8. Webber
It’s only beena matter of hours since I texted with Jonathan. It’s become a pretty typical thing here lately. We text each other about every fucking thing. You’d think it’d help, right? Help me not obsess over him because it’s becoming “normal” or “typical”, but damn it. I can’t quit thinking about him.
Because he’s here.
In my town.
In a hotel.
With a bed.
Fuck, I gotta quit thinking about this man.
I walk into the clubhouse, throw my bag into my locker, and pull on my warmup clothes. Grabbing my glove, I head for the door.
“You ready?” I ask Miles, the shortstop, as I lean against his locker.
We’ve taken to warming up together since Farrell was his usual partner.
“Gimme five? Trying to do the nighttime routine with my girl since I won’t be home before bed.”
“Take your time,” I say, smiling at the simple bliss of talking to a kid.
I make my way onto the field and head towards the grass behind second base. I drop my glove and start to stretch while I wait on Miles.
I hear a sharp whistle and look towards the visitor dugout. And fuck me sideways.
Jonathan Foxworth, in all his gorgeous glory, stands on the second step, hanging over the rail and staring at me.
I lift a hand and drop to the grass to stretch out my hamstrings and adductors. Miles finally heads out and yells, “Let me stretch, and I’ll be ready to go.”
“That’s what he said,” comes from the visitor dugout.
I snicker at Jonathan’s comment, and Miles stares at me funny. “What’d he say?”
Shaking my head, I grab my glove and the bucket of balls sitting on the third base line. “Nothing. Just Jo—” I catch myself before I call him by his first name. “Just Fox being Fox.”
“I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
I shrug and trot towards second, sitting the bucket down beside the bag. “We’ve met a few times, here and there.”
“He seems like a cool guy,” Miles says as he catches my first ball and tosses it back.
“He is,” I agree. “Let’s get loose.”
An immature laugh comes from the dugout again, and I make eye contact again. “Grow up, Fox!” I yell.
“See ya on second, Webb!” he yells back as he throws me a middle finger and another laugh before ducking into the tunnel to the clubhouse.
Miles stands from his crouch and shoves his hand in his glove. “Let’s roll.”
We toss the ball for half an hour or so before batting practice, then head towards home plate to hit a few balls ourselves.
When I drop into my chair in front of my locker, I pick up my phone and unlock it to turn on my playlist. Before I get the chance, it rings in my hand, and Jonathan’s face pops up on the screen.
I glance around to see if anyone saw it, and when I don’t see anyone within arm’s length, I answer the call and whisper, “Hang on,” into the phone as I make my way towards a supply closet down the hall.
“You hiding me, Greyson?”
“Am I hiding a conversation with a man on the other team before I play said team in two hours?” I chuckle. “Yeah, Jon, I am.”
“That’s the second time you’ve called me that.”
“Called you what?”
“Jon,” he says. “I like it.”
“Then I’ll be sure to scream it when you’re pounding my ass later,” I whisper shout. “Now what’s so important you had to call me before the game?”
His laugh skitters down my spine like the sound has a direct line to my dick and balls. “I called to wish you luck, but it sounds like I’m the one getting lucky tonight.”
I growl into the phone. “You say you don’t bottom, but I’m tempted to see if I can change your mind after this.”
Silence meets me, and I realize how what I just said sounded. “Jon… I would nev?—”
“I know you wouldn’t. Stop. I didn’t take that any way other than you wanting my ass and flirting.”
But there’s a tension in his voice that wasn’t there thirty seconds ago.
“Jon,” I say.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“You still want to see me?”
More silence. I wait this time, not saying a word, my hand buried in my hair, gripping the roots tight.
“Yeah, Grey. I want to see you. I always want to see you.”
“Good luck,” I whisper.
“Good luck, handsome,” he answers, and the line goes dead.