Chapter Two
“Baby?”
Nico gritted his teeth as Julie—no, Jenny’s—voice echoed from the other side of the bathroom door. They’d known each other all of two hours, and he sure as hell wasn’t her baby, or sweetie or darling or boo. He choked down his dickish reply and cleared his throat. “Think the shrimp was off.”
“Oh, you poor thing! I’ll call down for some ginger ale and crackers.”
“Thanks.”
Rubbing his face, he leaned against the door, the fluffy hotel bathrobe soft at his back.
The sex had been short and pretty terrible, so he wasn’t sure why Jenny would even want to stick around.
When he’d spotted her in the hotel restaurant, her red hair gleaming and magnificent tits showcased by her clingy dress, he’d thought, Maybe…
Snorting, he caught his reflection in the mirror, a mess of curls on his head, his brown eyes bleary. He muttered under his breath, “You thought she’d have a magic pussy that would turn your faggot ass straight?”
A dull headache throbbed. He’d had way too many shots. Now he wanted to chug some water, pop a few Advil, and forget the world. He and the team had a short flight back to Ottawa from Toronto in the morning, and he was already dreading the day of training.
Should have stopped at five drinks. Never should have even started. Never should have done a lot of things.
He could imagine the messages waiting on his phone from his father.
A string of texts sent during the game, and then a voicemail outlining everything the team had done wrong, just in case the texts weren’t clear enough.
Even though his father had been an outfielder, he was an expert in all things baseball.
Especially pitching. Especially Nico’s pitching. Especially everything fucking wrong with it. Even the days when he pitched well or was only sitting in the dugout supporting his team, he avoided his father’s messages for as long as possible.
Jenny’s tinkling voice came through the door. “Feeling any better, baby? Can I help?”
You can go away, please, please, please. He kept his tone soft. “Just need a minute. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry!” Her Canadian accent lilted, making it sound like sore-y. “It’s not your fault.”
Nico turned away from the mirror and took a piss, staring at a framed black and white photo of a tree-lined street in Paris or some place with cobblestones. What was that saying about the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
There had been dozens of Jennys, starting when he was drafted to the minors in Arizona at eighteen. In high school, he’d had a steady girlfriend who wanted to wait for marriage, which had been hella convenient in hindsight.
In Phoenix, he’d started this ritual of Jennys and booze and, more often than not, pretending to be sick. When he garnered their sympathy, they were less likely to complain about the crappy sex.
After the first few drinks came the optimism stage.
With a buzz on and a beautiful girl smiling and pressing close, he’d think, Maybe.
Maybe I’ll like it this time. Maybe it’ll be enough.
But the orgasms hollowed him out, the images in his mind of rough stubble and broad muscles, and fantasies of hard cock in his mouth and ass giving way to the reality of sweet perfume and soft curves.
So he’d escape to the bathroom and pretend to be sick, knowing the Jennys deserved a hell of a lot better than him.
He splashed his face with water now and avoided the mirror, opening the door with a deep breath.
Wearing one of his T-shirts, which draped her petite body to mid-thigh, Jenny closed the front door and brought a tray with ginger ale and saltines over to the bed.
“Here, try nibbling on these.”
Nico sat on the side of the messy bed and did as he was told. The crackers tasted like cardboard. “Thanks. I know this sucks.”
“Don’t be silly. You can’t help it. Did you get it out? Always feels better after.”
He tried to smile. “Yeah.” He sipped the ginger ale, the nausea nothing to do with seafood. There was a soft tapping, and he glanced over sharply. “No pictures!”
Jenny jerked, eyes wide, still holding her phone. She said tentatively, “I wasn’t going to. Just texting my mom to say I won’t be home until morning. See?” She held up the screen. “I swear.”
“Sorry. Management gives us shit if we end up on Instagram doing anything that’s not clean and wholesome.”
“Oh, I bet.” She winked. “Don’t worry, it’ll be our little secret.”
His stomach churned. “Maybe you should go home. Don’t want your mom to worry.”
Her smile fell. “Oh. Okay.”
“I had an awesome time, but I feel like shit. I’ll pay for your cab.”
“Right. Sure, I understand.” She put on a smile and, in awkward silence, slipped back into her dress and strappy sandals. She tapped her phone. “I ordered an Uber, so don’t worry about it. I don’t live far.”
“Are you sure?” Ugh, this was the worst stage. He didn’t want to be an asshole, but he always, always was.
“When are you back in town? Maybe we can hang out again. Or I could take the train up to Ottawa. It’s not that far. I kind of like the train. It’s relaxing, you know?” She stopped talking and fidgeted with the hem of her dress.
“Yeah, maybe. That would be cool.”
“Let me get your number.” She tapped her phone again, then paused. “Oh, my friend Lorraine—from downstairs, with blond hair? Anyway, she says you’re getting a new catcher? Are you excited? She says he’s really good.” Jenny laughed and rolled her eyes. “And hot.”
“New catcher?” Nico asked dumbly.
She squinted at the screen. “Jake Fitzgerald? Apparently was just traded from San Francisco. Do you know him?”
In a mighty whoosh, all the oxygen was sucked from the room. Jake. Fitzgerald. Jake Fitzgerald. JAKE FITZGERALD.
“Are you okay?”
Heart hammering as if he was on the mound with a million people watching, Nico tried to catch a breath.
Jenny’s brows drew together, and she reached out. “Sweetie, you look like you’re going to puke again.”
He nodded and stumbled into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He really did taste bile in his throat, and he ran the taps, leaning heavily on the sink.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jenny asked through the door. “Maybe you shouldn’t be alone.”
He practically growled, “Just go!”
There was no reply, but soon he heard the faint thud of the front door closing over the rushing water and thumping of his heart. Lips parted, he gulped for air.
Jake Fitzgerald.
Suddenly Nico was thirteen again in Chicago, gangly and covered in zits, his hair in his eyes and headphones almost permanently shoved in his ears. Dad so proud of Marco making the big leagues, Marco and his teammate Jake coming over all the time for Nonna’s ziti.
Jake playing catch with Nico by the pool for hours, insisting he didn’t mind, paying attention to him while Marco and Dad went over game tapes.
Towering over him, a forceful high-five with a huge hand and a strong arm around Nico’s shoulders after a good session, smelling like musky sweat and grass.
The little divot scar on Jake’s temple, his blue eyes so fucking pretty.
His big body somehow folding down into a perfect catcher’s crouch, all coiled power and easy smiles, thick thighs that could crack walnuts.
Taking the sting out of Nico’s dad’s criticisms, offering up a compliment for every complaint, earning an extra helping of cannoli from Nonna.
That summer, Nico had let himself wallow in Jake Fitzgerald, jerking off multiple times a day to thoughts of Jake’s big hands on him when he should have been thinking about tits and pussy.
Then that day in the living room watching the big-screen TV: a marriage equality rally on the news, Nonna clucking her tongue in disapproval and making the sign of the cross, Valentina glued to her laptop chat window, and Dad gulping beer and sneering at the screen.
“This country’s going down the shitter. Queers wanting to get married—next thing we know, they’ll want to play baseball too!” He laughed and flipped the channel, and it was already forgotten as he watched a golfer miss a putt. “Ah, come on! I could have made that with one hand tied behind my back!”
Nine years later, sweat still broke out on Nico’s brow, his hands clutching the bathroom counter, knees shaking as he fought the wave of nausea.
He’d sat on the couch, his throat dry, knowing without a doubt that he was this laughable thing, this queer who wanted to play baseball. Knowing that he was wrong.
So he’d tried to stop fantasizing about Jake Fitzgerald, or any other guys. He’d tried over and over to find the right girl. The girl who could fix him. The Jenny who could be so perfect he’d only want to fuck her. So he could be the way he was supposed to.
Splashing his face again, Nico turned away, avoiding the mirror. The hotel room was blissfully empty, and he shook out a few Advil into his palm and washed them down with ginger ale.
There was a note in gracefully scripted writing on the desk with Jenny’s number and an “xo” and “feel better.” The words on the starkly white hotel notepad stared up at him accusingly, and he tore the note into thin shreds.
Jake Fitzgerald. He was going to have to play with Jake Fitzgerald. See him every day. Practice with him.
Nico wasn’t the way he was supposed to be, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how diligently he worked to ignore his hot teammates in the locker room, keeping his head down and mind somewhere else while they laughed and joked.
Because at the thought of Jake Fitzgerald, all the sticky, desperate lust came roaring back. So did the fantasies Nico had tried to bury over the years.
Worshiping a dick, swallowing it so deep he choked. Sucking heavy balls and licking ass. On his hands and knees, spreading himself open for a thick cock, rammed by it so hard he’d feel it for days. Smothered by a heavy, hairy, sweaty body with muscles. Consumed.
In the past few years, he’d only allowed these faceless fantasies in moments of weakness. Now Nico fought not to imagine himself at Jake’s feet, or in Jake’s bed. It’d been a struggle to get it up for Jenny earlier, but now he was rock hard without even touching himself.
Fuck. He had to get in control.
“There are no queers in baseball,” he muttered hoarsely.
It obviously wasn’t true—a minor leaguer had come out the year before, and Billy Bean and Glenn Burke had publicly revealed their sexuality after retiring. Statistically, with hundreds of players in the league, some of them had to be gay.
It can’t just be me.
But it sure as shit felt like it. It didn’t matter that gay marriage was legal now, and that things were changing. Because nothing had changed for Nico’s father, and even though the pope had kind of said LGBT people were maybe okay, Nonna still crossed herself if the subject ever came up.
His aunts and uncles and cousins probably hated queers too, and Nico tried not to think about what his mother would have thought. His hazy memories of her were so few he didn’t want to risk tainting them.
Flowery perfume that couldn’t cover the stench of sickness, a silver cross nestled against her throat, reading him Curious George in bed, her skin tissue paper thin and arms practically bones around him…
Guilt swirled, familiar and grasping. If he hadn’t been born, she wouldn’t have gotten sick. Would still be alive and beautiful like she was in the old pictures without him. Dad would smile the way he did in those pictures, before Nico destroyed everything.
The pictures still hung on the walls of their big house in Chicago, but Nico hadn’t heard Dad speak her name since the funeral. Nonna never talked about her daughter, and Nico’s brother and sister had only mentioned Mom in fleeting whispers.
Even as a kid, Nico had known why. He’d kept his head down and played quietly, never breathing a word.
He’d wanted to beg for forgiveness, but silence was easier, and then the years passed, and there didn’t seem to be any point.
His father tolerated him, but Nico knew he was never as good as Val or Marco.
And how could he be? Not only had he killed their mother, he was secretly queer.
Nico had never had the guts to tell his brother and sister. He didn’t think he could stand to see the disdain—or worse, disgust—on their faces.
Or Jake’s.
God, how horrified he’d be if he knew the dirty things Nico had imagined. Nico picked up the tray off the bed and hurled it across the room, crackers flying and the glass of ginger ale shattering against the wall, his chest heaving and cock stubbornly rigid.
Jake fisting his hand in Nico’s curls, fucking his mouth. Coming all over his face. Bending Nico over a table and holding him down, not letting him move an inch as he pounded his ass, filling him with cum until it dripped out, until he was covered in it like a slut, still begging for more.
Gritting his teeth, Nico gave in with a groan, dropping on his back on the mattress.
Tearing open the robe, he spread his bent legs and jerked himself dry and rough.
He squirmed his left hand under his body and jammed a finger into his hole, welcoming the burning pain.
His dick leaked, curving to the right in his palm, the cut head glistening.
He knew he should think of anyone else, but Nico could only close his eyes and imagined Jake on top of him, so heavy and big, his body hair scratching, stubble scraping as he dominated Nico’s mouth and filled his ass, ramming with long strokes, pushing his knees up to his shoulders, bending him in half, the headboard thumping, heavy balls slapping against Nico’s skin—
Gasping, Nico spurted over his chest, his ass gripping his finger as he shuddered and wrung himself out. His legs flopped down, but he kept his finger in his hole, giving himself another minute to imagine it was Jake.
Another minute to imagine Jake was kissing him now, whispering words of praise, holding him close, warm and safe. It would never happen, but Nico closed his eyes and dreamed.
When the minute was up, he stumbled to the shower and turned it on as hot as he could stand, scrubbing his skin raw.
That had to be the last time he let himself think of Jake Fitzgerald like that.
He’d always known he’d never be able to act on his desires, but with Jake about to be around all the time, even fantasizing was reckless.
If Nico let something slip… He shuddered.
But it would be okay. He’d gotten it out of his system now, and he could focus on the game—on being perfect. Then nothing else would matter.