6. If Someone Saw Me
6
IF SOMEONE SAW ME
Gunnar
No way can I walk like this.
Through the tinted windows of my car, I spot my teammates headed into our pre-game practice by way of the players’ entrance. Yeah, I’m going to need another minute or so here in the privacy of my ride. I am not about to step out of my wheels with this raging hard-on.
I think of unsexy things to deflate my dick. Like math. Percentages and stuff. Let’s see. My batting average against left-handed pitchers this year has been...
Yup. That’s effective. Halfway down already.
So, how many runs have I batted in after the fifth inning? There was that one against the San Diego Devils, another against the Los Angeles Bandits...
There. Don’t let anyone tell you math isn’t useful in adult life.
Now that I’ve settled my dick the fuck down, I lock up my baby with the key fob, then head through the lot, meeting up with some of my buds who’ve just arrived too.
“We’re gonna kill it today,” I tell Declan as he slams the door on the Beemer his hubs got him.
“You know it.” The shortstop offers me a fist and we bump. “And I have a plan.”
“You’ve been up studying videos and shit like you’ve done before?”
“No, my fairy godmother visited last night and told me how to hit off Hildebrand.”
“Full of piss and vinegar as always.” As we head through the concourse, we discuss a plan of attack for the new Chicago Sharks pitcher. By the time we reach the newly remodeled locker room, which is a fucking joy to come to every day, Rafe and his dirty texts are out of my head, and they stay that way through my pre-game workout.
Back in the locker room, though, after I put on my uniform, I pick up my phone to check for messages from family. Nothing from my mom, sister, or brother, but when I see the message blinking on top, I’m suddenly holding temptation itself in my hand.
It’s from Rafe.
A hot wave of lust tears through me just reading the man’s name. He has some effect on me.
I scan the locker room. My teammates are shooting the breeze in front of their spacious stalls, getting ready for batting practice. I could open this right now. Maybe Rafe sent me a vid of a solo.
Ah fuck, that does not help my anti-erection regime.
What does Rafe look like with his big hand wrapped around his thick cock? Bet he looks like a sex god—a commanding alpha businessman who could tell me what to do, how to do it, when to do it.
“Gunnar, we were wondering if class was starting soon?” The sarcastic remark from Holden, our second baseman, breaks into my dirty daydreams, and I jerk my gaze away from the unopened message.
“In how to hit monster home runs?” I ask. “No problem. I’ll be ready to teach all of you how to crush a baseball.”
Holden cracks up as he pulls his jersey over his head. “No, the guys and I want a lesson on how to pose for a selfie,” he deadpans when he reappears.
My spine tingles.
Shit. Did someone see me in my car?
But why does the thought both worry me and also electrify me? I imagine a teammate walking by my car, busy on his phone as I snapped a pic for Rafe. A spark shoots down my chest at the prospect of getting away with it.
“Yeah, I was thinking lighting tips, maybe how to artfully place a sticker over your dong,” Holden says, as Zane joins him in laughter.
Ah, he only saw the pic I posted this morning. Luckily, I love a good ribbing. Trash talk is my native tongue. “Nice to have my artistry appreciated.”
“You’re a dick artist, man,” Zane says.
I smack his palm. “Takes one to know one?”
Zane straightens to attention. “No higher praise than being a dick artist.”
I hold out my arms and take a bow in the middle of our locker room. “And yes, students. There will be a session in the art of a thirst trap.”
“I can’t wait,” Zane says.
I turn around, tuning out the locker room talk now that the guys are finished heckling my Instagram post.
I shouldn’t look at Rafe’s text. Really, I shouldn’t. But I do it anyway.
Rafe: Bet you’ll hit well today. If you do, there may be a reward for you.
I swallow roughly, imagining what naughty rewards he might have in mind.
Gunnar: What sort of reward? Because, much to my disappointment, I will not be able to meet you back at the club tomorrow night. I’ve got a game.
But then, because I’m nothing if not resourceful, I send another text.
Gunnar: You could send me a dirty pic?
Rafe: No. But if you play well, you can send me one. And you’ll love it. In fact, I bet the thought of finding a private spot in the ballpark to take a dirty picture gets you rock hard. It makes me hard, imagining what you might pull off for me. Make it good, Gunnar. And that’s an order.
Yes, sir.
This man is a commanding fucker, and I intend to fulfill all his filthy wishes.