Chapter 19
Nineteen
Keene
March
I have the dumbest smile on my face as I sit on the bus to our away game against Washington, and it’s all because Pen and I are having a conversation consisting of only GIFs. It’s stupid and not in any way a real conversation, but here I am, grinning at my phone like an idiot anyway.
It’s been a few weeks since my last away series, and I was really starting to enjoy all the time on our home field and being able to sleep in my own damn bed.
Or Pen’s bed, that one time. Which is where I want to be every night, but I know he likes his space. I don’t want to infringe on that, best friend or not. Even if the dorm room is the only place I can act the way I want with him, it doesn’t mean he always wants me fawning on him or whatever.
Not that I exactly fawn on him…I don’t think.
Hell if I know.
Lately, I’ve been questioning every interaction I’ve been having with him. The way it makes me feel. The weird, lingering ache in my chest when I can’t bring myself to ask for what I want. For what I crave down to a cellular level.
It’s like the night he went down on me for the first time.
I couldn’t ask it of him because…I don’t want to force any kind of sexual exploration on him.
Sure, he offered because he didn’t want me doing it with anyone else—Pen’s protective nature coming out in full swing.
Yet, the last thing I need is for him to feel bad for me or do something like sucking cock out of some screwed-up sense of obligation to our friendship.
Lots of hetero guys are friends with guys in the LGBT community. Doesn’t mean they have to experiment together because of it.
“Waters!” Coach barks from beside me in his deep, booming voice that scares me enough to drop my phone to my lap when I jump slightly.
“Yeah, Coach?”
“Rooming assignment,” he says before looking at his clipboard. “You’re with Castle.”
“Sounds good,” I tell him.
He nods before proceeding further down the aisle, and I let out a sigh of relief.
A quick glance up reveals Castle, our second baseman, sitting a few rows in front of me.
And while he’s a cool kid—albeit, very shy—I can’t help the pang in my chest that it’s him I’ll be sharing a room with tonight instead of the person I want it to be.
I wish, more than anything, Pen could come up for the games against Washington this weekend. After all, the drive isn’t too far, but his studio is starting to get more demanding, so he chose to stay behind.
I can still daydream about it, though. If he’d managed to stay at the same hotel as us, I could sneak into his room without Castle knowing and fall asleep with him pressed against me after we defile each other’s bodies.
My ass clenches just thinking about it. About his fingers inside me, the warm, velvety heaven of his mouth milking me for all I’m worth. A feeling that hasn’t gotten old, even weeks after experiencing it for the first time.
It’s almost scary how quickly I’ve become addicted to getting naked with him. Touching and tasting him, sure, but also the filthy things he whispers to me while my mouth’s wrapped around his cock or his fingers are screwed up my ass.
Even more, it’s downright freaky how fast I’ve embraced things like sucking dick and having fingers there in the first place.
By now, it’s safe enough to say I’m attracted to Aspen.
Absolutely, one hundred percent, no doubt in my mind, not that there ever has been since the damn kiss that started this whole thing.
But one thing I’ve discovered through our hookups is I’m definitely attracted to guys in general. Not just Pen.
Now, the thing I’m running into is, the more I feed my attraction to Pen specifically, the less I want anyone else.
Take the porn experiment, for example. Once he started getting turned on, it didn’t even matter that the porn was there.
I didn’t even notice the two guys going at each other like two wild beasts after Pen started kissing my throat.
At this point, I don’t see anything or anyone besides him.
That happens to be one of the many reasons why I’ve decided to delete my Toppr profile. At least, for the time being.
With my focus being almost entirely on Pen lately, I’m not feeling it anymore.
It doesn’t help that I can’t help but compare all the conversations I’m having with whoever I match with to the way Pen and I talk to each other.
How easy and natural it is, regardless if we’re in a friends-only zone or lying naked together and covered in cum.
I’m not nearly as comfortable with anyone else.
Not to mention, it just feels wrong to be talking to other guys—or girls, for that matter—while screwing around with him.
Almost like it’s some form of betrayal. Sure, we agreed on not hooking up with other people while we’re doing this, and just texting guys like balls4lyfe on Toppr doesn’t really cross into that realm.
Still, it doesn’t stop me from feeling any less…itchy.
Which is why I’m currently telling balls4lyfe that I’m not really looking or interested in anything right now. That I’ve sort of started seeing someone—not a lie—and that I need to focus on that more.
The message is long and far more detailed than it needs to be, considering I don’t really owe him anything. After all, I’ve been keeping him at arm’s length a lot more since things with Pen have picked up, not wanting to be the kind of person to lead him on, unintentionally or not.
After reading it over once, I hit send just as the little red dot beside his name turns green, signaling he’s now online and updating his location.
Within .1 miles.
I do a double take, rereading the distance before my stomach rolls. Realization hits me like a Mack truck, panic surging through my veins.
Quickly as I can, I delete my account altogether before uninstalling the app from my phone and tucking the damn thing away in my bag. I don’t know if he had time to read the message or if it will even show up anymore after deleting my account, but it doesn’t matter.
It’s better for him to think I flat out ghosted him than to know the truth.
That I’m his fucking teammate.
The high from our wins over the past two days—and the fuckhot phone sex Pen and I had afterward—has long since faded by Sunday morning.
I was hoping to ride that wave into today’s game, but I guess fate had other plans.
We’ve been a complete and utter shitshow since the beginning of this game against Washington.
It’s like we’re a completely different team than we were the last two days on the field, and while I wish I could say I have no part in the clusterfuck, I’m just as guilty as some of the other guys.
It started out great, going through the first inning with a shutout, thanks to some stellar fielding by Castle, and our shortstop, Reyes.
The issue is, Avery’s on the mound today, and he’s been off ever since he stepped foot on the damn field.
Even back in the bullpen before the game started, I could tell something was off with him.
By the middle of the third inning, we’re down 4-1, and it’s not looking to get any better when the heaviest hitters in our line-up are either struck-out or send dribblers to Washington’s infield for easy outs.
By the sixth, I’m ready to demand that Coach pull Avery.
Why he hasn’t already is beyond my comprehension.
He shakes off every other pitch I call, which serves to do nothing but piss me off and hand over hit after hit to Washington until they lead us 8-1.
Thank God Reyes is on his game tonight—the only one on the whole team, it seems—because it’s his diving catch on a line drive up the middle that gets us out of the inning before more damage can be done.
At least Coach has enough brains to finally pull Avery before we head out in the seventh. Hopefully our relief pitchers can keep the scoring for Washington to a minimum for the rest of the game.
Of course, I’m entirely wrong, and by the top of the ninth, we’re looking at a nine-run deficit.
“We’re not out of this yet,” Coach barks as we head back into the dugout for our final chance at bat. “So get your heads out of your asses and start playing ball like you know how!”
We’re completely out of it, actually, but leave it to Coach to give the most bullshit pep talk of the year.
Avery’s still not happy about getting yanked, even innings later, because he’s slamming around the dugout like the petulant child he is. Apparently, throwing a temper tantrum is something that helps him deal with the way he played today.
Whatever works for him, I guess.
I slide out of my catcher’s gear in favor of my bat and helmet, heading out to the on-deck circle to wait for my turn at the plate.
Hanson—Washington’s starter—was on fire today, giving up only one run, and we haven’t got many hits off him either. The ones we do end up just getting stranded because we can’t piece together enough of an offense to push them around the damn bases.
The bad news for us is that his replacement, Jacobs, is just as good.
Just as I’m thinking it, the crack of a bat sounds out as Reyes connects with the ball in a line drive right back where it came from. Elation spikes through me until Jacobs is quick enough to snatch it out of the air a second later.
Damnit.
I step into the batter’s box and take my signs from Coach where he’s positioned down the third base line. He’s telling me to hold off and make the count work for me, not unlike any other time I’m at the plate.
I do just as he says, making Jacobs work for it, no matter how hard I wanna swing at any zingers he throws my way. Especially the fastball that barely clips the inside of the strike zone.