Chapter Six #2
The Caps trotted back to the dugout, and Nico took his seat on the bench, zipping on his jacket to keep his arm warm.
It was the bottom of the fourth, and aside from the last inning, so far, so good.
He surreptitiously rapped his knuckles on the bench.
No one sat right beside him or talked to him, which wasn’t unusual.
Most pitchers didn’t like to be distracted during a game, and Nico was no different.
But he glanced at Lopez guzzling Gatorade at the other end of the dugout and squirmed with embarrassment.
He hadn’t even realized he’d been glaring and wearing his emotions on his sleeve.
He needed to work on his poker face. And Jake was right, they all made mistakes.
Nico damn well knew that, but in the moment it was hard to remember.
He’d made the mistake of checking the league stats that morning and saw that he was one win away from leading the division. Those were the kind of numbers that nailed down Rookie of the Year, and he just needed to rack up the wins.
Easy.
As the Caps went up to bat, Nico sipped a cup of Gatorade, tapping his foot. He hated this part, when he had no control at all over the game’s outcome. He watched Crowe in the batter’s box, wriggling his bat over his shoulder as he waited for the pitch, which—
The gasp was like a seismic wave, rippling over the stadium as the ball rocketed smack into Crowe’s ribs even as he tried to spin away.
Alvarez shouted, “Son of a fucking bitch!” and the Caps dugout was on its feet, jaws clenched. They all knew a plunk when they saw one. Crowe dropped his bat, staring at the mound, but shook it off and jogged to first. Nico bounced on his toes, his fists clenched.
Jake appeared next to Nico as he asked Alvarez, “Some history I don’t know about?”
Alvarez spit on the concrete, sunflower seed husks flying.
“When we were in Baltimore last month there was a controversial play at second. Crowe slid and Markson put on a show, acting like Crowe gunned for him when the truth was Markson just didn’t apply the tag fast enough.
Insisted Crowe broke the new slide rules.
No way, man. Markson’s the one who has his cleats up for our guys.
He’s full of it. It went to a review, and they ruled it was clean.
Baltimore yapped about it, crying about how it was dirty. Guess they wanted some payback.”
The crowd was still unsettled and murmuring as the inning continued, the Caps unfortunately grounding into a double play and popping up to end it.
Nico shrugged off his jacket and took the mound again for the top of the fifth—and promptly gave up a hit to Baltimore’s catcher, a line drive down the middle.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
After two balls and a strike, the batter popped up, thank Christ. Then a quick groundout from the next batter, and Baltimore’s catcher advanced to second base with two outs.
As Markson of all people came up to the plate next, Nico clutched the ball in his glove. He’d made an ass of himself earlier with Lopez, but here was his chance to stand up for his team. Yes, this was his chance on a silver platter.
Jake called for a timeout and trotted over. He held his glove up to his face and stood close. Nico lifted his own glove and leaned in like gravity was pulling him.
“Do not hit him,” Jake ordered. “I know you’re dying to, but do not do it.”
Shit, was Jake reading his mind? Although he supposed he wasn’t exactly hiding the simmering anger at the moment. “But you know he beaned Crowe on purpose. You know it, I know it, the umps know it, crowd knows it. The seagulls shitting over the bullpen know it.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t matter. Rise above it. This is a one-run game. Do not hit him.”
Nico huffed. “But they—” Pressing his lips together, he stopped himself.
Jake’s eyebrows almost disappeared under the edge of his raised catcher’s mask and helmet beneath it. “They what? They started it?”
“Well they did,” Nico muttered.
“Yes, but since we’re not ten-year-olds on the playground, it doesn’t matter.
You’re better than that. Because if you hit any of their players today, the ump’s going to eject your ass right away.
Skip’ll have to argue it, and he’ll get tossed too.
Then he’ll definitely tear you a new one.
Winning is the best revenge, so strike the fucker out. ”
As much as his inner pouty child wanted to argue, Nico nodded decisively.
Jake jogged back to the plate and crouched, his fingers flashing the signs rapidly: Two fingers, three, one, four, and then one again tapping his left inner thigh, indicating inside the plate.
Since Nico and Jake used pumps when there was a runner at second, Nico knew the first sign was the number of pumps, making the one finger the actual sign. Fastball inside.
Drawing his left knee up above his waist, Nico raised his glove in his left hand and ball in his right, then pulled his arm back and exploded forward, hurling the ball toward the plate, his leg kicking up behind him.
Markson swung and missed.
Jake gave him another set of signs, including decoys. Three pumps, and the third sign was four wiggling fingers, which meant a changeup. Nico went into his windup again and released the ball. It just caught the outside of the plate with Markson looking.
Next was a fastball that missed low. Then Jake gave him the sign for a splitter.
Heart rabbiting, Nico spread his first two fingers wide on the ball. He unleashed it—and Markson swung hard, whipping his bat through thin air as the crowd roared, the inning over.
Markson shook his head as he stalked back to the visitors’ dugout, muttering, and Nico couldn’t hide a shit-eating grin. Jake waited for him by the plate, and Nico’s heart skipped. Would Jake tell him off for gloating?
But Jake only grinned too and bumped their shoulders together as they returned to the dugout, the Astroturf feeling light as a cloud beneath Nico’s cleats.
That happiness lasted until the next inning, when it all went to hell in a handbasket.
By the time Skip walked out to relieve him, Nico had blown the slim lead and let Baltimore get a three-run advantage.
The bleeding continued from there, the bullpen giving up four more runs in a rout.
The locker room was quiet afterward, most of the guys hustling into the showers, grabbing a bite, and then heading home.
They had an afternoon game the next day, but since Nico wouldn’t be pitching again for four games, he took his time, heading to the training room and the whirlpool after his shower. He wasn’t hungry and he didn’t feel like talking to anyone in the lounge, that was for sure.
Lopez was on one of the training room’s handful of treatment tables, one of the assistant trainers digging his elbow into Lopez’s shoulder. Lopez opened his eyes as Nico walked in, flip-flops slapping on the tile floor.
Lopez grimaced, and it wasn’t clear if it was from the treatment or Nico’s arrival. But then he said, “Sorry about that fly ball. I don’t know what happened, man. I thought I had it.”
As he dropped his towel and climbed into the rectangular six-man hot tub, Nico shook his head.
“No. I’m sorry for the stink eye. Mistakes happen.
I need to nut up about it.” The water was deliciously hot, and he sighed as he lowered himself to the bench, sliding down so the water bubbled over his shoulders.
Lopez chuckled. “It’s cool. We all have our moments. God knows I’ve had plenty.”
“Your shoulder okay?”
“Oh yeah.” He inhaled sharply. “Baranski here just likes to torture me.”
Baranski snorted. “I live for it.” He glanced up at the doorway. “Hey, Fitz. What do you need? Summers is in the office; I can call him over if you want?”
Naked but for the towel around his hips, Jake shook his head, scratching his chest, nails scraping a dark pink nipple. “I’m fine. Just going to ice and soak.”
Nico closed his eyes, trying not to think about how the water droplets glimmered on Jake’s bare skin, catching in the hair scattered over his pecs. Or how his wet hair turned a shade darker, which made his blue eyes pop even more, the stubble on his face thicker as midnight ticked closer.
Nope, Nico wasn’t thinking about that stuff at all. Instead, he mentally rewound the game and all the things he’d done wrong.
“You know, that’s supposed to be relaxing.”
Nico wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he opened his eyes again. He’d really zoned out, reliving every pitch, and now Lopez was gone, Baranski was in the adjacent office talking to Summers in low murmurs, and Jake stood by the hot tub. Nico blinked up at him.
Jake’s eyebrows rose. “You were grinding your teeth. I could actually hear it from across the room.”
Embarrassment sank through Nico like a rock. “Sorry.”
Jake shook his head, making an exasperated sound. “Don’t be sorry.” He climbed the first step of the entry to the hot tub, then hesitated. After a moment, he tossed his towel onto a nearby bench and climbed the other three steps.
Breathing was impossible as Nico stared at Jake’s thick, cut cock and heavy balls, at the thatch of dark hair between his legs. Over the murmur of the hot tub’s bubbles, blood rushed in Nico’s ears.
Holy fuck.
There it was, his fantasy in the flesh. His heart thumped so hard it was painful, his head going light, whole body tingling. He couldn’t look away, but he had to because he was staring, and Jake was climbing down into the water now.
Jake sat back against the far side of the tub, his feet brushing Nico’s under the water as Nico jerked his gaze away, frozen.
“Sorry.” Jake laughed awkwardly. “Long legs.”
Nico somehow managed to scrape out a couple syllables. “S’okay.” He also somehow managed to resist launching himself across the tub and onto Jake’s lap.
As a kid, he’d wondered if Jake was cut or not, and now he knew. Now he wondered what it would feel like to tongue that slit, what it would taste like to swallow him to the root. To suck his balls.
What sounds would Jake make? What would it feel like to have those powerful arms around him, that body pressing him down…
Stop! You can’t get hard in the clubhouse hot tub!
Jake cleared his throat. “Look, I know it’s easy to say, but don’t waste energy on your emotions out there. If the other team hits off you, if they score runs, you need to focus on turning it around. Not letting it get away from you. Command your pitches.”
“I know, but—” Nico exhaled forcefully, pressing his lips together.
Jake didn’t get impatient or raise his voice. “But what?”
“Forget it.” Nico’s skin itched, his body jangling with nerves and frustration and sticky desire with Jake naked right there but forever out of reach.
“You can tell me,” Jake said quietly.
As Jake looked at him so calmly, his eyes kind and patient, Nico was able to catch a breath and focus on baseball even though he wanted to rub himself all over Jake’s hairy, muscular body like a cat and its scratching post.
“When they score runs on me, it’s like… Like the game’s ruined. Fuck, it sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”
“No it doesn’t.” Jake smiled softly. “We all want to be perfect. We never will be. Odds are, you’re never going to pitch a perfect game where not a single batter reaches base.
I mean, it’s not impossible, but in the history of baseball, in more than a hundred years, there have been what, twenty-three perfect games, I think? ”
“Twenty-one in the modern era starting in 1901. Felix Hernandez in 2012 was the last.”
Jake laughed. “Not that you’re counting. And how many no-hitters have been thrown in that time?”
“Two hundred and fifty-two.”
“Out of how many games?”
“A few hundred thousand, I guess.”
“Right. So those are pretty spectacularly shitty odds. You can still pitch a damn good game if you get scored on. You can still get the win. The team can still get the win. If you dropped an egg, would you throw the rest of the carton on the floor too?”
Nico blinked. “Well…no.”
“That would be pretty counterproductive, right?” Jake shifted closer and squeezed Nico’s shoulder. “You’ve got to let go of this all-or-nothing mindset.”
The wet warmth and weight of Jake’s hand felt so good, and Nico had to stop himself from leaning in for more. Jake was so close. What would it feel like just to hug? For Jake to take him in his arms? Hold him close, skin to skin…
Stop! Focus!
Nico said, “I hear you. I just… I need to be my best. I need to get Rookie of the Year.”
Frowning, his hand still on Nico’s shoulder, Jake said, “That would be great, but don’t pressure yourself.”
“But Marco and Dad both won it. I have to prove I’m as good as them.”
“Your family won’t care whether or not you win. It won’t mean you’re not a damn good ballplayer, or that you’re not going to have a stellar career. And they’ll love you just the same.”
If they knew the truth they might not love me at all.
Nico ached to tumble into Jake’s arms, feel that warmth and strength surrounding him, enveloping him so he could stop thinking, stop worrying just for a minute.
Instead he moved away, dislodging Jake’s hand and reaching for one of the bottles of water kept on a shelf by the hot tub.
After he chugged half of it, he said, “I hear you. That all makes sense. I’ll try.”
“Winning isn’t everything. In a given season, the majority of teams won’t make the playoffs.” Jake shrugged. “It’s not the end of the world. It really isn’t.”
Nico opened his mouth and then closed it again. Sure, winning wasn’t everything and all those clichés, but it was why they were there. Maybe it wasn’t everything, but it was sure something. When he’d known Jake years ago, there had been a spark, a drive that was missing now.
Granted, Jake had been around the block and his body was wearing down, but he’d been on a losing team in San Francisco most of his career. The Caps really could be contenders. Shouldn’t that matter to Jake? Put a bit of spring back in his step?
Even if they didn’t make the playoffs, Nico sure as hell wanted to try. Not to mention there was Rookie of the Year to think about. He had to keep his eyes on the prize.
“Anyway, we have to take this game pitch by pitch.” Jake winced. “Sorry, I keep saying that.”
“No, it’s good. Clearly I need to hear it about a million more times.”
Jake’s lips lifted in a smile. “Good thing I like repeating myself. Your next start is against Cleveland, right? I played them a couple weeks ago. We’ll go over their lineup and make an action plan. Okay?”
Nico allowed himself a smile back. They had a plan. And a big part of it would be winning, at least as far as Nico was concerned.