9. TIM
Chapter nine
TIM
Lion drops me off and heads home, and as I walk up the stairs to my loft, a rare calm settles over me. Talking with Lion tonight was easy. It’s like we’ve known each other for years, and when he looks at me, those wide brown eyes peer right into my soul. I used to be afraid of what someone might see if they really looked, you know, tried to see the real me. The goofy Aussie kid who has dreams of barbeque and baseball and has no clue how he got so lucky to be halfway to achieving that dream. Lion really gets it, though. He just gets me.
I push open my door, and before I can even drop my keys on the counter, the group messages start.
DUCKIE: Are you okay? Are you home safe?
TIM: I’ve been big enough to walk myself home since I was ten.
DUCKIE: That Lion guy is heaps bigger than you.
PAT: What guy is this now?
RYAN: Did you go out with Lion? He seems sweet.
DUCKIE: Don’t encourage this. He’s a fan, a super fan. President of the Tim Sage fan club kind of fan.
TIM: He’s also ripped and super sweet, too.
I’d always assumed guys that look like Lion would be scary, rough, even grumpy, but he’s always so happy, and he’s sweet, and he believes in me more than I believe in myself.
RYAN: Dating a fan can get tricky. Not even just for you, but for them, too. Just make sure he knows what he’s getting himself into.
DUCKIE: I think he knows what he wants to get into.
PAT: Okay, I’m out. You do you. Or do him. I don’t care. Just be at practice on time.
RYAN: I think what Duckie means to say is that we want you to be happy but just be careful.
TIM: I think I might actually like him.
DUCKIE: Misery.
TIM: Fuck off. So, what if he’s a little too into my stats? We like the same foods, clearly the same sport, he drops me soup when I’m sick and loves what I did to the rooftop space.
DUCKIE: How does he know what you did to your rooftop?
Shit.
DUCKIE: And when did he bring you soup? You were sick weeks ago. You didn’t know him then. Did he bring you soup before you knew him? How did he know where to take soup?
TIM: Okay, settle down. He’s not a psycho fanatic, he’s just a sweet guy who happened to see me climbing out my window on one of our game nights, so when he heard I was sick, he counted the floors and dropped off soup for me.
Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that part. Typing it out, it does sound a little stalkerish, but he really isn’t like that. Lion loves Banana Ball. And he can recall so many things about past games, not just my stats either. He knew all about Duckie, too. I remember seeing posts from Kittyball100 from the moment we joined the league. I think he’s followed the tour since it started. His posts and comments always made me feel amazing. Is it so terrible that I want to feel that way more? I’m not saying I’ll go jump his bones or whatever, but we could be friends. I’m sure if the guys got to know him better, they would see how sweet he is. He’s not a stalker.
DUCKIE: Read your last message out loud and tell me you don’t see it?
TIM: I don’t see it. Look, it isn’t like we’re dating. He brought me soup, and we grabbed a bite to eat once.
Okay, the soup thing was technically twice, but he doesn’t need to know that.
DUCKIE: If your head ends up in a cooler, don’t come crying to me.
TIM: No promises, I still owe you for all the ducks. I’m at seventy-four. I will find them all you know.
DUCKIE: Good luck with that.
He follows up the final message with a GIF of Kathy Bates swinging a sledgehammer. Wow, that movie really was graphic. You see his ankle go totally sideways and all.
He isn’t right. Lion isn’t a stalker. He just wants to video my game plays and post messages of me online, and… okay, enough. It isn’t like that. I can’t let Duckie get in my head.
I open up my socials. Normally, I don’t go anywhere near direct messages. It’s one of the emotional regulation tools Dr Hamlyn and I worked out. It’s full of messages from the Banana-Ramas, immediately identifiable by the banana heart-shape border around their profile pics. I’m sure that some of their messages will be sweet or well-intentioned, but it’s the other ones I’m avoiding. But I don’t have a choice right now because I need a way to contact Lion, and I forgot to grab his phone number tonight.
I don’t have to scroll far. He sent me a message only a few minutes ago. I open it up, and there’s a video file and the still shot tells me it’s a Banana Ball game. I can see Ryan pitching, and I think it’s Harrison stepping up to bat. I click on the link, and it starts to play. As soon as the video pans, I know what game it is. It was round seven last year. Harrison clips the ball, and it zooms across the grass. The camera pans to me, and I cartwheel into the path of the ball, grabbing it as I turn over, and then I send it right to second base just before Harrison could get there, landing us the out.
I’ve never seen it from this angle before, though. Did Lion take this? I close the video, and there’s another message waiting.
This was my favorite trick play last season. Looking forward to seeing what you have planned this year. See you in Tampa.
That boost I get reading all the positive comments and seeing the posts celebrating me sweeps over my body. Is it a bad idea to spend time with Lion? What if he does end up tying me to a bed? The image of it flashes in my mind. Lion’s thick arms, lifting me up and laying me on the bedcovers. He straddles my waist, and using those large hands, he guides my wrists up to silk ties. His mane of strawberry blond hair brushes against the soft skin of my arms, and he pauses above me, that wide, deep dimpled grin on his face for a moment before pushing up and turning to face the other way. I wouldn’t hate this view either, with his round, tight ass taunting me. He arches his back as he leans forward and ties my ankles, too.
Okay. I don’t hate this idea at all. If anything, I’m fucking turned on by it. I guess if Lion wants to tie me down, with those huge strong arms that wouldn’t be such a horrible thing, as long as the sledgehammer stays out of the fantasy, he could do almost anything else he wanted.
***
The bus to Tampa leaves early, and I grab a seat behind Ryan and Alan.
“Hey, boys. Whatcha up to?”
Ryan looks at Alan, confused.
“Don’t look at me. I struggle to understand him at the best of times, on three hours’ sleep, I’ve got no hope.” Alan laughs.
Ryan twists sideways in his seat, looping one leg over Alan. “You could have slept more.”
I lean on the back of their chair and rest my head on my hands.
“Why were you up all night? Or should I not ask?”
I pump my brows, and Alan slaps a hand down on Ryan’s thigh, squeezing it just a little.
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t actually going to tell him. Anyway, it’s a long drive to Tampa, you should get some sleep,” Ryan says, and Alan nods, leans sideways and rests against Ryan’s chest.
“You won’t be doing that with me.” Duckie laughs, taking the seat beside me. “Ian has a no-threesome rule.”
“I think you’ll be safe,” I say, moving closer to the window so he can sit. The bus is getting full, and while I’ll be scrambling away from Duckie if we were on a plane, he doesn’t get car sick.
“Ian is still talking about those ribs you cooked up. You’ll have to share your secret recipe. Actually, scratch that, you can just cook for us more often. I’m not sitting in front of a smoker for hours.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Were you serious about the food truck thing?”
“Yeah, I reckon it will be sick.”
“Huh?”
“I think it will be amazing.”
“Oh, yeah, I mean sure, when Banana Ball is all over with if you’ve saved a bunch, those food trucks don’t really make much money, do they?”
“More than you’d think. More than enough, anyway. You really don’t think I should do it?”
“I think if a food truck is what you want, then sure, go for it. I just figured you would, you know, go into something to do with baseball. Or sports. Or acting maybe. You know, like, you can be the next Hemsworth brother, you look like them actually. Is that an Aussie thing? Are all Aussies super ripped blond bombshells?”
“Okay, you know that isn’t true, and I can’t act for shit, can’t dance really either. It’s why Dennis has me in the back most of the time for the skits.”
“He puts you in the back because you’re too pretty to be up front,” Ryan says, and Alan lifts his head.
“So am I up front because I’m not pretty?”
“You’re pretty, too, just not… Aussie pretty.”
Alan shrugs and rests back against Ryan’s chest. Ryan makes a shit that was a close call face, and we settle back as the bus starts off on the long drive to Tampa.
I wonder how Lion is getting there. Maybe he’s on a bus, too. Not this bus because this is our league bus and only players and coaches are on here. But maybe on another bus. I open up my socials app, breaking my only when I’m eating rule just this once. It’s a six-hour trip, and Duckie has already dipped out of his seat to head up the aisle to talk to a few of the guys. I know what he’s really doing. I spotted the little yellow duck in his hand when he crouched down beside Coach Miles.
I start on my feed and comment on a few posts, Kittyball100, Lion, hasn’t commented on these ones yet, which is weird, because he’s usually one of the first to say something about a picture or video I’m in.
A void fills my stomach the longer I go without seeing his handle. It’s weird for him not to post. Not to comment. I hope he’s okay. Maybe something happened with one of his cats, or maybe the cat distribution system decided he needed another one, and now he’s stuck at the vet’s trying to decide on a name and forgetting all about my game in Tampa.
It’s like a giant hole is in the place my stomach used to be and the void creeps higher. “You look pale, are you okay?” Ryan asks, and I force a smile and nod.
“Fine, just hungry, I think.”
“Oh, I have food. Grab my bag from up top. There’s a container with flapjacks inside.
“Okay, I’m not sure I know what they are. Are they pancakes?”
“No, they’re like an oat bar made with golden syrup. You’ll like them, just grab the bag before you pass out and I have to wake Alan to pick you up off the floor.”
I do as he says, my stomach churning. Maybe that’s all this is. I’m hungry. Did I eat this morning? I meant to. I got out the yogurt, but did I eat it? Oh shit, did I leave yogurt on my counter?
I munch down on one of the bars, and fuck, it’s good. The gooey, buttery sweetness helps a little, but I’m still scrolling through posts with no boost that they normally bring. Until I see his name.
The second I read his post, his excitement to see me play, his photo of the jersey he’ll be wearing on top of an overnight bag and an orange fluffy cat on top of that is just too cute. The caption reads, Someone thinks they can hide in my bag and come see Tim play in Tampa. Sorry, Daffin, Daddy will be home as soon as Tim hits it out of the park.
He really thinks I can hit a home run. Me. A 2B. I mean I got close a few times, so I guess it’s not completely out of the realm of possibilities. I could do it. No, I can do it. Actually, fuck that. I will do it. Yep, Lion, you are coming to Tampa, and I will get you your home run.
“See, you just needed my cooking, you look better already,” Ryan says, and I lean back in the chair and grin down at my phone at the real reason I feel good. I think Lion was what I needed.