Dirty Curve

They could say whatever the hell they wanted, it didn’t matter, because on game day, their mouths were clamped shut or hanging open. There wasn’t a negative fucking thing they could say about my game, and my game is all that matters.

Not the girls I do or don’t bring home or the assholes I’ve knocked out. It’s all about the fastball, the slider, and my filthy fucking curve.

Meyer clears her throat, hesitating briefly. “I should ... go.”

“Why do I get the feeling that’s the opposite of what you want to do?”

Instantly, her chin falls to her chest. “Message me if you need me before Thursday and I’ll do what I can.”

My hand twitches against her back. “And if I said I need you now?”

“You’d be lying.”

“I’m not a liar.”

“Then I guess you won’t say it,” she whispers, her eyes lifting to mine.

She gently pulls from my hold and, this time, I let her because this entire situation makes no sense to me.

Offering a small, anxious smile, she walks away, leaving me and my hard-on to fend for ourselves.

Not that I wanted her to handle it.

Not even a little bit.

I look down, frowning at the obvious bulge in my jeans.

Yup, dick begs to differ.

q

“What crawled up your ass?”

I spit a seed out of the corner of my mouth and lean forward to rest my forearms on my knees, watching these fucking idiots attempt to look like a baseball team that’s worth a shit. “Nothin’.”

“Right.” Echo wipes the sweat from his brow with a rag and then tosses it to the side. “’Cause your hats in your hand and your ball and glove are on the floor ‘cause nothin’s wrong. Fuckin’ liar.” He throws a few seeds at me.

“Fuck off.”

The asshole chuckles, wincing when a ball is hit, barely hops past short, and bloops into center field.

“Damn.” Echo shakes his head.

“Right?” I drop back against the bench. “Gavin can’t hit for shit, Shea can’t fuckin’ catch a ball to save his life and fuckface playing center didn’t even run up on that. How do they expect playing time when they play like pussies?”

“That what it is?”

Confused, I look to Echo.

He raises a brow. “You not gettin’ any pussy playtime, my man?”

I scoff and turn back to the game. “Like our walls are thick, my man.”

“Oh, I hear your grunts… of frustration.” He laughs, sliding down the bench when I whip my arm out to smack him.

“Imma kick your ass, Ech.”

“For real, though. What’s got you all chafed?”

I glance past Echo to see no one’s paying attention, and he leans in.

“Shit’s gettin’ busy, bro. Games are getting deeper, the tougher part of our schedule is damn near here and with it, fuckin’ midterms are creepin’ up” I shake my head. “It’s like shit’s piling up from every direction and it’s frustrating.”

“You failin’?”

“Not yet, but I need all my focus to be out here on the field.”

“If only it worked that way.”

“Fuckin’ right?” I huff. “Thank god this is the last year of this shit.”

We face the field when the crack of wood echoes around us, watching as the ball floats by center field, an easy out missed, and look back to each other. “Your tutor not helping?”

I frown at the thought of her. “She gets on my nerves, all serious all the time, and it’s boring, never wants to flirt to make things less miserable. She won’t do shit for me and she leaves the second we’re done.”

When Echo doesn’t say anything, I turn to him.

“You mean she ain’t bending over backward to meet your every need?” The bastard grins.

“Shit, I wish she would. And if there was a girl who could meet my every need, my man, I’d beg to be her bitch.” I laugh, snatch my mitt off the seat and push to my feet. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same.”

I slap Echo’s shoulder with it when Coach Leon, one of Coach Reid’s assistants, gives the signal for us to rotate in.

“Let’s get out there and show these fools what baseball’s supposed to look like.”

Together, we walk out of the dugout, knocking gloves as we part, and take our positions.

He stares me down, just the line of his eyes visible through his catcher’s mask, and I give him my full attention.

Right here is the only place guys like us are in control, worthy of more than meets the eye.

Here I’m not the Playboy Pitcher, the fame-seeking party boy people view me as. I’m not Friday night’s good time or a story to share with friends down the road. I’m not a prize that’ll lose its shine or a worthless memory that’ll fade into nothing.

Here, I’m not the man the tabloids have decided I am, an egotistical jackass looking to score in more ways than one.

Here, I’m Tobias Cruz, the real Tobias Cruz.