Switch Hitter (5 page)

“I need you. Now,” he said. Pulling his hand free, he created enough space between them so he could work the fastenings on her clothes.

Her fingers were as eager as his until just his T-shirt remained. Reaching over his shoulder, he fisted the fabric and yanked it over his head.

Fusing their bodies tight, he kissed her. Her lips were pliant, responsive. She might be furious with him, but she wasn’t resisting. Lifting her, he laid her on the bed beside his open valise. God, she was beautiful. How could any man ask for more? She spread her legs, inviting him into her heat. He drove into her again and again, cherishing everything she was to him—lover, friend, a piece of his heart.

Sweet heaven. His mouth feasted on every part of her he could reach, his hands memorizing every place they touched, startling muted gasps from her lips. Bracing himself, he rose above her, changing the angle of entry. She adjusted, rocking her hips up to meet his thrusts, her neck arched. Gasps turned to moans that were like gasoline thrown on the flames of his desire.

She reached for his hips, grasping for purchase as he rocked between her soft thighs. Digging her fingernails into his flesh, she held him fast. Answering her demand, he thrust harder, faster. He recognized the signs of her impending release—the tensing of muscles, the moment of stillness when it overtook her.

“Yes,” he growled. “Give it to me, babe.”

Panting, she bucked beneath him. Her hot sheath clamped down on his cock, blinding him to everything but the feel of her surrounding him, drawing on his flesh, stealing his sanity and his control.

As her orgasm eased, tension ebbed from her and, seemingly, into him. Collapsing on top of her, he reached under her, angling her hips to take all of him. Her hands fell away from his ass to lie limp at her sides. Her breasts pillowed his chest, her thighs cradled him as her contented sighs urged him to his own release.

Fire consumed his insides, licking along his spine all the way to his groin. With short, hard thrusts, he ground against her. He spilled his seed inside her in great, wrenching spurts. He’d never loved her more.

* * *

“Mind if I sit here?” Sean indicated the last empty aisle seat on the plane.

“Help yourself.” Tanner Haversford, the single occupant of the row of seats said, turning back to peer out the window.

After folding himself into the seat, Sean fished around for the ends of the seatbelt. Tanner didn’t appear to want company, and truth be told, he wasn’t feeling too sociable himself. His hip hurt like a son of a bitch, thus the reason he wanted an aisle seat—more room to stretch his leg out. He couldn’t tell anyone or he’d go straight to the Fourteen Day Disabled List before he’d played a single inning in a Mustangs uniform.

A short time later, the plane lifted into the air. Reclining his seat, he stretched his leg into the aisle then closed his eyes.

How had his life gotten so fucked up? One day he had a promising career in the Major’s, and the next, he was moving from team to team faster than a tournament ping-pong ball, doing his best to forget the one man he thought might be his soul mate if not for the man’s homophobic tendencies.

His professional fortunes had turned on one bad slide intended to break up a double play then his personal life had slid down the drain of a locker room shower—all in the span of a few months.

Pathetic.

He’d held it all together for the last five years, but he could feel it slipping away since his trade to the Mustangs.

This is your last chance. Gotta get it right here or your career is over.

A sharp pain shot from his hip to his ankle. Shifting his weight, he prayed no one had noticed the grimace he was sure made it to his face. He opened his eyes, scanning the rows around him. Everyone was wrapped up in their own little worlds. He noted a few reading books and magazines. Others tuned out the engine noise with headphones connected to iPods. No one was paying any attention to his discomfort. Even if they did, he could blame it on the seating.

They aren’t any more comfortable than I am. Damned cramped rows. Just once, I’d like to play for a team with their own plane. I bet the Yankees don’t have to put up with this shit.

He squirmed some more, found a better position then relaxed again. A couple more hours and they’d be in Los Angeles. Tomorrow he’d be on the field for the first time as a Mustang. Closing his eyes once more, he tried to visualize a positive outcome. It wasn’t as if he was totally washed up. He was damn good at first base, and his batting stats were decent. He wouldn’t be hitting in the top of the order, but he was okay where he was. He’d never hit leadoff or clean up—had never wanted to. Too much pressure.

Middle of the lineup is fine. I know what’s expected of me there. Move runners over. Get on base if you can. Make the pitcher work to get you out. All doable. Even banged up. Piece of cake.

If only he knew what to do about his personal life.

Nothing you can do. It’s his play now. He knows how you feel.

No. He knows you want to fuck him, but that’s all he knows.

You should have told him.

I couldn’t tell him. Just touching him scared him out of his mind. Imagine if I told him the rest.

You still have to work with him.

I know. If there was any other way…. But there isn’t. I made him a promise, and I’m going to keep it. I just hope to God he stays the fuck away from me.

Chapter Four

Bentley shrugged, gave his neck a good twist left, then right, to release the tension. Lifting the bat, he stepped into the batter’s box and dug his cleats into the dirt. It took every bit of his self-control to keep from looking over his shoulder at the man standing in the on-deck circle. Why, God, did Sean Flannery have to bat next in the order? Wasn’t it enough he was on the field nine innings every fucking day?

It was a long way from left field to first base, but as far as he was concerned, it was too damn close. Fucking first base saw a lot of action during a game. He couldn’t just ignore it, or the man whose job it was to defend the square rubber milestone—no matter how much he wanted to.

They were three games into the road trip, with six more to go in two more cities. Which meant Sean was everywhere. Their rooms were on the same floor of the hotel, and if he didn’t know better, he’d swear the man was stalking him. He always managed to show up at the bank of elevators at the same time Bent did—as if the guy had inside information about when he was leaving his room. Some of it was to be expected. The team had arranged catered meals for everyone in one of the hotel banquet rooms. Players could take it or leave it, go out on their own, but more times than not if a person wanted to eat, it was better done in the private room where fans and the press weren’t allowed.

This morning, out of desperation, he’d ordered room service. Eating alone in his room was better than being in the same room with Sean. Today’s breakfast was the first decent meal he’d had since they arrived, because his stomach tied itself in knots whenever Sean was around.

Like now.

Fuck.

The first pitch came in fast and perfect, breaking inside just as he swung. The bat sliced the air, too high.

Hearing the stinging slap of the ball hitting the leather catcher’s mitt then the umpire’s inevitable call, “Strike!” brought a curse to Bent’s lips.

Outside the box, he wiped sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve.

Focus. Runners on. Bring ‘em in.

He went through his batting ritual before stepping into the box again. His shoulders felt like they were caught in a vise.

Relax.

Forcing his shoulders to loosen, he concentrated on the next pitch, watched it follow the same trajectory as the previous one—only there was something different. Disbelief paralyzed him for a nanosecond. Adrenaline shot through his system. He swung.

Thwack!

Vibrations shimmied through his hands, along his arms to the rest of his body. Time slowed. Dropping the bat, he took the first step toward first base—in no hurry as the ball sailed high and long. Deafening silence cloaked the stadium, the crowd holding their collective breath.

The ball cleared the right field fence, dropping into the grasping hands of some lucky spectator.

Yes!

Bentley smiled as he circled the bases, vaguely aware of the jeering crowd, save for a few Mustangs fans who celebrated with him. Rounding third base, he jogged toward the small clutch of players waiting for him at home plate—Todd Stevens and Jason Holder who had been on third and second, respectively. There was one more waiting for him. Sean Flannery had come over from the on-deck circle to take part in the celebration.

A jolt of elation at seeing him there, a big smile on his face, made Bent shit-faced happy for a split second before he squashed the feeling.

As soon as his foot touched home plate, he raised his hand to accept the round of high-fives from his teammates. He would have looked like a total ass if he hadn’t slapped palms with Sean, too. Their hands met in mid-air, but instead of a quick slap, Sean wrapped his fingers around Bentley’s hand, turning the celebratory smack into a masculine caress.

To everyone watching it appeared normal, but there was nothing normal about the sizzle of lust the first baseman’s touch incited. Bent looked from their clasped hands to the other man’s face. Their gazes met, held for a second before Sean looked away, Bent saw something that rocked him to the core. Not just lust, but something more—a depth of understanding beyond the physical. Yeah, the other guys understood the elation, the excitement, the pride in what he’d done, but they had their own agendas. Ashley, too, would be proud of him, but her understanding was limited. She didn’t play the game. She couldn’t know what it meant to him to achieve his level of success.

Sean did. He’d seen it in the other man’s eyes. The man had been genuinely happy for him. No professional jealousy. No envy. Just pride and a wealth of understanding with no hidden agendas.

As much as the knowledge frightened him, it warmed him, too. He’d never had such a connection with another person. Maybe if he’d had a brother like Jeff and Jason Holder had each other. They both played, and he’d never gotten a whiff of any jealousy between them. But he’d grown up with one pesky little sister who did nothing but complain about having to go to his games.

He accepted congratulations from his teammates in the dugout, racked his helmet and batting gloves before taking a seat on the far end of the bench. Dispensing himself a cup of water from the cooler next to him, he drank it down.

A gap between players standing along the dugout fence allowed him to see Sean in the batter’s box. The count was already one ball, one strike on the batter. A lefty facing a left-handed pitcher. Too bad Sean wasn’t a switch hitter like himself. Didn’t matter if the pitcher was right or left-handed, Bent could switch sides of the batter’s box without skipping a beat.

“Strike two,” the umpire called.

An invisible cord pulled Bent from the bench to the fence. He curled his fingers over the top rail. Sean appeared relaxed going through his pre-batting ritual.

One foot in the box, one out, Sean adjusted his grip on the bat then looked toward the dugout. His gaze landed on Bentley. Time stood still for the space of a heartbeat. The noise of the crowd faded away. There was no one else, just the two of them locked in silent communication.

Come on, Flannery. You can do it.

Sean stepped into the box and turned his attention to the pitcher, breaking the spell or whatever it was passing between them.

Bent’s head spun. He clutched the rail with a white-knuckled grip to keep from tumbling off the low wall supporting the fence.

What the hell just happened?

Shaken, he focused on the field.

Nothing. It was nothing.

The pitcher wound up, threw the ball. Bent recognized the instant Sean made the decision to swing. His gut clenched. He knew a moment of terror, understood the exact feeling his teammate experienced as they both realized he’d swung too high.

Smack!
The ball landed smack in the center of the catcher’s mitt.

“Steeerrrriiiike Three!” The ump, emphasizing his words with a fist jab.

Sean’s chest rose then fell. Raising his chin high, he strode to the dugout.

Dignity in the face of defeat.

Pride swelled in him as he watched the conquered batter retreat. Had he ever shown as much grace after striking out? No, he didn’t think so. He was more prone to curse under his breath, shake his head, or glare at the umpire. Sean, doing none of those things, appeared the epitome of the professional baseball player.

The railing cleared as players gathered their gear to take the field for the bottom of the inning. There was a lot of shuffling around as they found their caps and gloves. Sean trotted up the dugout steps to the field, stopping at first base. As Bent passed him on his way to his position in left field, he slapped the newest member of the team on the ass with his glove.

Sean froze. Ass slaps were commonplace in baseball and could mean anything from, “Cheer up, man,” to, “Nice job.” Under these circumstances, it could only mean one thing, “You’re a screw-up.” But when he turned to see who had done the deed, he wasn’t so sure.

Even if to chastise, the gesture was often in the spirit of camaraderie. Being chummy was the last thing he expected from the Mustangs left fielder. So what had Bentley meant by it?

The question puzzled him throughout the remainder of the game. As usual, the left fielder ignored him off the field, acknowledging him on the field only when necessary to a play, which was unusual between their two on-field positions.

For a split second before he’d stepped into the batter’s box for the final pitch, he’d locked eyes with Bent. Something had passed between them—no doubt a hex to make him swing and miss, but it had felt like something more. Wishful thinking on his part. He was sure of it now. The butt swat had been a, “See. I made you do it,” swat—nothing more.

But still. It felt like more. He couldn’t explain it, it just
was
.

Following the game, the team went straight to the airport to board a plane for their next destination. Bent kept his distance, as he had ever since Sean had taunted him at his house. The behavior was to be expected, but after the two instances during their game today, the cold-shoulder treatment was somehow more brutal, more hurtful than before.

It seemed the tables were turned. Bent was taunting him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d told him he wouldn’t pursue a relationship, any movement toward one would have to come from him. Even though Sean wanted to believe those moments during the game were overtures of sorts, they weren’t the kind he could act upon. No, if the man wanted something more, he’d have to come right out and ask for it.

Hell will freeze over first.

Waiting, along with about half the team for an elevator at their new hotel, Sean watched as the first car to arrive filled. He hung back, preferring to wait for the next one rather than share a crowded cubicle with the one man he couldn’t get out of his system.

The doors were closing when Todd Stevens stuck his arm out, forcing them open again.

“Flannery,” he said. “Get in here.”

“I’ll wait,” he said.

“It’s late, and we have an early game tomorrow. Get your skinny ass in here.”

The Mustangs third baseman wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Painfully aware he was still the new guy on the team, Sean wedged himself into the ornate box.

“Thirty-four,” he said.

“Already punched.”

The press of male bodies did nothing for him, save the one squashed in the back corner. Even if he hadn’t seen him, he would have known he was there. He always knew when Bentley was nearby. The constant knowledge was his own private hell.

After a few stops, the crowd had thinned somewhat, and he breathed a little easier, able to move without bumping into someone. He watched the floor numbers light up as the car climbed upward. The car stopped at the thirty-fourth floor.

“This is me,” he said, stepping out. “See you in the morning.”

He paused, looking for the placard indicating in which direction he would find his room.

“This is me, too.”

Bentley.

Shit.

Locating the sign, he prayed their rooms were on opposite ends of the corridor. He took off just as the elevator doors swished shut.

“Hey, Sean,” Bentley called out.

He stopped, glanced at the ceiling, silently blaming the universe for conspiring against him. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he turned to face the love of his life. “What?”

Bent checked the hallway before he spoke. “Can we talk?” He shifted on his feet. “I know it’s late, but what I have to say won’t take long. A minute.”

“We can talk here.”

He shook his head. “My room or yours?”

“I have a roommate.”

“Mine then.” Turning, he headed in the opposite direction.

Sean fell in step behind him even though every cell in his body knew it was a bad idea. Nothing good could come from a conversation between them.

Stopping at a door mid-way down, Bent inserted his key card. When the green light flashed, he pushed the door open. Like a starved puppy, Sean followed him inside. The door clanged shut behind him.

“How do you rate a single room?” he asked.

“It’s in my contract.”

Sean smirked, taking in the upgraded room complete with king-sized bed and a separate sitting area. An expensive looking piece of luggage waited for its owner on a rack in the open closet. “Of course it is. What do you want?”

Bent tossed his key card on the desk and faced him. “I wanted to tell you I think you did a good job out there today. You’re an asset to the team.”

Both eyebrows rose. “You brought me to your room to tell me I’m doing a good job?” His pulse raced. Every breath brought a subtle reminder of his tormenter’s unique scent. Being alone with Bent played havoc with his libido, yet he couldn’t help wondering what was behind the man’s sudden goodwill. “You could have told me anywhere.”