Chapter 3
THREE
JED
The whir of the treadmill mixes with the rhythmic slap of my trainers as I get my cardio in and clear my mind. I have to find a way to clear my mind because it’s fucking chaos right now. My harsh breaths drown out the soft sounds of my teammates, muting the clanking weights, the grunts and chatter.
Just me and my thoughts.
They’re not a fun companion at the moment.
My hands ball into fists and something hot and sharp zips through me. I knew I had a lot to prove coming back from an injury. The pressure was already like an anvil stacked on my shoulders, but this past week has only piled on more. More. Crushing. Weight.
I’m at the top of my game. I’m locked in, all focus. My reaction time and intuition have never been better. I’m giving one-hundred-and-ten percent to my conditioning drills. I’m in sync with our Jetties and Triple A second basemen. My glove and footwork? Flawless.
But my throws? The ones that require precision and speed and split-second thinking? Fuck me, they’re off.
There’s pressure on my elbow, and I glance down to find my hand wrapped around it, squeezing.
I drop it like I’ve been burned. I keep doing that.
My hand gravitates toward it without me even realizing it, the fear I’ve been shoving down surfacing even without my permission.
Is my elbow one hundred percent? Do I just need more time to work out the kinks? Did I re-injure it somehow?
I swear I have phantom aches and tightness.
I think. Maybe they’re real. But the trainer hasn’t found anything concerning.
Besides the fact that my fucking arm isn’t working the way it’s supposed to.
Dominguez, our Triple-A coach, says I need to be patient.
The more worked up I get over it, the worse it’s going to get.
He thinks I’m in my head. Yes, Coach. Yes, I fucking am.
It's not just me, though.
There’s also an infuriating blond-haired, blue-eyed beach boy in there.
I knew I had challenges ahead of me this Spring Training with my arm. It was going to be rusty, in need of a healthy dose of WD-40. But the shortstop position was mine once I was back to good. That’s the unofficial gossip around here and has been for the past year. Until Shane Michaels showed up.
He’s…he’s fucking incredible. My chest tightens, my sternum threatening to crack. There’s that fucking pressure again. Shane Michaels is a legitimate threat. If he’d been ready last year, if he had just a year or two more under his belt, I think I would have missed my chance with the Jetties.
He’s still young, though. Green. Yes, so young Jed.
Twenty-three to your twenty-five. But those two years make a world of difference in baseball.
Not to mention, he’s still got that cocksure rookie vibe.
The real world hasn’t had its chance to step in and give him a healthy dose of “life is fucked.”
If my arm were back to pre-injury performance, I wouldn’t even think twice about him. I’ve got strength, mindset, and blood on him. Baseball is what runs through my veins. It’s what I breathe. What I live for. No one can compete with that. I’ll shut them down.
But I can’t get my goddamn arm under control.
“What’s up, Stone?”
Speaking of the fucking ray of sunshine.
I’m very proud that I stop myself from closing my eyes and screaming to the heavens why. Because, of course, Michaels is going to hop on the treadmill next to mine. I ignore him and keep running. He always wants to talk to me. I don’t like to talk.
He chuckles. I have no idea why. He doesn’t seem to understand that my fuck off face means…fuck off. I like my solitude, especially when I’m in this bad of a rut.
“Killer BP sesh today.”
And here we go with the talking.
“Is there anything better than hammering some balls? When you make contact just right—” He cuts off and moans. “God, it feels so good. That zing that goes through your entire body.”
My muscles lock tight. What the literal fuck? That’s the other thing about Michaels. He’s stupid. Stupidly gorgeous. As a bisexual man with eyes, it’s hard not to notice. Even with a lifetime of conditioning myself not to. Because if you look, people assume the worst about you.
It doesn’t help that the guy runs his mouth and says the most sinful things, completely oblivious to it. He’s every queer guy's worst nightmare. A constant tease. One that’s off limits.
“And you were so hot out there.”
And he’s still going. With the torture.
“Like, man, what a sexy swing. I’ve definitely been watching and taking notes. Always gotta be working on improving that bat-handling, ya know?”
I grunt. Because what am I supposed to even say to this guy?
Especially when my brain went offline the minute he started moaning and comparing hitting to orgasms. And fuck, he called me sexy.
Kind of. My cock doesn’t understand, it just heard a gorgeous man say sexy in reference to me.
Now the poor thing is confused. And he’s watching me, is he?
Taking notes? Oh, the bat-handling tips I could give him.
Distraction. Need more distraction.
I smash the controls and up the speed on my machine…and Michaels follows suit. I shoot a glance his way and instantly regret it. His smile is in full force. I swear he’s like that yellow sponge cartoon, always with a huge smile taking up his whole face.
His eyebrows lift, and he sends me an eager puppy look. “Wanna race?”
I blink at him. Then glance at the dashboard of my machine and back at him. We are…on treadmills.
He tips his head back and laughs, throat muscles rippling.
My stare grazes over every inch of that Florida-tanned, freckled skin, stretched back and begging for attention.
From women. From womennnnn. Even if he wasn’t straight, that’s not a place I’d ever go.
Messing around with a teammate? Disaster. You don’t mix business with pleasure.
Blue eyes meet mine, crinkled at the corners and shining way too brightly for a treadmill session. “I mean, like, we match speeds,” he says, amusement still floating through his words. “I know we can’t really race. But I bet I can go harder and longer than you.”
I sigh. Audibly. Because really?
I don’t answer him. I’m not sure I could right now. My body doesn’t know which way is up. Well, my dick knows which way is up. A sexy man just challenged it to prove to him it can go harder and longer, and it’d gladly show him.
And while I think his treadmill “game” is ridiculous, it’s the perfect distraction for my mind and body. So, I turn up my speed again.
He matches me, and we run like that for a minute. I side-eye him and find him watching me. He winks, then increases his speed. I increase mine.
We settle in. We’re at 8 mph, and I could run at this pace easily for a couple miles.
We keep glancing at each other, like we’re waiting for the other to up the speed next.
I don’t want to give in, because a part of me doesn’t want to admit I’m playing this game with him.
I don’t do games. I don’t shoot the shit and go out for drinks.
I keep to myself unless baseball requires otherwise.
He turns his speed up to 9 mph. But I’m a competitive fucker. I can’t back down now. I push mine to 10.
We’re full-on sprinting now. Our gazes catch for the briefest of moments, and what reflects back at me goes straight to my dick. It’s pure mischief. Wicked. Bratty. And I really love a brat.
Then his finger slides to his speed. And stays there—not increasing but waiting. In challenge.
My finger lands on my controls. He goes up. I match.
More.
I match.
The machine belts roar in my ears, our feet slamming down and ringing around us, reverberating through my chest. My lungs heave, and my muscles burn like I’ve submerged myself in a tub of acid.
More.
I match.
At this point, we’re both running for our lives. One misstep, and we’re eating shit and probably breaking our faces. Every breath I pull in is covered in shards of glass. My muscles are locking up, and that lactic acid burn is like fire.
Fuck. I pull the emergency cord and finally give in to my screaming body. The belt spits me off, and my knees slam into the padded gym floor. My body lurches as it struggles for oxygen, my stomach twisting like it’s ready to empty itself.
The whirring of the treadmill fades to silence, and when I lift my head, I’m met with a sweat-soaked Shane Michaels.
His blond curls are dark and plastered to his head, cheeks crimson red, chest straining the fabric of his drenched white tank—which of course means I can see his nipples.
All pink and small and…fuck me. Just fuck me.
I wish I’d fallen and bashed my head in.
Teammate. He’s your teammate, Jed.
Yeah, my sexy, sexy teammate.
I glance away and stifle the growl rising in my chest. The last thing I need is him to think I’m checking him out. It doesn’t take much for straight guys to get uncomfortable once they know you’re queer.
And I am out in a quiet, low-key capacity: the Jetties organization knows, my teammates know.
I don’t advertise it, but I don’t hide it.
So, I’ve heard it all—from the in-your-face homophobic comments to the whispered slurs to the backhanded, “I’m totally okay with the queer thing… just don’t make it weird, ya know?”
He grins down at me. “Well, that was fun!”
I take a little satisfaction in the fact that his words came out choppy while he’s trying to regain his own breath.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t even think he’s fucking fazed by our sprint.
Damn it. I know it meant nothing, a pointless “game.” Even so, I can’t stop the ominous cloud from creeping in.
He’s my competition, and I just lost to him.
I can’t afford to lose to Shane Michaels. When it comes to baseball or restraint.
“Fun is not the word I’d use,” I mutter, still out of breath. “Maybe sadistic.”