9. Fox
I walkedinto the Revolution stadium earlier with a smile on my face and a swagger in my step that hadn’t been there for far too long. I’ll see Greyson today, and as much as I’ve rolled that over in my head – the unmitigated desire to see him after one night together, several weeks of texts, and one very sexy jerkoff session over the phone – I don’t care how ridiculous it is.
I want to see him, and I really want to fuck him. And goddamn, Grey’s ass looked so damn good in those pants as he warmed up earlier with their third baseman.
When I sink into the chair in front of my locker after taking batting practice and grabbing some food, I pull my headphones out of my bag. Queuing up my game day playlist, I sit back and let the 90s country settle my mind.
It doesn’t matter how many games I play per year, how many years I walk out on that diamond, the nerves always get to me. I think when the nerves stop, it might be time to hang up the cleats and catcher’s gear.
I make a split-second decision to call him. I have no idea what his pre-game routine is. We’ve never talked about it. But I know I want to hear his voice before I go out there. I need to hear it.
He gives me a little grief about calling him when we’re getting ready to battle it out for nine innings, and I jaw back at him.
Then, he says something that is entirely and wholly innocent, but the memories it drags up slither down my spine in a cold, drippy feeling.
“Jon… I would nev?—”
No. No, no, no. I know he wouldn’t. And I tell him as much. But I know he hears the strain in my voice. He tries to say something else, but I stop him.
I know I have to tell him, but now’s not the time.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
After I convince him I still want to see him, we hang up, and I go back to my chair to see if I can shake the shitty feelings.
About an hour later, the lights flicker to signal the thirty-minute warning, and we head out to the field. Pre-game finishes up, and I make my way into the dugout and grab my helmet and bat.
Hernandez hits in the leadoff spot. He sends a dribbling grounder up the middle, but Grey scoops it up and fires it to first, beating the runner by ten feet.
Against my nature, I smile at the fluidity of this gorgeous man’s movements as he assists in getting my teammate out.
Fuck. I almost cheered for the other team.
I head to the on-deck circle as Parker takes his spot in the batter’s box. I watch the pitcher, trying to time my swings with his tosses. This guy is a fucking rookie, and he’s burning ‘em by our veteran right-fielder like it’s nothing.
Parker pops out to center, and I slap his hand as we cross paths on my way to the plate.
“Junior,” I say, greeting the Revolution catcher. He’s not related to Yadier Molina – one of the greatest catchers to ever play the game – but damn it if he doesn’t play a lot like him. Because of it, he earned the nickname Yadi Junior that got shortened to Junior over the last couple years.
“Fox,” he returns.
There’s a fairly civil common courtesy among catchers. We’re a small group with shallow bench support, so the camaraderie – and commiseration – is sort of natural.
I settle into my stance, waiting on the first pitch, and I watch it.
“Insiiiide,” the ump growls.
“Way to watch.”
“Good eye.”
The chatter from my teammates is comforting as I wait for pitch number two. It’s a fucking four-seam fastball that smokes by me.
The heavy pop of it in Junior’s glove makes me glad I’m not catching this guy. I shake my head to shake off the pitch and settle in for the next one.
High and outside. Ball two.
Hanging fastball. I get a piece of it. Strike two.
In the dirt. Ball three.
The final pitch of my at-bat is nearly perfect, and Junior does his best to frame it, but the curveball doesn’t trick me and hits his mitt low in the zone. Ball four.
I take my base to the sound of my teammates clapping. The first baseman and I jaw at each other a bit; typical banter, but I have my sights on second.
I’m not fast enough to steal with Junior behind the plate, so I bide my time and hope the guys behind me can advance me.
I get my wish when our clean-up guy, Porter, drops a blooper between the shortstop and left-fielder that neither gets to, pushing me to second base.
“Well, well, fancy meeting you here,” I joke as Greyson catches the ball and tags me out of routine and habit, even though I’m firmly on the bag.
“You’re a menace,” he says with a grin as he tosses the ball back to their pitcher.
“Yes, yes, I am.”
The next batter absolutely crushes a fastball left out over the plate, and I slap Grey’s ass as I trot towards third to round the bases.
“See ya later, sunshine.”
I hear his grumble behind me, and even though I can’t make out what he says, I just know he’s gonna enjoy trying to punish me for it later.