Winterball

by Holley Trent

  They’d eaten their dinner at the foot of the bed while watching some television show about bad tattoos. All the while, Evan wondered if this was what being “at home” with Bart would be like. He kinda liked it. Very rarely did he feel like he didn’t have to do anything, didn’t have to talk or entertain. Bart didn’t seem to expect it. Didn’t want it, maybe.

  Bart set their dinner plates outside the door and hit the room’s light switch. Only the soft glow of the television remained to illuminate the room, and Evan recognized bedtime when he saw it. Bart always called the shots in that regard.

  Bart didn’t go straight to the bed, however. He circled to the balcony doors and pushed the heavy drapes open. The moon was bright, but it had started raining. Evan shuddered to think of being caught out in it. Even in New Orleans, winter rain wouldn’t be something people volunteered to go out in.

  “Rain used to stress me out,” Bart said, looking out into it. “I guess it’s the obsessive part of me. I’d get so worried about rain delays and postponements. I need things to happen when they’re scheduled to. My brain likes structure in that way.”

  “It doesn’t bother me too much,” Evan said. He pulled back the covers and climbed onto the side of the bed nearest the air vent. “I go with the flow.”

  “At least with that. You’re not so good with line-up changes, though, are you?”

  “That’s different. There were a couple of games you weren’t catching in that we actually won.”

  “I don’t count winning against the Rattlers or the Boars much to celebrate. Their records were worse than ours the season before last.”

  Evan didn’t bother arguing, because of course, Bart was right.

  Bart moved away from the doors, but left the curtains open.

  The moon’s glow highlighted the planes and valleys of his physique as he walked. He didn’t have to pack on a lot of bulky muscle. He needed to be limber and fast with a good arm. Like Evan, he wasn’t much of a hitter, but he was mesmerizing when at the plate all the same. The way his hips swiveled when he swung…

  Well, if Evan were the one pitching to him, he didn’t think he’d recover very quickly after watching him.

  He climbed into the bed beside Evan and rolled onto his belly. “’Night.”

  “Yeah.”

  As if Evan could sleep.

  He lay very still until Bart’s breathing slowed and deepened. By now, he had that cadence memorized, having listened to it so many nights, unable to sleep. During those away game trips, he’d stare at the ceiling and think about his game performance, his goals, his dreams. Always about baseball, and on the rare occasion, he’d give a second thought to the women he’d recently fucked. But that was the only consideration he gave to his personal life—to relationships. He just didn’t form them. Maybe that made him a derelict. Or maybe even he knew that he’d been barking up the wrong sorts of trees.

  He rolled onto his side and stared at the back of Bart’s head. He always wore his hair short. Not so short that Evan could see his scalp, but tidy, like everything else in Bart’s life. Efficient. Under control. Evan skimmed a finger along the clean hairline over Bart’s ear and drew back when the other man stirred.

  Where does he live in the off-season? With his parents? Bart had said everything he owned, as far as clothing went, could fit into a duffel bag. Certainly if he had someplace to go, he’d have more than that. Maybe he’d take me there sometime.

  He moved closer to Bart’s back and slowly, cautiously, draped his arm over Bart’s hip. Evan was used to waking up in beds alone, and that had always been his preference. He didn’t like it when his conquests lingered. But, with Bart there, he wanted to touch.

  No. He wanted to be held.

  Evan scoffed softly. Impossible, even if Bart were to roll over. Evan wouldn’t guess Bart was a cuddler.

  But then again, neither was he.

  He moved closer and molded his body against Bart’s, pressing his lips to Bart’s neck and just breathing him in. Memorizing him, because Evan figured he wouldn’t get another chance at this.

  He dipped his hand into the front of Bart’s boxers and honed in on the hot target between his legs. He didn’t fondle, but just left his hand there, possessing the other man in sleep the way he knew he’d never be able to do when awake.

  Evan’s body relaxed in increments. His eyelids grew heavy, and though he tried to keep them open to prolong his wakeful time with Bart, he couldn’t.

  He slept.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bart awoke to a tickle of breath on his neck and a heavy arm over his waist with its hand in his shorts. His cock ached as if he’d endured hours of teasing.

  Hell, maybe he had.

  Sighing, he shifted Evan’s hand away from his shaft and blinked until his vision cleared.

  It was hard to tell with the rain falling, but it looked to be around dawn. Could have been later, but he didn’t think so. His internal clock usually woke him up at this ungodly hour so he could go workout.

  He rolled his eyes at that. Not working out today, or any other day that I don’t want to.

  He just wanted to lay there with Evan at his back and stare out that door at the rain. He hated to concede that it felt nice. He hadn’t known Evan was that needy, but maybe it’d been obvious all along. Maybe it wasn’t sex that Evan needed, but touch. He took it where he could get it, though perhaps he had gone about getting it in an immature fashion.

  Yeah. Immature. The man had some growing up to do, and that was one of the reasons that Bart couldn’t get involved with him. He needed mature relationships, and Evan wasn’t capable of giving him that.

  Or is he?

  How would Evan know he was capable of it unless he was given a chance to try?

  And maybe Bart wanted to try.

  Bart tried to ignore the throbbing of his cock. He could take care of that when he showered, if it didn’t go down on its own before then. He wasn’t sure that it would, even though he’d come twice yesterday. His dick must have thought that wasn’t enough.

  Yawning, he pressed his right hand over his mouth and gave his shoulders a roll.

  Evan shifted behind him, moaning in his sleep, and giving away evidence of his own nocturnal arousal. His hard shaft stabbed Bart’s cheeks.

  Bart chuckled softly. Ain’t gonna happen.

  Maybe if things were different, he’d think about it. Evan might be the one man he’d let do it, because Evan, even on top, wouldn’t be the one in control.

  Bart eyed the room service menu tented on the nightstand and wondered if he could reach the phone. His long arms had always been assets to him in baseball, but they had other uses, too. Grabbing telephones without dislodging a hard, hot body from his was one of them.

  He yanked the phone closer by the cord and nabbed it before it toppled over the edge.

  The front desk picked up after two rings.

  “Yeah, are you serving breakfast downstairs today?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the dulcet, feminine voice returned. “Fruit and beignet service at seven, and a full hot breakfast will be available between eight and ten. If you’d like to sleep, we could send breakfast up to you at the hour you prescribe.”

  “Hmm.”

  They had to check out at noon, so they needed to get up, anyway. But damn, Evan felt good. Bart wanted to savor him as long as he could because for all he knew, Evan would wake up and regret it.

  No, no. Downstairs. That would give them some space. Clear Evan’s mind, so he could think straight.

  “We’ll come down. What time is it now?”

  “Nearly seven.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up and rolled slowly onto his back. Evan fell atop him. His forehead furrowed, eyes opening slowly.

  It seemed to take a few seconds for him to focus on Bart. To realize where he was.

  Suddenly, Bart couldn’t find air to breathe. Anxiety knotted his gut.

  Evan sighed. “Fuck, man. It’s still dark,” he said. “Don’t t
ell me you’re working out this morning.” He flopped onto his back and groaned.

  Bart exhaled. Good, he didn’t freak.

  “No, I’m not working out. It’s time for breakfast.”

  “I wanna go back to sleep.” Evan put his arms over his head and stretched like a cat.

  Reflexively, Bart’s hand moved to the other man’s trim torso. His fingers lingered near Evan’s navel. Evan had given him something, so the least Bart could do was not recoil, as if touching him repulsed him, even if he hadn’t done it consciously.

  “Gotta check out today,” he said.

  Evan groaned again. “I don’t have to be back in the Dominican Republic until Tuesday. I could stay another day.”

  “You like cutting it close, don’t you?”

  Evan shrugged. “I guess I feel like it doesn’t really make a difference what I do down there. I shoulda taken the winter off.”

  “You’re always being watched, Evan. Even now. You gotta mind your P’s and Q’s.”

  “Yeah, they’re always watching, but they never want me, right? I could be resting up my arm and—” He closed his lips, letting the words trail off.

  “And what, Evan?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, you do know. Don’t do that shit to me. You got something to say, so say it.”

  “Maybe I think you don’t want to hear it.”

  “Maybe you should try me.”

  Evan rolled his eyes and sat up. “Going places. Being around people besides baseball players. Where do you live when you’re not playing baseball? You can’t really live on your bike, I figured. I wondered, last night, if you’d—take me to see it.”

  “You want to go home with me?”

  “No one’s ever taken me home before.”

  “I doubt you’ve ever let anyone take you home.”

  Evan rubbed the dark blond scruff on his chin and seemed to consider that. “Yeah. I guess I haven’t.”

  Bart was simultaneously stunned and flattered by that admission. He never would have thought that Evan cared.

  “I’d be glad to take you, but there really isn’t much to see. I’ve got an apartment. Not much in it. I spend more time out at my parents’ place and helping my dad install floors.”

  “Oh. Most other players are out scrambling for endorsements in the off-season.”

  “Why bother, huh? I know where I’m headed. I’m tumbling downhill quickly, and I’m not going to waste my time, or anyone else’s.”

  “So, you’ve decided then. You’re quitting.” Evan’s face fell.

  “Don’t start that again, Evan.”

  “Just tell me. Maybe—maybe then I’ll get over it before the regular season starts.”

  Bart doubted that, but he wasn’t so cruel that he’d say so aloud. “I’m pretty sure I’m done. I’m gonna give myself a week to let the idea sink in.”

  “A week to change your mind?”

  “Yeah, but Evan, I doubt I will.”

  Evan seemed to shrink a bit under the covers. His face had turned more scared little boy than devastatingly handsome athlete, and it broke Bart’s heart. He’d done that to him. Hurt him. But, he had to have known it was coming. The more time Evan had to prepare for it—to disassociate baseball from Bart—the better. He wanted to keep Evan, but only if the man understood what he wouldn’t be getting in the deal.

  He gave Evan’s shoulder a squeeze. “Hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’m going downstairs to eat. Call me if you want me to bring you something back.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You just said you weren’t hungry.”

  “I know what I said.” Evan shoved down the covers and scooted to the other edge of the bed.

  Bart went to shower.

  Evan walked into the steamy bathroom after Bart was done and shut him out.

  Typical diva behavior. Bart just shook his head and sat at the foot of the bed, waiting.

  Evan came out a few minutes later, fresh as a daisy and fine as hell…as always. He hated going anywhere with the guy. Knew he’d pick up someone. He was sexy and charming—two things Bart had given up on being a long time ago—and a perfect ambassador for the sport of baseball.

  Bart was the cranky asshole who always brought up the rear.

  “Let’s go,” Evan said. He pushed his wet hair back from his face and tipped his head toward the door.

  “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, Evan,” Bart said. Last chance to back out.

  “What, afraid I’m still on the trail of that frisky brunette?”

  Bart’s teeth grated. “If you are, that’s up to you. Your prerogative.”

  “Yeah? So, you’d be all right if I went back to her room after breakfast?”

  “I’ll always be all right. Doesn’t matter what you do.”

  “I figured.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? I could have sworn you woke up on the right side of the bed.”

  “I should ask you the same thing. You’ll always be all right, and maybe that’s your normal, but it ain’t normal for me. You don’t even seem to care that I won’t be.”

  “Is that what this is about? Seriously, Evan?”

  “Fucking figure it out.” He opened the door, swearing audibly as he stormed down the hall.

  “What the fuck was that?” Bart grabbed the key card and set out after him.

  He caught up to Evan on the stairway heading downstairs, but Evan didn’t even look at him.

  “Come on, let’s not play games.”

  “Who’s playing games?”

  The dining room was blessedly empty, save for a few early-rising couples, and Bart followed Evan to a table beside the windows. A waiter approached immediately to fill their coffee cups and place a basket of beignets on the table. Bart had been in New Orleans countless times, but he’d never tried the decadent, powdered sugar-covered treats. He always was either dieting or just too busy. He took one, more to have something to do with his hands than because he was actually hungry.

  “Be back with your menus, Mr. Lock,” the waiter said before moving on.

  Evan drummed his fingers atop the tabletop and glared at Bart.

  Bart sighed. “What’s the problem?”

  “People recognize you.”

  Bart shrugged. “Yeah, they do every now and then. Some people like baseball. Why does that surprise you?”

  “I shouldn’t be shocked by anything you do, I guess. I just don’t understand how you can walk away from the career you’ve known for half your life and not even be a little stressed about it.”

  “When you get to be my age, you’ll probably feel the same way.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you.” Bart sank his teeth into the fluffy confection and grunted his appreciation. Good, but rich. That black coffee would hit the spot.

  “That you, Lock?” a deep, familiar voice called from behind him. He turned around to find Clint making his way through the room. He had a trench coat draped over one arm and carried his camera bag and briefcase in the other. When he retired from baseball, he’d taken up sports photography to fill the void. He had a few other hustles on the side—such as consulting with team sponsors—but taking pictures was his bread and butter.

  Bart stood and gave his old friend a quick, tight hug. He felt the way he always did. Injuries or not, he hadn’t let himself go soft. His boyfriend probably appreciated it. His girlfriend probably did, too.

  “What are you doing here?” Bart asked.

  Clint shifted the coat to his full arm and ran a hand through his red hair. “Beaudelaire heard I was in the area and wanted me to come by and talk to him about some sponsorship shit for the Roosters next year. He’s trying to come up with new ways to make the brand more visible. He even talked about sponsoring a team bus and putting a wrap on it bearing the hotel’s brand.”

  “Anything would be better than the clunker we’ve got now,
” Evan muttered.

  Clint turned to him. “And how are you, Mr. Boswell?”

  “Surviving.”

  “You’re at the Den of Sin. Surely, you could do a little better than that.”

  Evan leaned the side of his face on his fist and rolled his eyes at Bart. “Mm-hmm.”

  Clint turned back to Bart. “What’d you do to him? Pull him out of a writhing pile of sex before he was ready to go?”

  Bart clamped his lips, but apparently, Evan wasn’t feeling as discreet as Bart thought.

  “A sex pile sounds very nice, but right now, I’d settle for a good, hard fuck. Or to be fucked. I don’t really care which. He says he’s not one, but I think he lied. He’s got to be some kind of sadist.”

  Clint’s eyes went wide. “You mean Bart?” He laughed so loud that the few sleepy guests on the other side of the dining room perked up. “You’re trying to fuck Bart? You should have told me. I could have given you some tips.”

  Evan sat up. He narrowed his dark eyes at Bart and Clint.

  Great. Bart closed his eyes and rubbed them. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but given Evan’s recent sensitivity, it was difficult to predict how he’d react to certain revelations.

  “You’ve been with Bart?” Evan asked.

  “It was a long time ago,” Clint said. “Before I hooked up with Ken. I think Bart was a rookie.”

  Bart opened his eyes to roll them. “No, but close enough. Thanks for the welcome to the team.”

  Clint winked. “It was educational.”

  “In what way?” Evan asked flatly.

  “He’s just—” Clint let the words fall off, and looked at Bart.

  Bart made a go on gesture, because he was pretty curious to know what had been so damned educational about it, himself. The best he could remember was that neither wanted to bottom, and so they both had.

  “Nah.” Clint shifted his camera bag to the other shoulder. “I’ll let him find out for himself if he wants to. I find if you tell people too much, they try to subvert what’s coming to them even when doing so isn’t in their best interest.”

  “You saying you know what’s in my best interest?” Evan asked. He twirled his coffee spoon and ground his teeth.