Switch Hitter

by Roz Lee

  Perfect.

  He’d no more than pressed his ass to the cool leather seat than the bartender appeared, slapping a white square napkin down in front of him.

  “What’ll you have?” he asked.

  After ordering a light beer in the bottle, he slid a twenty across the wood. “Keep ‘em coming until the money runs out.” As self-medicating went, he’d be safe enough if he stopped at a few beers.

  The bartender nodded, anchored the bill with a bowl of pretzels then went off to fill the order. Moments later, Sean raised an ice-cold bottle to his lips.

  Two rounds later, he looked up to see the bartender standing in front of him, waiting for…something.

  “What, more money? How much are these things?”

  “Nah, you’re good. Just thought I’d see if you are looking for something other than a drink.” He glanced over his shoulder then back at Sean. “A couple of people have been trying to get your attention.”

  Realizing he’d made the decision before he’d ever stepped in the bar, he shook his head. “Thanks—” He looked for a nametag. “—Roger, but you can tell them no. I just needed a drink tonight.” He needed more, but not from anyone here.

  Roger shrugged, collected the twenty, and put it in the register. “No problem. One more?”

  Eyeing the empty bottle in front of him, he weighed his choices then stood. “No thanks. Keep the change.”

  “Thanks. If you change your mind, the guys asking are regulars. Come back any time. I’ll hook you up.”

  “I appreciate it,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t be back. He only wanted one man, and though he’d come here thinking a quick hook up would help him forget Bentley’s denial, time and introspection had brought him to his senses. No one else would do. Maybe in a few months, maybe never, but his loss was too fresh tonight.

  He paused. “Hey, call me a cab?”

  “No problem.” Roger reached for the phone.

  Smiling, Sean raised his hand in silent thanks as he moved toward the door.

  The night was still. The low buzz of traffic on a nearby well-traveled thoroughfare along with the music still leaching from the bar swirled around him as he waited outside for his ride.

  Bentley would never be his. He remembered the woman he’d met at his house. Was that Ashley? Probably. She seemed comfortable enough answering the door at his house. He tried to remember if she’d been wearing a ring, but for the life of him he couldn’t recall. He’d assumed she was one of many who paraded through Bent’s life, but in the last few years he’d made a point of not looking too close, so it was possible he’d known her long enough to make a serious commitment.

  Hell. Did it make any difference if Bent had known her a week or a year? The fact was, he was going to marry her. It didn’t matter when he’d asked her. She’d said yes, making Bentley off limits to other lovers, of either gender. Which was why he’d flung the information in Sean’s face tonight—to warn him off.

  You got it, buddy. Have a nice life. Just leave me the fuck alone.

  * * *

  Sean felt like hell. His body ached all over, and his head felt like a Little League team was using it for batting practice. By the time he’d dropped into his bed in the wee hours of the morning, exhausted and nowhere near drunk, he’d had four hours to sleep—which would have been enough if he’d actually slept. Instead, he’d listened to his roommate snore while he relived every second of the minutes he’d spent in Bentley’s room.

  Like game film, he analyzed every move, looking for ways he could have changed the outcome. What if he’d pressed him to say what he really wanted? What if he’d cut through the bullshit and kissed him? What if?

  This scenario came down to one thing—the asshole was engaged to be married. To some bimbo named Ashley. Nothing he could have done would have changed the facts. One of the things he loved about the man was his honor. He wouldn’t back out on his fiancée. He’d given his word, which meant, he would keep it.

  Unless she backed out. No matter what he felt for Sean, he wouldn’t want Ashley hurt. Finding out her fiancé has the hots for a man would devastate her. No, he couldn’t imagine the news would go over well.

  Unless she’s an extraordinarily understanding woman with an open mind about sex. He didn’t know shit about women, but he was certain the majority of them weren’t into sharing—not their shoes or their beauty secrets, and for damn sure, not their men.

  Hat over his heart for the national anthem, he focused all his lagging energy on the game ahead of him. As soon as he got back to the hotel, he could crash. Sleep was over rated anyway.

  * * *

  Bentley felt like hell.

  What the fuck were you thinking? Just stay the hell away from him.

  He didn’t want to think about the night before, but there was no way around it. His brain wouldn’t let the memory go. After Sean left, after what he now thought of as a mini nervous breakdown, he’d called Ashley. Hearing her voice, listening to her plans for their wedding had reassured him. He was a normal guy. He did normal things like tune out his fiancée when she rattled on about flowers and the color of bridesmaids’ dresses.

  But as soon as he hung up, the incident with Sean came flooding back in.

  I love Ashley. I do. I want to marry her.

  The national anthem ended. He ducked back into the dugout for his glove before jogging to left field. Wade Henning was already on the pitching mound, forcing Bentley to take a route closer to Sean on first base. As he passed by, his skin tingled with awareness.

  Shit.

  He kept going, didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. An image of Sean, standing inside his room the night before was forever etched on his memory. A person didn’t have to be gay to notice Sean’s height or his broad shoulders. Where some athletes looked like lumpy toads in a suit, Sean could be a cover model.

  Once in his position in left field, Bent risked a glance toward first base. Flannery fielded a warm-up ground ball then threw it to Stevens at third base. The man could throw. There was power in his lean frame, but he wore it well. No bulging muscles, just thick, well-toned cords packed with efficient energy.

  Whatever workout regime he used, it worked for his body type. Five years ago, there hadn’t been an extra ounce of fat on the man. From what little he’d seen since Sean had joined the Mustangs, nothing had changed.

  His mind flashed back to the two times they’d been in physical contact—the first day in the clubhouse then the next morning in his backyard. He could still feel Sean’s body rolling with him on the floor and the following day, pressing him into the lawn. Solid muscle.

  He shook his head to clear the images and dislodge the crazy thoughts running rampant through his brain. Standing near the warning track, all alone with nothing but time to think, he could admit one thing—he felt something for Sean. The night before he’d called it love, but probably because the asshole had said it first, put the idea in his head.

  Lust. Yeah, that fit. It was crazy, but his body reacted to Sean the same way it reacted to Ashley. He wanted them both. There was just one difference—he could have Ashley. Nothing in the world compared to being inside her. She’d been different from the very beginning. She’d never been impressed with his job, his celebrity status, or his money. Employed at a local television station, she had worked her way up to News Director in charge of several syndicated shows. As such, she made a pretty good salary on her own.

  He liked the way she wasn’t gaga over him. Sometimes he was just the guy she wanted taking out her trash, but mostly, she was his friend. They liked the same movies, the same restaurants, and she took off her makeup before coming to bed, so when he took her, he was seeing the real woman, not a version of herself she put on for the rest of the world.

  And, Lord, was she soft. Her skin smelled sunny and sweet, like a garden of flowers in bloom. He loved to wrap her silky hair around his fist then ride her from behind like a Mustang in heat. She liked it, too. She never shied away from tryin
g new things in bed, which made for some rather memorable experiences.

  He’d be a fool to screw things up with her over his ridiculous obsession with Sean Flannery.

  The game seemed to fly by then, before he knew it, they were in the top of the ninth inning down by two runs. He came to bat with two outs, managed to draw a walk from the pitcher, which brought Sean up to bat.

  Standing on first base, Bent’s nerves hummed. The Mustangs needed Flannery to come through with a homerun to tie the game. Getting on base was the next best option, but with two outs and the bottom of the order batting behind him, the chances of Sean scoring from any base were slim.

  The count stood at three balls, one strike. He cursed the struggling pitcher. “Come on. Come on. Give him something to hit.”

  The first base coach gave the sign to hit away, clearing the batter to swing if the pitch was good.

  He inched down the line, crouched—ready to cut loose. With two outs, he was running if his teammate connected with the ball, no matter what. There was nothing to lose by doing so.

  The pitch was low and maybe a little outside. Flannery swung, connected. Bent sprinted, rounded second before he saw the home plate umpire signal a foul ball.

  “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, retracing his steps back to second base.

  Full count. Hit the damn ball, asshole.

  Again, poised on the balls of his feet, ready to run, he watched, anticipated, planned for every possible scenario.

  The next pitch was better, the batter swung, got more of the bat on the ball. There was no time to waste. He ran. Seeing the third base coach wave him on, he called on every ounce of power he could, sliding across home plate a fraction of a second before the catcher tagged him.

  “Safe!” The umpire shouted.

  He popped up, smiling. They were one run away from a tie game, with the tying run was on base. They might just pull off a win yet.

  Wedging himself in along the dugout fence, he followed the action. When Sean stole second base, he pumped his fist in the air and cheered his teammate on. A solid base hit would get most runners across home plate from second base. Even Flannery, with his previous injuries, should be able to make it.

  Next up to bat was the right fielder, Jake Riley. There was a reason he was batting eighth, one rung above the pitcher. He couldn’t hit for shit. Crossing his fingers, Bent leaned over the railing in support of the second weakest batter on the team. Around him, he could feel the tension from his teammates. Everyone wanted to win, but they’d settle for getting the tying run across home plate.

  Wade could hit. He just didn’t do it very often, even less in clutch situations. You couldn’t ask for a better right fielder though.

  The count escalated to no balls, two strikes in a heartbeat. Leave it to the pitcher to find his control now, or maybe Riley was swinging at pitches he shouldn’t be. It was hard to tell from where he stood.

  The pitcher set. Bent held his breath. It looked like a good pitch. The batter thought so, too. He swung. Connected. The ball zipped past the short stop’s glove. Sean was off and running, but he had to dodge the short stop who had stumbled in his effort to waylay the ball. Precious nanoseconds ticked by while the left fielder ran in, scooped up the ball then threw it to third base.

  The result was a cluster fuck. Unable to continue on to third base, Sean turned back to second, only to be cut off there, forcing him toward third again. Bent dropped to the dugout floor, watching the disaster unfold from there.

  Fuck.

  Back and forth, the ball went between players as the opposing team squeezed Sean into an impossible box before tagging him out. Game over. Five game winning streak—over.

  It wasn’t the first game they’d ever lost, and it wouldn’t be the last, either. The locker room was quieter than it would have been had they won, but the players were used to the you-win-some, you-lose-some nature of the game. Many found things to smile or laugh about still, including Sean Fucking Flannery.

  For reasons Bent didn’t want to examine, the sight of him joking around, accepting good-natured ribbing for getting caught in a rundown between bases, made his blood boil. Clenching his fists at his sides, he tried to reason with himself.

  Calm down. It’s not the fucking end of the world. He screwed up. It’s not like you haven’t done it. Shit happens. Forget it and move on.

  Except, he couldn’t forget it. The more Sean laughed and smiled, the more he wanted to punch his lights out.

  By the time the team arrived at the restaurant where they were obliged to eat dinner as guests of one of their biggest sponsors, most of his teammates had forgotten the loss and were in good spirits. Booze flowed freely at the reception preceding dinner, from which Bent snuck away in order to call Ashley.

  “Hi, Babe,” he said when she answered. “It’s me.”

  “I saw the game. I’m sorry. You were so close.”

  He sighed, rubbing his face. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m so pissed, I can’t think straight.”

  “Oh, honey…don’t take it so hard. Tomorrow’s another day. Another game. I’m sure you’ll win the next one.”

  The conversation wasn’t helping. He didn’t need or want platitudes. He wanted…to hit something. No. Not something. Someone. Sean Flannery. The fuck up.

  “We won’t win if people like Flannery don’t get their shit together.” He held the phone to his ear with one hand, clenching and unclenching the other into a fist at his side. Unable to keep still, he paced the short hallway leading to the restrooms.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” Concern laced her voice. “You’re upset.”

  “It’s nothing,” he lied. “I’m just tired, I guess. We’ve got a fucking dinner tonight, and I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be taking my lousy mood out on you.”

  “I don’t mind.” He could hear the smile in her soft words. “I’m glad you called me to vent. It means you trust me.” She paused. “I miss you.” Her voice had dropped to a low, seductive whisper guaranteed to make his cock throb.

  “I miss you, too. I need you, babe. I wish you were here.”

  “I know. But I can’t follow you around the country. However, I’m just a phone call away.”

  The playfulness in her tone clued him to her meaning. There was something to be said for good phone sex. “Maybe I’ll call you again when I get back to the hotel. If I don’t fall asleep first.”

  “I’d like nothing more, but please get some sleep tonight, Bent.”

  “I will. I promise. Talk to you tomorrow, then?”

  “Tomorrow. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  After a trip to the men’s room, he rejoined the team. They’d already moved to the private room set up for their dinner. Stopping inside the door, he scanned the room, finding the last open seat—directly across from Sean Flannery.

  Well, shit.

  Chapter Six

  Sean looked up from the roll he was buttering to see who’d pulled out the chair across from him and almost cut himself. Would have if the blade had been any sharper. Putting the knife down, he squashed the roll between both his hands before tossing it down on his bread plate. At least, he thought that’s what they called the small dish at the top of his place setting. He wasn’t much for formalities, but he’d picked up enough knowledge to keep from looking like an ass at all but the most formal of occasions. Thank God, the barbeque place they’d chosen was a paper towels-for-napkins kind of place. He felt right at home.

  But at home, he chose who sat at his dinner table.

  A quick glance told him the newcomer wasn’t any happier about the seating arrangements than he was, but what could either of them do? Not a damned thing. He turned his attention to Tony Ramirez, seated to his right. The center fielder joined the team in the off-season, so he was still sort of a newbie himself.

  “How are you liking Dallas?” he asked.

  “Best move of my life.” His dinner companion sm
iled wide. “I’m getting married during the All-Star break.”

  What was with the Mustangs? Two players getting married? Not that it didn’t happen, but what were the odds he’d hear the same line from two players on the same team in as many days?

  “No shit? Congratulations. Who’s the lucky woman?”

  “Clare Kincaid. She plays the organ at the stadium on game days.” His smile grew wider. “I’m the lucky one. Convincing her to have me took some doing.”

  Sean chuckled. He couldn’t help but be happy for the guy because he was so damned happy for himself. “Sounds like a smart woman,” he joked. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

  “I’ll introduce you sometime. You’ll love her, but hey, keep your hands to yourself. She’s mine.”

  Holding his hands up, he replied, “No problem. Hands off the merchandise.”

  “Hey,” Tony called across the table, “Randolph. Did I hear you’re getting married, too?”

  Bent looked up from the menu. His eyes went to Tony then to Sean then back to Tony. “Yeah. You’ve met Ashley. I finally manned up and asked her. I don’t know if it was stupid or brilliant of her, but she said yes.”

  “Stupid.” A chorus of voices sounded around them, followed by laughter interspersed with some good-natured ribbing.

  Sean sat back, keeping his mouth shut. Bent went along with the teasing—his nickname seemed to have more meaning to this bunch than just a shortened version of his name.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. But I’m through playing around. I want kids, the SUV, the whole thing.” He made the statement to the whole group, but his gaze locked on Sean when he got to the part about kids.

  You fuckin’ had to twist the knife in my gut, didn’t you, asshole?

  He forced a thin-lipped smile to his face.

  “What do you think, Flannery? Aren’t you going to congratulate me, too?”

  All of a sudden, the room grew quiet. Sean sensed dozens of pairs of eyes watching him. Heat blossomed on the back of his neck, making him sweat all over. Their gazes locked across the table laden with rolls of paper towels, bottles of sauces, and galvanized buckets filled with peanuts.