question, but it sounds like it does.

As Mike fumbles with the complementary pad of paper and hotel pen on the bedside table, Rob ducks into the bathroom to relieve himself. A quick piss, then a washcloth run under hot water to clean off his stomach and d**k. He wrings out the washcloth, wets it down real good again, then rubs it between the tender crack in his butt. As he fingers himself, he remembers how Mike’s thickness filled his ass. Yeah, he wants to do this again, definitely. But whether Mike will want to or not after their first game Tuesday remains to be seen.

He could still say something, he knows, but it’s really too late now. He’s waited too long. Oh well—he had fun while it lasted.

Exiting the bathroom, he picks up his clothes from in front of the door. Shakes out his shirt, slips it on over his head. Shakes out his shorts, pretends he doesn’t see the tighty whities slip free of one pant leg before he steps into them. The rough khaki rubs against his balls and c**k, his sore ass, but he leaves the undies. Let Mike sniff them later, if he likes, or jerk off with them wrapped around his face.

Rob grins at that image, but plays it off by grinning at himself in the mirror as he smoothes down his hair.

Still naked, Mike comes up behind him with a piece of paper folded in his hand. “Here,” he says, slipping his hand into the front pocket of Rob’s shorts. His fingers curl around the base of Rob’s c**k, exciting it again, then he pulls his hand from the pocket, leaving the piece of paper behind. Wrapping his arms around Rob’s waist, he kisses the back of Rob’s neck and meets Rob’s reflection in the mirror. “Call me.”

Rob turns in Mike’s arms. “We’ll see.” He seals the promise with a last, lingering kiss that has Mike’s d**k hard and pressing against the front of Rob’s shorts by the time they break apart.

Later, in the cab of his truck, where it’s dark, he slides down low in the driver’s seat and unzips his shorts. Lets himself hang out into the fresh air as he drives, one hand on the wheel, one slowly stroking his semi-hard d**k. Remembering Mike on him, in him. Remembering the feel of flesh, the taste of skin, the smell of s*x. By the time he gets home, his palm is sticky with his own juices all over again.

Who is he kidding? He’ll call.

* * * *

But Monday comes and goes without a chance to even think of Mike. There’s ball practice from sun-up to sun-down; the Rebels are on a winning streak and they don’t want to break their stride in the coming weeks. If they can best the Waves in seven games, they have a shot at the Championship. No matter how great the s*x was last night, Mike takes a back seat to that.

Because Rob’s the starting pitcher, he spends most of the day lobbing baseballs for the rest of the team to hit. He’s tempted to throw a few curves into the mix, shake things up a bit—he can pitch a no-hitter if he wants—but a quick shake of the coach’s head nips that idea in the butt. “Save it for tomorrow, ace,” Evans says, with a hard clap on Rob’s back. “Did you check out their batters like I told you?”

Rob nods. “Nothing to it. I doubt they’ll hit anything tomorrow.”

The coach nods, satisfied. Silently Rob amends, Most of them won’t hit squat. I’m not so sure about number 3. He never saw Mike at bat. If there’s one wild card in tomorrow’s pack, it’s him.

By the end of practice, Rob’s shoulder is sore and a dull ache has settled into his elbow like arthritis. He heads home almost gratefully, exhausted and tired. A couple pain pills, an ice pack for the elbow, a heating pad for the shoulder, and he falls asleep in front of the television watching reruns of The A-Team on cable.

Somewhere on the Monday side of midnight, he remembers Mike’s phone number tucked into the front pocket of the shorts he wore the night before. I’ll call him later, he thinks. The guy will be here for a week, won’t he? They’ll have plenty of time to hook up again, right?

Right?

* * * *

Tuesday’s game starts at 6:30, which means the gates open at five, and Rob needs to be at the Diamond no later than three in the afternoon. There are snacks on a table outside the locker room—Gatorade and power bars, mostly, along with bottles of ice cold water—and a clean, pressed uniform waiting for him at his locker. He gets in early enough to grab a quick shower, then dresses as the rest of his team begins to arrive. Catcalls and whistles echo through the locker room, and the low hum of conversation is punctuated with laughter as the guys change into their uniforms. The team’s mascot comes down to boost morale, and someone takes a few pictures of him with a cell phone, flanked by teammates who wear nothing more than damp towels and big smiles. If that shows up on f*******: tomorrow, Coach Evans will be livid.

Then it’s out to the batting cage for practice. Rob takes a few swings himself, but he’s rarely in the lineup so he doesn’t worry when he hits nothing but pop flies. A few people already in the stands love it, though—they hover around the end of the stadium near the batting cage, gloves in hand, hoping to catch something. When it’s Rob’s turn to pitch, he sometimes throws a high ball into the stands just to watch the crowd fight over it.

He doesn’t see the Wildwood Waves arrive, but at some point he looks across the field and sees the pale blue and green uniforms of the visiting team as some of the players take the time to stretch out before the game starts. From this distance, he can’t pick out faces, but he sees the number 3 on the back of a shirt and, above it, the word Hennessey.

Mike.

With difficulty, Rob returns to his practice pitches, but one part of his mind keeps wandering back to Sunday evening and the time spent in Mike’s bed. He should’ve said something then about playing for the Rebels, but it’s too late now. As soon as the announcer starts reeling off the names of the players, Mike will hear Rob’s and think…what?

I should’ve told him, Rob thinks, chucking the ball a little too hard on the next pitch. The batter dives to the ground to avoid being hit. If not that first night, then the next, at least. I could’ve called him up yesterday and told him, but I didn’t.

“Hey!” the batter yells, dusting off the front of his uniform as he stands. “Are we on the same team here or what?”

“Sorry,” Rob mutters. His gaze drifts across the field to number 3. He could head on over and say hi, but that would look bad. The stands are filling up, the other players are watching, everyone will see them. Everyone will know.

Too late to do anything about it now, he tells himself. Just play ball now, and if you still want to get with him later, worry what he’ll have to say about it then.

If. Like there’s any question. Of course Rob wants another night with that man. Who wouldn’t?

* * * *

He should’ve said something, he knows he should’ve. As the announcer reels off the names of the Richmond Rebels, the players take the field, and Rob approaches the pitcher’s mound with a growing sense of dread. His name’s near the end, and soon enough, the dreaded words roll across the stands and over the field. “Pitching for the Rebels today is R-R-R-R-Robin R-R-R-R-Ritchie!”

The crowd goes wild, as always. Rob knows the cheers are mostly for the way his name rolls off the announcer’s tongue, but he raises his arms and waves, anyway. His photo flashes across the Jumbo-Tron screen, the same way everyone else’s did, but he doesn’t look up at it today. No, he’s watching the visitor’s dugout. Mike leans over the rail with the rest of his team.

Rob watches as he glances up at the screen, a smile lingering on his lips from whatever the teammate next to him said. He sees Rob’s photo on the screen—Rob knows he does because a thin furrow clouds his brow. Then Mike turns to look at the pitcher’s mound, at Rob himself, putting two and two together.

The furrow deepens. The smile slips away. Rob resists the urge to throw a quick wave Mike’s way.

Sorry, he thinks. He should’ve said something, he knows that now. Even if he calls the number tonight, will Mike bother to answer? Rob thinks not.

He turns away from the visitor’s dugout and removes his hat as the announcer introduces the young girl who will sing this evening’s National Anthem. Hat over his heart, eyes on the flag flying above the scoreboard, he feels Mike’s glare across the field. This is going to be a long night.