Switch Hitter (7 page)

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 smiled 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.

In his head, he heard the words he should say,
Congratulations, Bent. I wish you all the happiness in the world
.

But, he couldn’t bring himself to say it, because it wasn’t true. He didn’t wish him happiness—not with some woman he could never love the way she deserved to be loved. Why should the ass be happy when he was denying Sean the same opportunity? So he smiled then said what he felt, instead.

“Congratulations. I’ve never seen a more deserving asshole.” Then he winked.

In less time than it takes a one hundred mile an hour pitch to travel from the mound to home plate, it was clear Bent comprehended his meaning. His face turned purple. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“You fuckin’ son of a bitch.” The left fielder stood, placed his knuckles on the tabletop then leaned across. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you, Flannery? But you’re nothing but a second-rate, washed-up, wanna-be baseball player. I don’t know why the Mustangs traded for you in the first place. You run like an old man. Only an idiot gets caught in a fuckin’ run-down between bases.”

Everyone was standing now. Those nearest to Bent had their hands on his shoulders, urging him to back away. Sean sat, unable to move as Bentley unloaded on him. The worst was, most of what he said was true. He couldn’t run, not like he used to. Second rate? Yeah, it fit. Washed up? Most likely.

Clenching his hands into fists beneath the table, he absorbed the wrath coming his way.

“Why don’t you get out of the game while you can still walk, huh? Because you’re a coward. A fuckin’ coward.”

Sean blinked. Bentley Randolph was calling him a coward? No fucking way. A red haze clouded his vision. He stood. Before he could flatten his nemesis, several sets of hands were on his arms, his shoulders, yanking him back from the table. A scuffle was taking place on the other side, too.

“Enough, Randolph.” Doyle Walker’s voice. “Get him out of here.”

He must have been talking about him, not Bent, because the hands holding him tight tugged and pushed. Chairs scraped across the painted concrete floor then he was being marched toward the door. Over his shoulder, he saw the man he both hated and loved being shoved back into his chair.

They were in the parking lot, headed toward the bus, when he dug his heels in. He shrugged them off. “Let me go.”

They let him go, forming a loose but ominous circle around him. He straightened his suit coat and tie then sucked in a lungful of air.

“I’m okay. Thanks guys for getting me out of there before I broke him into little pieces.” He had no doubt he would have done it, too, given the chance. He wasn’t going to tell them, but the option was still on the table, he just wasn’t going to do it in public.

“What gives between you two, anyway?” Todd asked.

“Nothing.”

“
That
wasn’t nothing,” Tony said.

“Trust me, it’s nothing.”

“Well, whatever it is or isn’t, the two of you are going to have to figure out a way to get along, at least for the remainder of the season. Last I heard, the team wasn’t making any more trades, no matter what, so you’re both stuck for now.” Jason Holder, according to…well, everyone…had the ear of management. If anyone knew their trade plans, it was the Mustangs starting catcher.

What did it matter? He doubted he’d survive another trade, anyway. Besides, he’d have to go as a package deal with a younger player as incentive. He’d be sent down to the minors, and the kid would play. It’s the way it would be for him, and they all knew it.

“I know,” he said, scuffing the asphalt lot with his shoe. “I do my best to stay clear of him, but you were there. You saw what happened. He started it.”

“He did,” they all agreed.

“But you were about to finish it,” Todd said.

“Damn right I was.”

Laughter rang out around him. Startled, he glanced at his teammates. “What’s so funny?”

Tony spun around, holding his ribs as he laughed. “Nothing. Tonight’s the most fun I’ve had in ages. I thought things in Texas were going to be dull. Boy was I wrong.”

“Dull?” Todd and Jason echoed each other before they too doubled over laughing.

Relieved at least these three weren’t offended by his behavior, he sighed, then burst out laughing, too.

* * *

Bentley peered through the peephole then swore under his breath.
What the fuck is he doing here?

“Open up, Randolph. I know you’re in there.”

“Shit.” He jerked the door open. Sean stood there, still wearing the suit he’d had on at the restaurant. As it always did, the sight of the man made his mouth water and his cock twitch. Even the pissed off expression on his face looked sexy.

“What the hell do you want?”

His adversary stepped forward, forcing him back into the room. The door slid shut behind him then, all of a sudden, there was a finger poking him in the chest.

“Don’t ever question my ability to play again.” The guy jabbed him hard. “If you ever call me a coward again, I’ll fuck you six ways to Sunday.”

He locked gazes with the man who had invaded his room, his life. “Just callin’ it like I see it.”

Sean stopped—his finger smack in the middle of Bentley’s silk tie. His eyes narrowed. He grasped the narrow fabric, wrapped it around his hand twice until his fist was at Bent’s throat. One solid yank brought them nose-to-nose.

The purely masculine scent invading his nostrils made his knees weak, his dick hard. His heart slammed against his ribs. Calling the asshole’s bluff had been a mistake. The man’s eyes blazed, and the heat coming off his body equaled his own. He hated the way his body defied his brain.

“Who’s the coward now?” Flannery taunted, his lips hovering a breath away. “Who’s shivering like a fucking trapped animal?” He canted his head, moving closer. “Who’s going to get fucked?”

Fear and wild desire hit him like a sucker-punch to the gut just as Sean’s mouth closed over his. His lips were firebrands, taking, demanding, promising. Bent closed his eyes. Maybe if he couldn’t see who was kissing him…but he didn’t need his vision to know. A day’s growth of beard abraded his cheeks. The hand molded to the back of his head was too large and strong to be female.

Different than anything he’d ever experienced, exciting and terrifying at the same time.

Sean shifted his weight, bringing his erection in contact with Bent’s hip. Someone groaned, and he realized the sound had come from his own throat. He pressed himself closer, ground his own erection against the hipbone gouging his stomach.

Fingers fisted in his hair, yanked his head back. “Open your goddamn mouth,” Sean growled.

He pressed his lips together in a tight line.

The man gave his head a hard shake. “Open it now or you’re going to be on your knees sucking my cock before you know what hit you.”

Panic swept through him like a wildfire. Instinct brought his clenched fist from his side to his tormenter’s stomach.

The bastard grunted, caved in the center for a second. “You son of a bitch,” he hissed. “You want it hard so you can say I forced you? It’s what you want it, isn’t it?”

Yes. No.
His jaw worked but no words came out.

“Don’t even try to tell me you don’t want me to fuck you because we both know it would be a lie.”

He drove his fist into the first baseman’s stomach again, but the other man held him fast by the fist wrapped in his tie. It took the guy a moment to recover, but when he did, his eyes were aflame. The next thing he knew, Sean dragged him across the room by his neck then flung him face down on the bed.

Bent struggled to get up, but Flannery straddled him, locking him in place with his weight. His knees clenched tight around his hips, immobilizing him. He’d been here before. Paralyzed by fear of the things he wanted, needed, and he wanted to struggle as much as he needed to believe the man straddling him was forcing him. The sound of silk sliding against starched cotton rent the air. Large hands grabbed both his wrists, wrenching them to the small of his back.

Tears filled his eyes as the tie secured his hands. He made another attempt to dislodge him, but the other man wouldn’t be moved.

“Fight me if you want, but I
am
going to fuck you, then you can go back to your fiancée—forget all about me. I know you think that’s what’s going to happen.” His hands slid beneath him, working his tie free of the shirt collar then loosening the first two shirt buttons. “You want me to fuck you because you think doing it once will get the desire you feel for me out of your system. You want to believe I forced you so you won’t feel guilty about wanting me every time you fuck her.”

The man was reading his mind. He grabbed Bent’s shirt by the collar and yanked. Buttons popped down his chest, allowing his assailant to bare him down to the waist.

“I love your back,” he said. “You’re strong. Have to be to make the throws you do. Christ, your shoulders are a work of art.”

Bent sobbed into the coverlet as his tormentor stroked the exposed skin. Like the time in his yard, Flannery’s hands on him felt good, his praise mocked him.

Dear God, this is wrong. So fuckin’ wrong.

“Shh,” he soothed, sweeping broad circles across his flesh with his callused palms. “You know if you asked me to stop, I would. But you won’t ask. You want it, just like I said.”

Stop. Oh, please, stop.
He groaned when his vocal chords refused to utter the protest.

Weight shifted from his buttocks to his thighs then hands were at his waist, unbuckling his belt and the fasteners on his slacks. He steeled himself for what was coming, but nothing could have prepared him for the rush of desire and abject terror that engulfed him when his trousers were around his thighs. His shoes hit the floor then, in a heartbeat, he was naked save for his ruined dress shirt, and the tie still looped around his neck.