Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

  Yep, Rob knows what he’s hinting at. A thrill runs through him at the thought of getting a piece of action later. “There’s a bar in the West End I think you’d like. If you’re thinking what I’m thinking…”

  That grin cranks up a notch; those eyes glisten flirtatiously. Mike curls his fingers around Rob’s. “I’m pretty sure we’re on the same wavelength here.”

  “When’s practice end?” Rob asks. Not soon enough.

  Mike glances at the clock on the scoreboard across the field. “Six or so. We’re staying at the Hyatt down the street. How about you pick me up out front around, say, seven thirty? That’ll give me time to shower and change.”

  Rob runs his gaze over Mike, noting the dusty baseball jersey beneath his windbreaker and the smudge of sweat around his neck. “You look fine to me. I like athletic types.”

  With a laugh, Mike rubs his cheeks with his free hand. “At least let me shave this shit off. I didn’t bother this morning. If I’d have known there’d be someone here worth looking good for, I would’ve taken the time.”

  “Seven thirty it is.” Rob gives Mike’s hand a final shake and stands. With his back to the field, he edges past Mike to the aisle, pausing directly in front of the shortstop. “See you then.”

  Mike stares at Rob’s crotch, now the same level as his eyes, then lets his gaze trail up, up, up to meet Rob’s. Damn if he doesn’t lick his lips. “I can’t wait.”

  Honestly? Neither can Rob.

  * * * *

  At twenty after seven, Rob pulls to a stop in the unloading zone at the front of the Hyatt. He’s early, but he couldn’t help it. He’s horny, what can he say? He hopes he recognizes Mike without the windbreaker and baseball cap. Hazel eyes, he reminds himself. Sexy smile. Body that won’t quit.

  Hell, if he sees anyone fitting that description, he’ll be happy. Mike or not.

  Throwing on his hazards, he lets his engine idle in front of the hotel and checks his reflection in the rear-view mirror. His black hair looks like ink against his pale forehead—he has a bit of color to his arms and neck, what his mother always called a “farmer’s tan,” but most of his face is usually shielded from the sun. The tips of his ears, though, they’re a bit pink. He runs a hand through his short-cropped hair as if to smooth it down, but the thick, straight strands don’t budge. Raising his chin, he stares for a long moment into the icy, almost see-through blue of his eyes, then lets his gaze roam his freshly shaven cheeks in search of any spots he might have missed. Too late if I did, he thinks, rasping a hand across his jaw.

  To his right, he catches movement and glances over. The hotel doors open but the woman who exits is definitely not Mike. She looks at his truck a moment, then at him, and smiles. He raises a hand in greeting. As she passes in front of his cab, he notices a distinct wiggle to her hips that wasn’t there a moment ago.

  Sorry, honey. Not interested.

  He looks at his watch, then back at the hotel. Mike still has about eight minutes left to go. Reaching for the keys, Rob turns off the engine and waits.

  What if someone told him who I was?

  The sudden thought is like a splash of cold water on his rising libido. What if he found out and isn’t coming now? What if—

  A saner voice intervenes, calming him. Who would’ve known? None of the Waves—this is their first season in the Rebel’s division. We’ve never played them before, which is part of the reason you were at the Diamond at all this afternoon, remember?

  True. But if Mike asked any of the stadium employees about the lone fan in the stands during practice, they would’ve given him away. Rob Ritchie? they would’ve said with a laugh. He doesn’t work here. He pitches for the Rebels. You mean you didn’t know?

  And there goes any chance Rob has of getting some ass tonight. Once Mike realizes they’re going to be playing on different teams come Tuesday…

  I’ll mention it myself, Rob thinks. He doesn’t know exactly how he’ll bring it up—he should’ve said something earlier, he knows, and the longer he waits, the harder it’s going to be to say anything at all. But if Mike doesn’t know already, Rob will see how the evening plays itself out and, at some point, he’ll mention it. By the way, you asked if I liked the game. I sort of play it, too. I was only at the Diamond today so I could scope out how well you guys play.

  Well, no, he won’t admit that, but he’ll come up with something. Before things go too far, before it gets too late.

  Movement in his peripheral vision makes him look towards the hotel again. The sliding doors open, and here’s Mike. The windbreaker and baseball cap are gone; so are the jeans and, from the look of it, the medical bandage, too. He wears a pair of tan walking shorts that show off strong, hairy legs, a matching tank top, and over that, an unbuttoned shirt with a blue/green pattern that brings out the color in his eyes.

  Sweet Jesus, Rob thinks, watching the guy look his way. I don’t just want a piece of that. I want the whole damn thing.

  When Mike sees him, Rob raises a hand to wave. Without breaking his stride, Mike turns in mid-step and heads in his direction. Rob unlocks the passenger side door a moment before Mike opens it and eases inside. “Hey.”

  The thick scent of cologne fills the truck’s cab. It’s something sporty, and beneath it is the fresh hint of shampoo and shaving cream. The smell grabs Rob’s balls in a vise grip, and his cock throbs at his crotch. He flashes Mike a quick grin. “You cleaned up nice.”

  “I can manage when I have someone to look good for,” he says as he shuts the door. “You look nice yourself. Love the truck.”

  “Ford F-150,” Rob says, turning the key. The engine roars to life beneath them like a caged lion. “It’s a real guy-magnet.”

  “I can imagine.”

  When Rob shifts into gear, Mike’s hand covers his. Warm, heavy, still slightly damp from his shower, the touch tells Rob exactly what type of evening Mike hopes they’ll have. Once out of the hotel parking lot and back on the street, he turns his hand over and clasps Mike’s fingers in his.

  Me too.

  * * * *

  The place Rob has in mind is a little dive set off one of the main roads. It’s part of a strip mall, and most people wouldn’t look twice at its unimposing door, whose glass paneling is covered with black construction paper. The windows are, too. Most who pass by think it’s just another closed-up shop, unused retail space waiting to be rented to someone new. There’s no sign anywhere indicating Bailey’s is open for business.

  “How’d you find this place?” Mike asks as Rob leads him to a circular booth near the back.

  Rob shrugs. “Word gets around.”

  He follows Mike’s gaze as the shortstop looks at the wooden panels lining the walls, the mirrored ceiling, the glasses hanging above the bar, the bottles of alcohol winking in the recessed lighting. It isn’t much, Rob knows, but he likes it. “We mostly get an older crowd out here,” he says, signaling to catch the bartender’s attention. Mike eases into the booth and Rob squeezes in beside him. “No college queers like the gay bars downtown. At least that’s something.”

  “So this is…?” Mike raises an eyebrow to finish his question.

  In response, Rob slides a hand under the table to cup Mike’s knee in his palm. Gently, he rubs his hand up a little, his fingers dipping into the hemline of Mike’s shorts. “Oh yeah.”

  “Good.” One of Mike’s arms finds its way around Rob’s shoulders. He leans back in the booth, rubbing an intricate pattern between Rob’s shoulder blades, and spreads his legs a little, as if to encourage Rob’s hand to move higher.

  It does. Rob smoothes his fingers up over Mike’s shorts and into the fold where leg meets crotch. There he finds a thick swelling against the inside of Mike’s left thigh. He presses, eliciting a faint whimper from Mike, and grins. “Are you freeballing?”

  “Boxers,” Mike says. He gasps as Rob’s hand closes around the width of his dick. “I spent all day in a jock strap, man. I need to let the boys breathe a little, if you kn
ow what I mean.”

  Rob moves his hand up along the inseam of Mike’s shorts, until he finds Mike’s ‘boys.’ A gentle squeeze and the hand on his back splays flat as Mike thrusts into his palm.

  Before things go any farther, a waiter appears with two draft beers. The foam billowing above the brew spills down the side of the glasses as they’re set on the table. The waiter’s young, probably one of those ‘college queers’ Rob avoids, working at Bailey’s to earn extra tips from aging gay men with daddy complexes. As if he knows exactly what Rob’s hand is doing under the table, the waiter winks. “I can give you guys a few minutes,” he says, “but it looks to me like you already know what you want.”

  Mike gives Rob a mischievous grin. “I know what I want, but maybe we should get something to eat first.”

  With a laugh, the waiter produces two menus—nothing much, just single sheets of paper listing the few food items Bailey’s carries. “Try our date night special. Two burgers for the price of one, a large side order of fries to share.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Rob pushes the menu back with one hand, the other still kneading Mike’s crotch beneath the table. “Don’t feel like you have to keep checking on us every few minutes, you know what I mean?”

  Another wink. “Sure do, hot stuff. I’ll leave you two alone.”

  Once he heads back to the bar, Rob turns to Mike. “Now, where were we?”

  Mike’s eyes twinkle in the dim lighting, flashing from brown to green and back again. His face is suddenly so close, Rob can see faint flashes of gold in the depths of Mike’s eyes, like shooting stars. Leaning toward Rob, Mike murmurs, “Right about here.”

  Then his lips cover Rob’s in a sweet first kiss.

  * * * *

  As they eat, Mike admits, “I don’t usually do something like this.”

  Rob takes a bite of his burger. “Like what?”

  Mike dabs a French fry in ketchup and shrugs. “You know, pick up a willing fan for a one-nighter. You’re sort of the first.”

  Willing fan. Now’s the time to say something, tell Mike what he was really doing at the Diamond this afternoon, but Rob downs the rest of his beer and lets the moment slip by without comment. The later it gets, the harder it is to admit he plays for the Rebels. It’d ruin whatever intimacy there is blossoming between them and, besides, Mike will find out soon enough when they face off on the field, right?

  Right?

  Breaking into Rob’s thoughts, Mike asks, “So, do you normally hang around the ballpark looking to score?”

  Rob laughs, almost choking on his beer. He feels it burn deep within his nose and swallows it down quickly. “Shit, no, man. I mean, well, I hang around the Diamond all the time, but you’re the first bite I’ve ever had.”

  Mike’s grin lights up his whole face and ignites his eyes. “A hottie like you? You can’t tell me no one’s hit on you before.”

  “Not at the Diamond,” Rob assures him. “Rather, not any guys. Let the girls look all they want, but I’m not really into all that.”

  Mike nods. “I take it you’re not married, then?”

  “Me? No.” Rob scoffs and takes another bite of his burger. Warm grease runnels down the back of his hand. Without lowering his gaze from Mike, he licks the juices like a cat grooming itself. Like this? he thinks as Mike’s eyes follow the trail of his tongue. Imagine what it’ll feel like on your wrist, or your chest, or between your legs.

  With luck, they’ll find out tonight.

  Once his hand is relatively clean, Rob asks, “You?”

  “What?” Mike’s eyes have a glazed look to them, and he shakes his head slightly to come back to the present. “Married? No.”

  “Got someone at home, then?”

  Another shake, slower this time, almost hesitant. Then he explains, “Not anymore.”

  Uh-oh. Rob knows he should pull back—if they hope to get it on later this evening, he should turn this conversation around right now. Once exes come into the picture, even the strongest flame has a nasty habit of going out. But his mind is suddenly blank; there’s nothing he can think to ask or mention, nothing to talk about, nothing at all.

  As he searches for a new topic, Mike mistakes his silence for an invitation. Before Rob can stop him, he explains, “Last season I was sort of seeing our first baseman. A real sexy baller, let me tell you. Six five, built like a brick shithouse, as they say. Olive skin, dark hair—like yours. Dark eyes. Soulful eyes, you know what I mean?”

  Rob doesn’t, but he nods anyway. A voice stutters inside his mind, Shit shit shit! Here goes the rest of his evening, down the drain.

  Apparently, Mike doesn’t seem to notice. “His name was Lawrence Archer. LA to most people, but the guys on the team all called him Archie. He hated it, of course, which is probably why it stuck.”

  Though Rob doesn’t want to ask, he can’t stop the words from tumbling from his mouth. “So you and Archie were together?”

  “On and off,” Mike admits. “He had a girlfriend, and I guess I was really just his go-to piece of ass when we were on the road. We always shared a hotel room when the team was traveling, see, and eventually one thing led to another, and…”

  Rob finishes off his burger. “Traveling? I don’t remember seeing you guys on the schedule last year.” You weren’t, he adds silently. I’d know if we played you, and we didn’t. “I thought this was your first year playing ball.”

  “First year in the double-A class,” Mike explains. “We played triple-A for years as the Sand Sharks. The closest team around here we’d played was the Quioccosin Huguenots.”

  “I know them.” Rob eyes the plate of fries between them and doesn’t mention he started pitching with the Huguenots years ago, before the Rebels picked him up. “Are you going to eat any more of those?”

  Mike pushes the plate towards him. “Help yourself.”

  Rob does, dragging the fries through the ketchup on his plate before popping them into his mouth. “Where’s Archie now?”

  With a faint smirk, Mike shakes his head. “Playing in the majors.”

  “No shit!” Rob laughs. “They called him up, eh?”

  “He’s one hell of a baller,” Mike says. “Hell of an asshole, too. Didn’t bother telling me he was moving on until after the coach made the announcement. Can you believe it? All the time we were alone together, not one word. The fucker.”

  Rob really isn’t going to mention that he plays for the Rebels now. “Why not?”

  “Does it matter?” Mike takes a fierce bite of his burger, as if it’s to blame for the heartache he suffered. “He didn’t think enough of our relationship—of me—to tell me himself he was moving on. So screw him to hell and back, you know? Fucking screw him.”

  Hoping to diffuse Mike’s sudden anger, Rob offers, “Actually, I was sort of hoping you’d be screwing me tonight.”

  Mike stares at him a moment, wide-eyed, speechless. Then he laughs, and under the table, his leg presses against Rob’s, a warm, delicious heaviness alongside his thigh. “Archie’s in the past. I don’t plan on sharing any part of you with his memory tonight.”

  Which is just what Rob wants to hear.

  * * * *

  It’s a little after ten when they get back to the hotel. Rob bypasses the front lobby and lets Mike direct him to park around the side, where shadows hide most of the lot. Rob backs into a particularly dark spot and cuts off the truck. The sudden quiet is broken only by the faint ticking sound of the engine cooling down. In the darkened cab, Rob reaches over and places a hand on Mike’s bare knee.

  Mike’s hand covers Rob’s and pulls it up his thigh. The fingers curl into Rob’s palm with a familiar thrill. “Want to come on up?”

  Leaning heavily on Mike’s leg, Rob stretches across the distance between them and kisses Mike’s cheek. “You sure it’s cool?”

  “I’ve got a single room,” Mike assures him. “The rest of the team is probably still in the hotel bar getting good and sloshed. We sneak in the back, head upst
airs, get our groove on…”

  His next kiss lands on Mike’s lips. “Then lead the way.”

  Using his room key card to unlock the hotel’s side entrance, Mike leads Rob to the elevator and on up to the third floor. Despite his assurance that none of his teammates will see them, he keeps his hands to himself. In the elevator, Rob eases an arm along the railing behind Mike, but it isn’t a real touch and they both know it. When they exit onto the third floor, Rob lets his hand rest on the small of Mike’s back briefly, then drops it to the waistband of Mike’s shorts. His finger hooks into a belt loop, and he lets Mike pull him down the corridor to a room at the far end.

  Though they’re alone, Mike murmurs, “We’re all on the same floor. If anyone sees us—”

  “They won’t,” Rob assures him.

  Inside the hotel room, a single lamp burns beside the bed. Most of the room is cast in shadows, giving it a sudden intimacy Rob likes. He lets the door close behind him and leans back against it, tugging on Mike’s belt loop. Mike takes a step forward but doesn’t get far before Rob reels him back. When Mike stumbles against him, Rob wraps his arms around Mike’s waist and noses aside the hair along the nape of Mike’s neck. “Come here,” he whispers against Mike’s skin.

  Warm hands fold over his. They give a gentle squeeze, then smooth up Mike’s stomach, pushing his shirts up out of the way. Rob unbuttons the front of Mike’s shorts, then eases down the zipper. Through the open fly, Mike’s cock bulges against the front of his boxers, pressing into Rob’s palms. Thick, stiff, a good size, from the heft of it. Rob can’t wait to lay Mike down and wrap his lips around his shaft.

  With Mike’s help, he pushes down the shorts. When Mike leans over to step out of them, Rob catches the hems of his shirts and lifts them to expose a tanned, firm backside. At the base of his spine is a pert little dimple, just above the crack in his ass. Rob plants his next kiss into that twinkled hollow, then trails his tongue up the ridges of Mike’s spine, pushing up the shirts as he goes. Mike shrugs out of his shirts, first the unbuttoned overshirt, then the tight tank top underneath. Rob sees a dark tattoo in the middle of Mike’s back, between the shoulder blades—some sort of Oriental lettering, which Rob traces with his tongue as he rubs his hands over Mike’s shoulders.