Switch Pitching (Off the Bench #1)

10. James

10

JAMES

It’s opening day and we’re playing against New York. The air is electric.

And I’m in the dugout watching.

I’m pumped as hell but my arms are practically itching because I’m not out there. Every seat in the ballpark is packed and the noise is relentless, but I’ve got to stay focused if I’m called up to pitch.

Ethan is on fire. Balls are flying off his bat and he’s unstoppable in the outfield. He makes it look so easy. I always knew the guy was talented, but seeing him crush it? It’s something else entirely. I’m decent at batting, and I can field if I need to, but I rarely got the chance to do either when I played in university. Now it’s even less likely. Such is the life of a pitcher.

I lean forward on the dugout rail, my eyes glued to the field as Ethan gets called up to bat again. He’s got a muted, unreadable expression as he marches forward, his walk-up song blasting through the ballpark speakers. Ethan is intimidating. His height and that smolder must have pitchers shaking in their cleats.

New York’s pitcher winds up and I hold my breath. The ball hurtles toward the plate but Ethan swings at exactly the right time. He connects and the sound echoes. The ball shoots up above center field.

He’s going for first. Now second, and he doesn’t slow down. After launching off second, Ethan sprints, launching into a slide and slapping the base before their third baseman catches the ball.

He nailed it.

The pitcher takes his time to refocus, wearing an almost imperceptibly sour expression. The first pitch comes in, and it’s a strike. Ethan’s fingers clench, itching to get home, but he’s got to wait.

The next pitch, and it’s a swing and a miss. Strike two. My gut tightens, knowing this could go either way.

On the third pitch, our guy makes contact, but it’s weak. I watch, almost in slow motion, as the fielder scoops it up and fires it to first.

Damn. That’s the inning. Ethan’s stranded on third. Still, not bad at all.

He jogs back to the dugout, a little winded but still sharp. As he passes me, I give him a solid pat on the back. “Awesome hit, man. You crushed it.”

“Thanks, appreciate it.” Ethan’s trying to play it cool, but the crinkle at the corner of his eyes shows his excitement. He was so worried about proving himself, but he’s showing everyone exactly why he deserves to be here.

The game goes on, intense and tight. Games against New York are always nail-biters and by the top of the seventh, we’ve fought hard for our 6-5 lead.

And then, just like that, I get the nod. Coach wants me on the mound. I steel myself for my first go as a pitcher in the big leagues.

The first couple of batters pass in a blur. I fire strikes and keep their batters on edge, but in the eighth inning, things start to slip. They tie the game, ramping up the pressure.

We’re tired, and the eighth inning ends without us putting in any runs. I march to the mound and give it all I’ve got, striking the next two batters out. Bending over, I hold my knees to catch my breath as New York’s next batter walks up.

When I straighten out and face him, I freeze. It’s Tomas Garcia.

Of course it’s fucking Garcia. The guy’s a nightmare. His batting average is insane, way above .300. He’s the last guy I want to see.

He steps up, calm and collected. Meanwhile, my pulse is skyrocketing and I’m trying to keep up my best poker face.

I can’t give him a fastball down the middle. That would be worse than intentionally walking him because the guy might hit a home run. I’m not trying to give him any footage for his highlight reel.

Something like this needs a creative solution. It’ll be risky, but if I’m gonna get him out, I need to give him something he’s not expecting.

I haven’t pitched to him yet, so I switch the ball to my left hand and my custom glove to my right. A sweet, subtle flicker of confusion crosses Garcia’s face and I narrow my eyes. In almost every game, I pitch with my right hand, so that’s what opposing teams are briefed on. I still practice with my left, though, and I bring it out when I need to.

I wind up and push through. The ball leaves my hand, curving in toward the plate, and I wait.

Garcia swings, but he’s a split second too late. The ball connects weakly and sputters toward the infield. Will’s already on the move, and he scoops it up before firing it to first, beating Garcia by half a step.

“Out!” the umpire calls, and the ballpark erupts.

I let out a breath I was holding for too long. We got him. We actually got him.

I walk off the mound, my heart still racing. The team is coming in too, cheering me on as we head to the dugout. I catch Ethan’s eye as he jogs in from the outfield and he gives me a solid nod, the one that says he knows we just dodged a bullet.

We settle as we head into the bottom of the ninth. The game is still tied, but we’ve got a solid shot. The momentum’s ours, and it’s palpable. We only need one run to close this out.

Tim, one of the veterans, is up to bat. He takes a couple of pitches and lets them pass, racking up two balls. New York’s pitcher is getting a little antsy now and I can see him fidgeting.

The third pitch comes in right down the middle. The crack of Tim’s bat ricochets as the ball surges away, bouncing into the corner. Tim’s off, rounding first and gunning for second. They put up a good fight, but Tim plants himself on second base before the ball comes back in.

We’re in business.

Another one of our solid veterans, Miles, steps up. He’s calm and it shows. The pitcher tries to put on a brave face as he tries to regroup, but I can see his nerves creeping in.

He slips up and fires a fastball that ends up in a ball.

Second pitch. The ball comes in high, and Miles swings, making a beautiful, clean connection. It’s not out of the park, but it’s enough.

Tim launches himself to third, rounding toward home as the ball comes down just short of the wall. It’s sent back in, but it’s too late.

Tim makes it home, and the game is over.

The ballpark explodes in cheers as we rush out of the dugout to celebrate. I’m on my feet, adrenaline still coursing through me. It’s pure chaos, but it’s the best. Ethan’s right there in the mix, grinning as we all pile onto the field. We pulled it off. One of the best career launches either of us could have asked for.

The aftermath is a blur as we shake hands with New York and collect ourselves. Ethan and I get approached by some journalists, and we answer their questions confidently with our media training in full display.

Our interviews wind down and we head to the locker room. I beeline for showers and strip off my gear in the fancy, renovated, freshly tiled stall. The cool water feels like heaven, leaving me refreshed and recharged.

Once I’ve cleaned up with too much of the expensive-smelling soap, I get dressed and meet up with Ethan.

The night’s cooling down as we step outside and we start the short walk back to our place. Ethan slings his arm around my shoulder, and I smile.

“You were on fire out there,” I say, bumping his shoulder.

“Says you and your switch pitching skills. I didn’t know you had that in you.” A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

I shrug, trying to stay modest. “Had to pull out something special for Garcia, that dude’s a beast.”

Ethan nods. “Yeah, but you handled it. That was epic.”

“Yeah, it was. Feels good to start the season off with a win like that.”

We don’t say much more for the rest of our walk, and we head straight to our own rooms. I toss and turn for a bit, but I can’t fall asleep. Groaning, I check my phone, and I see an email from the team manager. The subject doesn’t tell me anything useful, so I open the email for a quick scan.

In short, I’ll be alternating as the starting pitcher from now on, and Ethan’s being scheduled for more games. The reason? We both killed it out there tonight.

Jumping up, I race out of my bedroom and over to Ethan’s, almost too excited to even think.

“Yo, check your email!” I shout, turning the handle and walking into Ethan’s room.

“James—” he starts, and I skid to a halt.

Ethan is naked.

Fuck.

His dick is out, no, wait. His dick is out, and it’s hard, and his hand is wrapped around it.

I just walked in on Ethan jerking off.

The two of us are too stunned by what’s going on to do anything at all, and we stay frozen for more time than necessary. Jolting back to reality, I stumble backward, practically tripping over my own feet as I retreat and swing the door shut behind me.

“Sorry!” I shout, cringing and running back to my room.

I’m such an idiot. I should have knocked. Instead, I barged right in and got a full view of Ethan stroking his dick.

His massive dick.

I should purge that from my memory. Sheesh. Interrupting him is bad enough, but beyond that, I know he’s really private.

“ He’s got really big privates ”, I think, before figuratively slapping myself.

I close my eyes and try to sleep. Nope! All I can see is Ethan’s dick. What the hell is going on? Why can’t I stop dwelling on it?

All out of options, I curse under my breath and reach for my phone. It’s time for some porn. Of the lesbian variety. With no dicks at all. My semi stands to attention and I take care of myself, hoping that stroking my erection stops me from thinking about Ethan stroking his.

I come with a shudder, clean up, roll over, and pass out. Success.

Morning arrives before I know it, and I’m woken up by the sound of the coffee grinder. Ethan’s awake.

I creep to the kitchen. “Hey, good morning,” I squeak.

“Hi. You sleep okay?” he asks.

“Yup,” I trail off. Ethan isn’t looking at me, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s embarrassed or if he’s doing something else.

“I’m sorry I walked in on you jerking off,” I say, way louder than necessary.

Ethan chuckles, which is unexpected. “It’s fine,” he says. “Like, don’t do it again, but I’m not holding anything against you.”

Oh, phew. That’s a relief. “Yeah. I guess I should have knocked, and I still feel guilty.”

Ethan waves me off. “This shit happens. Don’t overthink it.”

“You aren’t embarrassed or anything?” I ask.

“That wasn’t the first time a guy’s seen me jacking off, so no. Should I be?”

“No,” I reply. “Not at all, especially since…” I stop myself, and Ethan narrows his eyes at me.

“Especially since what?”

“Um…”

Ethan manages to narrow his eyes even more over his coffee cup.

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed, especially since your dick is fucking massive?” Excuse me? Why the actual hell did I think that was the right thing to say?

Ethan chokes on his coffee. “No, it’s not. Come on,” he mutters.

Alright, time to try some humor to lighten the mood. “Why deny it? Like, I wasn’t trying to notice but your schlong didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“Dude, stop talking about my dick!” he sputters. “And don’t call it a schlong . That’s weird.”

I lightly punch Ethan’s shoulder. “Whatever, man. Let’s go to practice.”

The vibes from last night are still flowing when we get to the locker room before the second game against New York. The entire team is chatting and bantering, and spirits are high.

Will walks over to me and Ethan, phone in hand, with an amused expression on his face.

“Did either of you read SportWatch today?” he asks, a humorous glint in his eye catching me off guard.

“Nah, I try to stay away from stuff like that.”

Will is almost laughing now. “You two should see this, then.” He turns the phone toward us so Ethan and I can both read the article he’s loaded.

Bromance Alert! Sullivan and Hernandez are the Boston Falcons’ New Dynamic Duo!

I scoff. “Why is this news?”

Ethan reaches out to scroll down, revealing a sneaky picture of me and Ethan walking home, his arm wrapped around my shoulder. The “reporter” took the liberty of adding a red circle and an arrow. Ethan huffs. “It isn’t news and I doubt anyone reads this stuff.”

Will lets out a laugh. “Apparently, some people do. This already has a couple thousand views. You guys are trending.”

I roll my eyes, though I can’t help the slight grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Man, people will write about anything these days.”

Ethan shrugs, not letting it get to him. “Whatever. Let them talk.”

Will chuckles and pockets his phone, still amused by the whole thing. “Well, just thought you’d want to know. You’re famous for more than baseball now.”

“Great,” I mutter sarcastically, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. If anything, it’s kind of funny.

Ethan and I exchange a look, both of us silently agreeing to brush it off. I don’t need a gossip magazine to tell me that we’ve got a solid friendship.

“Right. Let’s focus on the game,” Ethan says, his tone shifting back to serious as he finishes adjusting his gear.

“Fine by me.” We’ve got another game ahead of us, and that’s what matters right now.