Dirty Curve

“And another one!” he shouts with a grin. “This is our fucking year, Cruz!”

More hollers come and we turn to accept the fist bumps and back slaps from our teammates, but I slide through the rowdy, grinning fuckers, straight to the man who has yet to doubt me.

Coach Reid smiles widely, tipping his chin in a prideful nod.

I toss him the ball with a smile of my own. “How was that for showing up to the game, eh, Coach?”

He nods, clamping my shoulder in a tight grip. “Great fucking job tonight, son. Couldn’t ask for more than that. Take your boys to Trivies, tell ‘em I sent you. Tabs on me tonight.”

When my grin widens, his eyes narrow. “Practice is still at seven a.m. Don’t push it. And get in a couple interview questions with the school reporter before you take off, that girl is persistent as all hell.”

With a light chuckle, I pat him on the arm, give him a salute in thanks, then hustle into the tunnel with the rest of my team.

It doesn’t take long to get fresh and clean. The reporter, Kari, Karley, or something of the like, was all too willing to ask her questions from inside the locker room. Pretty sure the swinging and hangin’ dicks persuaded her—girl asked me two questions before the slow rockin’ of our center fielder’s shlong caught her eye on his deliberate, leisurely stride past us in nothing but his birthday suit, towel hanging around his neck.

Yeah, a men’s locker room is not for the weak.

Takes a strong man to stand next to another whose dick is out dicking his own—poor, girthless fuckers.

“Yo!” I bang the metal closest to me as I head for the door, gaining the others’ attention. “Head to Trivies from here, boys, foods covered. You wanna drink? Pay for that shit yourself or Coach’ll know about it.” Some grunt, some agree, some flip me off with a grin.

With that, I walk out, Echo at my side.

He pulls his keys from his pocket, tossing them in the air. “So, we payin’ for our own beer?”

“Nope.”

“Gotta love Coach.” Sharing a laugh, we hop into his ‘Stang. “We gettin’ fucked up tonight?”

“We’re gettin’ fucked up.”

q

“I can feel you through your jeans.”

I bring my beer to my lips, giving the ball babe a side-glance. “Course you can, you’ve been scratching your nails across my zipper for the last ten minutes.” Tipping my head back, I finish off the bottle and look back to the girl. “If it ain’t hard yet, it ain’t gonna be, babe. Better luck next time.”

She takes a second, deciding if she’s going to be offended or not, but when my boys at the table to our left start laughing, she sets eyes on her next target of the night, and happily skips her fine ass over there—bit skinny for my taste, but fine nonetheless.

But my dick didn’t agree and he knows best.

On to the next.

I bob my head to the music, skimming the room for the perfect figure for tonight. I need something soft to play with.

To be as productive as possible in my pursuit of pleasure, I follow the length of the wall, passing some cheap, ancient booths and an old wooden bar. They don’t update much here but the liquor and the music. Being one of the two bars we have within walking distance from campus, my guess is it’s because they know the crowd they’re getting—a bunch of rowdy students lookin’ to bury stress and blow off steam.

The foods good, and beers cold, though, so the look of the place doesn’t matter.

A chick with a killer smile winks my way and I sit up a little straighter when she angles her body to show me her profile. She’s got thick thighs, just the way I like ‘em, like she’s played softball all her life, but she’s not on the team. Those girls won’t come here.

Nothing but trouble if we mix our competitive edge with theirs. They usually take up at Screwed Over Rocks with the football team. Apparently, we baseball guys are over the top and hard to handle.

The girl waves her fingers my way, and slowly, purposefully, licks her full lips. That alone should have me solid, but my boy ain’t even twitching, and this is beauty number two.

Today’s game was intense. I guess I need to wind down more, slow the adrenaline before I speed it up again, so I signal for the bartender to bring me another, and the girl turns back to her friends.

The third beer does nothing, so I push to my feet, but not wanting to give in so soon, I scan the room once more. As expected, not a damn thing piques my interest, just like nothing did last night or the night before or the week be-fucking-fore.