Home Plate (Easton U Pirates 2)

“Here, you try,” I said to Vickers, who seemed nervous all over again.

I watched his fingers closely as he lined up on the mound—his stance a bit different than mine, which wasn’t unusual because we all had our own style—and then he threw the pitch. I could tell it was a bit low as it nearly bounced into Girard’s glove, but I didn’t want to discourage him. I knew what it was like to blow a game on mood alone.

“You’re right there.” I clapped his back. “You got this.”

When I glanced at Girard, there was something that looked a lot like pride in his eyes. Christ, had I really been that much of a grouch? Yeah, guess I had.

After practice, the coaches called the players into a huddle. Kellan reminded us of the other team’s batting stats and then added a couple of other interesting tidbits, since he’d no doubt studied the film with his dad. Last year he helped us pull off a win in regionals all because he was a whiz with details.

Girard was a particularly good study as well, and I really should’ve given him more credit for it. Nah, I’d rather give him shit. That thought made me smile to myself.

“Okay, Pirates,” Donovan said, motioning for us to put our hands in. “Be fierce, play smart, win big!”

And we did win, by one run. Once Vickers was relieved by another pitcher at the mound, he sank down beside me on the bench, seeming pleased that he didn’t totally suck. I thought maybe he was waiting for some reaction from me, and I supposed I was feeling generous because I said, “Good job, Vickers.”

He beamed like I’d made his life, which was really trippy. “Coming from you, I’ll take it.”

Later, the team went to dinner near Balboa Park, and then we walked around the grounds, which was a pretty awesome place with museums and gardens and the world-famous San Diego Zoo. I took as many photos as I could, and I must’ve been feeling nostalgic or something because I asked the team to pose in front of a fountain.

“What?” I grumbled when Devers eyed me incredulously as I motioned for everyone to stand closer.

“I dunno. You must be getting soft,” Devers said. “Wanting to actually capture the moment.”

“Or maybe we’re all growing on you,” Vickers teased.

“Seriously?” I griped. “Who do you think I am—the Grinch?”

“Yes!” a few of my teammates replied in unison.

“Bet you even hate Christmas,” Fischer said, and my stomach twisted uncomfortably. If only they knew how stressful my holidays had become after the age of ten.

“For the record, the Grinch didn’t hate Christmas; he hated people. And I gotta say, he had a good point.”

Everyone laughed, but as I focused in on them in the frame, it was Girard’s goofy grin that made my stomach feel like a dozen butterflies had taken flight.

Eventually we returned to the hotel, and when Girard and I got off at our floor, Sinclair said, “Cards in Devers’s room. You in?”

“Nah, just going to chill tonight,” I replied as the elevator doors were closing. I was pitching tomorrow and wanted to get in the right mindset. Sometimes that meant taking a break from constantly being with these jackasses.

“Yeah, me too,” Girard said to my surprise. “Unless you want to be alone?”

I shook my head, though I sort of did. But I liked being around Girard more, which didn’t make a ton of sense because he made my pulse all erratic.

Once inside, I showered and changed into my boxer briefs, feeling way more comfortable walking around half bare in front of him than when the season first started—excluding the semi I usually sported around him, and tonight was no exception.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, aiming the remote, when Girard walked out of the bathroom in a pair of navy-blue boxer briefs that hugged his groin and ass. He strode to the window and parted the curtain, then stared up at the night sky.

I might’ve never been attracted to a guy before, but seeing Girard standing near that window, with the moon as a backdrop… He looked stunning. Perfectly centered in the frame with his trim waist and round ass, he could’ve easily been an artist’s idea of a flawless model. Christ, I had it bad.

His fingers released the curtain, and as he turned around, I noted his flat stomach as well as fresh bruises, one on his bicep and another above the knee. I wanted to ask if they were sore, but I got distracted by the smooth skin of his chest, outside of a sprinkling of dark hair in the center and around his nipples. It matched the dusting of fuzz below his belly button, leading to the waistband of his underwear.

And just a bit lower was the outline of his stiff cock. A gasp sprang from my lips as our eyes met. My gaze traveled up the smooth planes of his body, only to refocus right at eye level.