The Player

by K. Bromberg

Keep the gas pedal steady.

  She goes to town, holds nothing back as she sucks and fucks and licks and tongues every inch of me until I can’t hold back any more. I’m either going to crash or come, and fuck if I want to do the former.

  Remember the road.

  The sensation rushes from my balls and then through my cock. Her moan as she tastes my precum is the final straw that pushes me over the edge.

  I break the rules. I put my hand on her head to keep it still as I buck my hips and fuck her lips. And she doesn’t fight me. She doesn’t do anything more than pump my cock faster and suck harder as I shoot down the back of her throat.

  Her name fills the cab. Scout. It’s a broken moan as she does what she promised—sucks every last drop from me.

  And I can’t take it anymore. I can’t not have my hands on her. My tongue in her.

  I jerk the truck to the side of the road. She shrieks in surprise and sits up just as I slam on the brakes. And then I lean over the console in a flash.

  My one hand is back in her hair, the other is sliding to the wet heat of her pussy, and my tongue is between her lips.

  I taste me.

  I taste her.

  The two of them together are a drug I can’t get enough of.

  I need more.

  I want more.

  I’m going to take more.

  Right here. Right now. On this rural country road with fireflies outside the window and the scent of her everywhere.

  And just before I lose my fucking mind to lust again, just as I shift in the confines of the cab to slide down and taste the heaven between her thighs, a single thought owns my mind.

  I’m so fucked.

  I’m so far gone.

  Damn, does it feel good.

  And I’m not sure if I ever want to come back.

  “Dad?”

  “Scouty-girl!”

  I sigh in relief. He sounds good. Stronger than he did the last time I spoke with him. And I’ll take that any day.

  “How are you doing? Are you comfortable? Is—”

  “Sally’s taking care of me just fine. Stop hovering, child. I’m the parent. I’m supposed to be the one hovering, so knock it off or I’ll hang up on you.”

  “Yes, sir.” I laugh and feel so good hearing him do the same. I know it means nothing more than he’s having a good day, like Sally already told me, but a good day is a good day and that’s what I’m holding on to.

  “You’re five days out. How’s the player looking?” he asks as Easton walks into the room with timing so perfect, he could never have known. I enjoy the visual—the towel slung low on his hips, the water still beaded on his skin, and the flex of his biceps as he runs another towel through his wet hair.

  “The player . . .” I say, meeting Easton’s gaze. He stops on his way to his dresser and narrows his eyebrows at me, a silent inquiry as to how my dad’s doing. When I nod my head and give a thumbs-up, his smile chases the concern away. “Appears to be at or above one hundred percent.”

  In my periphery, I can see the little fist-pump that Easton gives in response to my comment, his grin a mile wide. And I share the same sense of satisfaction knowing that, in a big way, I helped him get there.

  “So you’re ready to give your recommendation?”

  “Yes.”

  “You need to make sure you have a written report. Type it all up. His range of motion. What percentage you think his arm strength is. If you think he can last a whole game or if he needs to take a few innings at a time.”

  My cheeks hurt from smiling. You’d think he forgot I was around to watch him do this so many times in his career. But I’m just so thankful to be getting a lecture from him.

  So I let him ramble on.

  I let him advise me.

  I let him feel like he’s still in the game when his feet will most likely never touch the field again.

  It’s the least I can do after everything he’s given me.

  “Hey, Easton?”

  “Ignore him, Easton,” Tino warns.

  “I see him,” I mutter as we line up on the left field line, jog a few feet, and then sprint the remaining ninety feet of baseline. We turn to jog back, and there he is, Santiago, with his arms crossed over his chest, his hips leaning against the left field railing, and that goddamn smirk I want to punch off his face. “The asshole doesn’t know how to leave good enough alone.”

  “He’s just trying to fuck with your head. He knows in three days you’ll be back behind the plate and he’ll be relegated to riding pine or being bat boy.”

  I laugh. It feels good to know these guys have my back. But when we hit the line again, he’s still there. Still smirking. Still goading me.

  “Was that your trainer I saw you with the other night? Heading into your building with you?”

  My feet stop.

  “Easy, E,” Tino warns.

  My blood boils.

  “If that’s the type of personal PT the Aces provide, then this is one helluva club. Count me in. I’m gonna request her now for any future injuries.”

  My body vibrates with anger.

  “What’s her name again? I need to write it down on my request form.”

  My temper snaps.

  I turn to charge him, but Tino holds me back, and just as I break free, Drew is there. Then J.P.

  The goddamn Santiago brigade.

  Santiago’s laugh fills the air. “Was it Scout? Or Slut?”

  I see red.

  Fucking blood-red.

  And just as I’m about to punch my own friend to get a piece of the mother fucker, I hear one of them mutter, “He’s all yours.”

  Their hands are off me.

  And I’m charging.

  I lower my shoulder and tackle him to the ground.

  All I think about is Scout.

  We roll back and forth on the ground.

  All I see is fury.

  I fist a hand in his shirt. Yank him up.

  All I feel is satisfaction.

  When my fist connects—

  All I feel is pain.

  Then there are hands.

  And shouts.

  Ripping us apart.

  Pinning us down.

  Damage control.

  But I don’t fucking care. I’ve had enough.

  And when Tino and Drew push me off the field, it’s my dad’s face I see in the stands before they usher me down the dugout steps, and I can’t quite read what it’s saying.

  “How stupid could you be?”

  All this work—months of healing, hours of strengthening—and Easton risks all of it by fighting Santiago.

  “You should have seen the other guy,” he jokes, then hisses when I push his hand with the ice pack back up to his cheek.

  “It’s not funny.”

  I slam stuff around the training room. The door is shut so no one can hear us, or the drawers I shove open then close, or the cart of the ultrasound machine as I bang it against the table where Easton’s sitting. I hate that I’m pulling out the shit I used when I first started his rehab, because who knows what he just did to his shoulder other than just telling me it hurts.

  “It’s a little funny.”

  “Don’t. Just don’t!” I smack my hands down on the counter and brace them there as I let my emotions roil through me.

  The confusion when I first heard the shout of “I’m gonna kill him.”

  The shock of seeing Tino and Drew physically restraining Easton from running back onto the field.

  The bewilderment when they shoved Easton toward where I stood in the training room, when I saw his knuckles on one hand were bloody, his T-shirt was torn, and his cheek had an angry red mark on it.

  And then the fury, the goddamn fury, when I saw him wince as he moved his shoulder.

  “Scout.” He sighs my name, and the resigned defiance mixed with apology only infuriates me further.

  “What? What could possibly be your excuse?” I shout as I throw my hands up and turn to face him. “You
couldn’t control yourself? You couldn’t be the bigger man and walk away? At least for a few more days?”

  “Ah. Now it all makes sense. You don’t give a fuck about my arm right now. All you care about is the meeting. The goddamn contract and what’s in it for you.”

  His words punch out into the small space and slam into me harder than his fists probably did into Santiago’s face. Because if he is aiming to lash out at me, he just got a direct hit.

  Why am I fighting him? Why? Santiago deserved to get punched weeks ago. Better yet, he deserved it months ago, when he hurt Easton and was only fined and given a four-day suspension.

  So why are you so pissed at Easton for actually doing it?

  Why are you fighting him so hard?

  Because I’m scared.

  Over what this means for him and his position here. What this means for me and working with the team in the future. What this means for the two of us as a couple. And most definitely what it means to my dad’s final wish.

  It’s so much more than the contract. Doesn’t he see that? And yet, that’s how highly he thinks of me right now—that I value the contract over him?

  Add some more hurt to the anger, Scout.

  “Excuse me?” My body trembles with restless fury. The kind you can feel deep down in your bones and have no clue how to get rid of.

  “You heard me.” Easton stands and squares his shoulders. His rage toward Santiago is still there, still raw, but right now it is directed at me.

  Well, bring it, Hot Shot, because I’m primed for a fight, especially when you say bullshit like that.

  “Glad to know that your precious fucking contract is your number one concern right now. Doesn’t anything else matter?”

  “Yes. Of course other things matter.”

  “Betcha can’t name one.” He stares at me, eyes searching and a muscle pulsing in his jaw. For the life of me, put on the spot like this and with his anger misplaced on me, I can’t think of one when I know there are tons.

  “Are you kidding me?” I screech, hating that I can’t answer him, and lashing out in return. “You’re going to turn this on me? Was it that hard to keep your testosterone in check? To walk the fuck away from him? Did you even think once that maybe when they reinstated you, it would cement his fate? You’d step back into your position, they’d see you side by side and know your talent blows his out of the damn water, and—”

  “And you’d be awarded the contract.” His voice is quiet and even now, and I hate the tinge to its edges—disappointment, sadness, hurt . . . I’m not sure what, but it digs deep down in me and makes my stomach churn.

  “It’s not about the goddamn contract! Don’t you get it?” I walk from one side of the room to the other. I’m so angry, so confused, I can’t seem to say the words I need to get out. It’s like I have so many I’m suffocating on them, and yet at the same time, I don’t have any. “It’s about the time you put in. It’s about getting you back on the damn field. Back to the game you love.” My voice hitches. The tears well. “What’s more important to you than that?”

  He glares at me, the tendons in his neck taut, his mouth pulled tight, his body like a rubber band about to snap. “You just don’t get it, do you?” He shakes his head, his voice vibrating with resigned frustration.

  “Get what? That you couldn’t control your temper. That you just risked everything we’ve worked for?”

  “There you go again.” He blows out a sigh.

  “Whatever, Easton.” I’m done. He wants to act like the asshole, then I don’t want any part of it. I turn my back to try and hide the hurt, the confusion, the unsettled feeling that things just changed majorly between us, even though it had nothing to do with us.

  “Whatever?” he shouts, grabbing my arm and spins me around so we’re face to face, body to body, temper against temper. “Whatever? There are more important things than getting the goddamn contract,” he growls, his finger poking against my chest.

  “Like what?” I challenge.

  “Like doing what’s right.”

  “What’s right is keeping your nose clean and getting reinstated. There’s nothing more important than that right now.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re frustrating.” He steps back from me, shoves a hand through his hair, blows out an audible breath, and then steps back up to me. “What’s right, Scout, is defending what you care about.”

  “And what’s that?” Our eyes are locked, tempers bouncing off each other’s in the space between us.

  “Not what, but who.” He pauses, squeezes his eyes shut for a beat, and when he opens them back up, the anger is still there, but there’s something else, too.

  “Who? What in the fuck are you talking about?” Did something happen with one of the guys? With his dad? What?

  “You. I care about you. And I’d fucking punch him and fuck up my shoulder a thousand times over than ever let him talk shit about you again. You got it?”

  “Oh.” I stand there, stunned. Never in a million years did I think that Easton and Santiago would get in a brawl, on the field, with the fans there to watch batting practice, over me.

  How could I have been so stupid when he was saying it all along?

  We stand a foot apart, and all I want to do is put my hands on his cheeks and kiss him senseless. Reassure him. Reassure me. Anything to make a connection with him and thank him and tell him in the only way I know how that I care.

  But I can’t. There’s a room full of teammates at our backs, who I’m sure were watching our fight unfold from the room’s window. I’m certain assumptions have been made over why we’re fighting. I know Easton’s had his hands on me one too many times to come off like trainer and player.

  And, right now, I don’t really care, because he’s upset and I want to soothe him. I can’t touch and I can’t kiss. I can’t wrap my arms around him or press my lips to his hurt cheek—the punch he took for me—and kiss it better.

  I step forward out of instinct, and he steps back.

  “No, Scout.” There is so much emotion in my name, I know he’s feeling the same way I do, but the look in his eyes tells me his control has been snapped once, and it’s best not to test it again.

  He’s so amped up on adrenaline and need that one touch and he won’t be able to stop.

  So, I use the only thing I can to reach him: my words.

  “There will always be men talking shit about me, Easton. It’s part of my job. I know it comes along with the career I chose. There will always be a guy who thinks I’m a Kitty or a Trixie.” He sighs, and my heart does, too, right along with him. “Thank you for standing up for me, but you can’t slay every dragon I face. It’s a full-time job these days, but I’m strong and can handle it.”

  He cracks a smile. One full of regret, apology, but more than anything, filled with love. It’s the first time I recognize it, and I stand there, so overwhelmed with emotions, I don’t know what to do about it.

  “You may be able to handle it, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by and put up with it.”

  I nod my head, acknowledge it, and know it’s a battle I’ll have to fight another day, but right now, I need to look at his shoulder.

  “Come on, let me see if you did any damage.” I direct him to the table and start checking out his shoulder. I can’t see his face any longer, but the look that was in his eyes is all I think about.

  About how it’s ingrained in me to want to run.

  But one thought keeps repeating over and over in my mind.

  He tried to slay dragons for me.

  The condo is quiet.

  There’s traffic in the distance, and the windshields glint from the early morning sun.

  The stadium is empty. The grass is groomed in its crazy crisscross pattern that mesmerizes the eyes from this distance, and the dirt of the infield is dragged to perfection.

  The coffee is warm in my hands, and the chair I’m sitting on is sink-into-it-and-never-want-to-get-out-of-it comfortable.
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  Easton, too amped up about getting to hit that groomed dirt later today, for what feels like the first time in forever, is somewhere in this city, jogging mile after mile to ease some of his restlessness.

  Everything seems storybook perfect.

  But inside I’m a nervous wreck.

  Three hours.

  That’s all the time I have left before I willingly turn our world upside down. Our quiet nights at home. Our seeing each other every night. The day-to-day routine we’ve somehow established in this relationship that we haven’t admitted is a relationship.

  Or maybe we have, and I’m just choosing not to see it for fear of cursing it.

  But in three hours, all of that will change.

  “Should I be worried about what I’m interrupting?”

  Fucking Finn.

  “I’m running, you jackass,” I pant.

  “Oh,” he laughs. “I was going to say, she must not be that important if you’re stopping to pick up the phone mid-stroke.”

  “I love you, man, but there’s no way I’m stopping mid-stroke if my phone rings.” I lean over and brace one hand on the streetlight to try and catch my breath.

  “Smart man. It’s D-day . . . how you doing? You good?”

  “Dude.” I chuckle as I look around and judge; I’m about five miles from the house. “I’m so amped up, even crossing paths with Santiago couldn’t fuck it up.”

  “Well, that says it all.” He laughs, then gets a little more serious. “I know you’re ready, but how’s your arm feeling? Is it still sore from your stunt the other day?”

  I roll it out of habit, wait for pain to come, but know it’s not going to. Scout was right when she said I’d be at one hundred percent. Even after throwing a few punches. “I’m ready, Finn. It feels like it’s been for-fucking-ever since I had the crowd at my back. Just get me on the field.”

  “That’s Scout’s job to decide for them. Not mine. Are you confident she’s going to tell them you’re good to go? That your arm is able to withstand the pressure?”

  Images flash through my mind. The shower. Scout’s soapy hands sliding over my skin, down to my dick. Being tested and taunted. Picking her up and holding her against the wall as I fucked her.