Switch Hitter (6 page)

He nodded. “I could have, but I didn’t want you to think I was saying it to appease management. I wanted you to know I mean it. The Mustangs are lucky to have you at first base. You’re a damn sight better than that jackass, Wagner. He couldn’t catch his own balls if they were falling off.”

The words had the ring of sincerity about them. “I appreciate it. It means a lot coming from you.”

Smiling, Bent slipped his suit coat off, hanging it on the back of the desk chair. His tie was askew, his dress shirt was travel rumpled. “Look, I know things aren’t ever going to be easy between us—”

“How do you know?”

“What?”

“Things won’t ever be easy between us?” Sean asked. “You sound as if you know something I don’t. So, tell me. How do you know? You’re going to have to convince me because I think things could be very good between us.”

Bent’s face turned red. A mask of stark terror replaced his smile.

There’s a real emotion, at last.

He pressed on, “I saw you from the dugout—when I was batting. You don’t look at the other players on the team like you want to tear their clothes off and fuck them right there on home plate, do you? Or were you admiring my bat, wishing I would shove it up your ass?”

Bent’s eyes narrowed, his complexion darkening to more of a plum shade. Sean hated himself for what he was doing, but the devil had a hold on him and wouldn’t let him go.

“When you swatted my butt? You were thinking how you’d rather pull my pants down and squeeze my ass the way I did yours in your yard the other day. Or maybe you wanted to go down on your knees and suck my cock. Isn’t that what happened today? Isn’t that why you practically begged me to come to your room?”

A deafening silence followed his outburst, during which he knew what it was to hate himself. Bent didn’t deserve to have his actions twisted and perverted in order for an asshole like himself to vent his frustrations. The source and recipient of all his angst stood like a monument. Sean knew Bent was alive because his chest rose and fell like a trapped animal staring into the eyes of the hunter who’d captured him.

Sean swallowed the giant lump in his throat. “I’m sorry, Bent. I…I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, I deserved that. None of it is true, but after what happened with the Pioneers…you’re entitled to believe them.”

“Don’t.” He raised his hand to stop him. “Let’s not go there. We both know what happened in the shower, and I, for one, won’t ever forget it. But I understand you want to pretend it didn’t happen. I can live with your denial, if you can. Just don’t fu…toy with me, okay? Don’t watch me bat. Don’t touch me. Don’t fucking speak to me. Most of all, don’t invite me into your room again unless you want my bat up your ass, because that’s what’s going to happen if you do.”

“I thought maybe we could be friends.” His voice was almost pleading in its desperation.

“No. No way. I wish to God I hadn’t been traded to the Mustangs, but I’m here, and there isn’t a thing I can do about it. I want you so bad I can’t stand it. Having to see you every day—not being able to touch you, not kiss you—is killing me. We can’t be
friends
, Bent. Believe me, I hate you for that more than I hate myself for loving you.”

Bent’s hands were fisted at his sides, his face rigid. He looked like a cartoon character ready to explode except for the erection pressing against the fly of his dress slacks
. In denial much?

Sean turned to leave, his hand on the doorknob.

“I’m getting married.” Bent’s words stopped him in his tracks. “I asked Ashley to marry me. She said yes.”

Son of a bitch.

He clenched his jaw tight to keep from saying what he wanted to say. He gripped the doorknob hard enough to make his fingers hurt in order to keep from turning around and fucking some sense into the man’s brains. His forehead dropped to the cool wood of the door. Taking a deep breath, he let the pain wash over him. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to turn the knob, force his feet into the hall then to the elevator.

Bentley held onto the back of the desk chair, watching the door close. The sound of the lock engaging grated on his hearing then knocked his knees out from under him. He reached for the bed, stumbling to the mattress before he landed on the floor.

Oh, God.

He crawled to the center collapsing face first onto the down comforter. His stomach cramped, the dinner he’d managed to choke down threatening to come back up. Rolling to his side, he pulled his knees to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut to hold back the tears threatening to spill out. Hatred for Sean Flannery boiled inside him like lava beneath the surface of the earth, roiling and churning, looking for an outlet—an impossible outlet.

He couldn’t tell anyone how much he loathed the man without having to explain why, and he could
never
explain why. To do so would destroy everything he loved—Ashley, his career. Everything would be in the debris field if he let the eruption happen.

“Ashley.” Her name fell from numb lips.
I love you. Please, please, don’t hate me. I won’t let him come between us.

But even as he thought it, the damning words came back to taunt him.

“I hate you for that more than I hate myself for loving you.”
The statement, condemning them both, was destined to follow him the rest of his life.

“I hate you, Sean Flannery. Why did you have to say it?
Why
? I hate you. I hate you. I fucking hate you!”

His trapped cock throbbed. He rolled to his back, fumbling with the fastenings on his pants. Fisting his cock in one hand, he flung the other over his eyes.

“I hate you,” he groaned, sliding his fist along the length of his erection. He closed his eyes willing the unwanted image to go away. The truth he’d denied for so long had shown in the depth of Sean’s gaze.

“I hate you. I hate you.”

With each stroke, he repeated the mantra, his grip getting tighter, the tempo faster. His chest heaved with the exertion. Tears streamed down his temples.

“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

Lightning struck in the small of his back then seared his groin. He bucked his hips, fisting his throbbing flesh tighter. The climax soiled his shirt, wrenching a sob and another truth from his lips. “I love you, Sean. Oh, God. I fucking love you.”

Chapter Five

Sean traversed the lobby at a fast clip. There was an unofficial curfew on game night, but it had been long past when they arrived. If any of his teammates saw him, they’d keep their mouth shut. Management, however, was another issue. They’d have something to say, but tonight, he didn’t care.

Let them stop me. Do me a favor, cancel my contract.

No one stopped him. He hailed a cab, gave the name of a bar on the outskirts of town where he could find the two things he needed, booze and a good fuck. No questions asked. No denial. No hate.

Paying the driver, he exited the taxi in front of his destination. Muted music cloaked the sidewalk. The auditory aura froze his feet to the steaming concrete. He’d come all the way out here, why not go in, find the solace he needed?

The door opened. The beat of the music stirred him, but not as much as the couple that spilled out, too blind with lust to notice him. They paused a few storefronts down, unable to keep their hands off each other any longer. He watched for a few minutes, envying them their honesty. What would it be like to have the man you loved want you so bad he wouldn’t care who saw you together?

The couple realized their circumstances then, after some discussion Sean couldn’t hear, crossed the street, arm-in-arm, to a parking lot on the other side. A few minutes later, he heard a car start. Still frozen on the walkway, he watched them drive away.

He glanced back at the door. With a resigned sigh, he stepped toward it.

The loud music assaulted his ears, but he wasn’t there for conversation, so what did it matter? Even for a Friday night, going into Saturday morning, the place was crowded. A small dance floor in the center of the room was a mosh pit of writhing bodies he avoided, heading straight to the bar. Catching the bartender’s attention, he raised an eyebrow in question. Without missing a beat, the man tilted his head in the direction of the far end of the bar. Nodding a thank you, Sean threaded his way to the one empty stool next to the wall and hidden behind the cash register.

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 trying 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.