3. Casey Collins

CHAPTER THREE

CASEY COLLINS

“Come on, Sellars! If you can’t get your arm up higher than that, I’ll send you back to Little League!”

We had two weeks left until we faced off against the Mavericks and this kid was batting like it was T-ball instead of the first game of our D1 season.

I popped two more antacids and washed them down with a swig of diet soda. It was gonna be a long day.

“All right, I want everyone in the outfield. Spread out! Austin, pitch them some fly balls, and let’s see if they can catch.”

“Yes, sir, Coach!” Austin jogged from the dugout to his place on the pitcher’s mound.

He was the one thing balancing out my shit-tastic day. I could rely on Austin’s golden arm, his dedication to the team, his position as my starting pitcher, and his positive attitude. Then again, he was living with a fellow D1 coach. If only the rest of my team had the same daily training and discipline as Austin got from his partner, I wouldn’t be sweating this season so hard.

“You’re popping those things like candy,” Marley observed. Like me, he was resting his forearms on the dugout wall and observing the team.

Corbin Marley was a fantastic assistant coach. His stellar batting average ranked him number three in his D2 college, but a car accident blew out his knee. You know what they say: those who can’t play, coach.

“Yeah, well, this team is shaping up to give me a damn ulcer. Where is the talent we scouted? The summer heat sucked all the ability out of these boys.”

Marley’s feathers didn’t ruffle easily. He chuckled, running a hand over his short, tight black curls. “They’re just unorganized. Give them time, Coach. It’ll all come together like it should.”

A third man joined us, assuming the same position over the dugout wall. Marcus rubbed a hand over the dark scruff that covered his cheeks. “How’s it shaping up? Are you gonna forfeit your season? Or are you feeling lucky?” he asked with a smirk.

Marley laughed. “Did you come to gloat or spy, Coach Wolfe?”

“Neither. I’m here on official stalking business.”

Putting my doubts aside, I said confidently, “We’re more than ready for our season. Are you ready to face us in the third game?”

“Hell, Casey. I already gave you my best player. Do you really need to rub it in my face? ”

“You partnered with him, but I signed him. Did I get the better end of the deal?”

Marcus Wolfe watched as his lover pitched a perfect fly ball to left field. As if he could feel he was being watched, he turned and waved at us, grinning before adjusting his hat.

“With Austin, you can’t go wrong. Every end is a win,” Marcus said fondly.

I popped another antacid, washed it down with the last sip of soda, and tossed the empty bottle in the overflowing trash can in the corner. Marcus was one lucky son of a bitch. He was living the dream; a fantastic career, partnered with a terrific guy, had a beautiful home in the suburbs of Mapleview, and most importantly, was done giving a fuck what anyone thought about his interest in men. I envied him. I wanted everything he had, but, as of yet, I still lacked the courage to chase my dreams as hard as he had. I wasn’t closeted, but I also wasn’t searching for a partner because I wasn’t ready to introduce them to my team and my colleagues.

When I hooked up with men, I did it discreetly, and I never called them back for a repeat. That was my rule. One and done, like a pinch-hitter. The life Marcus lived, well, that was just a dream on the horizon. It was so far off, it wasn’t even worth thinking about.

“Who’s a good girl? Yes, you are. Yes, you are. You’re the best girl.” Rawlings licked my face like she hadn’t drunk water in a week, her rough tongue lapping at my skin until I laughed, pushing her away.

“Mr. Collins, I just need to let you know I had to separate Rawlings and another dog today.”

Patting her on the head, I stood and addressed the doggy daycare worker. “Was she fighting?” My girl was a lover, not a fighter.

Angela blushed. “Not exactly, sir.”

It took me a second to realize her implication, and I turned accusing eyes on my dog. “You dirty girl! Let’s get you in the car. I think you’ve had enough interaction for one day.”

As if she understood every word out of my mouth, Rawlings dropped her head and whined before following me out to the truck. She trotted behind me with her tail stuck straight down and stiff, not wagging like usual. She knew she was in trouble.

I pulled into the driveway of my house—three bedrooms with a brick facade and a fenced-in yard out back—and went around to the passenger side to open the door for Rawlings. Usually, she scratched at the window, eager to be home, but not today. Today she sat still with her sad puppy dog eyes, waiting patiently for me to let her out.

“Go. Get inside, you little hussy.”

After a hot shower to wash off the sweat and dust from the ballpark, I changed into a worn pair of jeans and a T-shirt. In the kitchen, I whipped up a quick and simple spaghetti Bolognese dinner with garlic bread and flipped on Sports Center to entertain me while I ate .

When I’d finished and loaded my plate in the dishwasher, I looked out the kitchen window above the sink. “Come on, girl, let’s go outside.” Rawlings went potty while I got to work on my latest project. The little wooden library box was coming along nicely. As long as I didn’t run into any issues, I would be finished by next week. “What do you think, girl? Should we paint this one red or yellow?”

Almost every building in Mapleview now sported one of my little free libraries. It was just another way I liked to give back to the community that had given so much to me. In addition to the libraries, I also made handicap ramps and donated my time one weekend a month to Habitat for Humanity . It started as a way to fill my downtime and keep my hands busy, but then the projects I made began piling up, and I had to find an outlet for them. I started by donating the things I made to different organizations in the community that needed help—a clothing donation box at the church, and a school supply donation box at the community center—and it snowballed from there.

I lined my deck with a tarp and set the box on it. Rawlings trotted over and sniffed the bucket of red paint, giving a loud bark. “Red it is.” Almost ninety minutes later, the box had two coats of paint, and my hands had about four. “Come on, girl, let’s go wash up.”

I herded her into the house and locked up, and then headed to my bedroom, stripping off my shirt and tossing it in the laundry basket. It looked like I would need another shower. I popped the button on my jeans, reaching into the stall to start the water. The bathroom quickly filled with steam, and I stripped out of my pants and underwear, letting them pool on the floor. Leaning over the sink, I looked into the mirror, checking to see if I needed to shave or if I could hold off one more day.

Ocean-blue eyes stared back at me, assessing my squared jaw and the sandy five-o’clock shadow that covered my cheeks. One more day, but then I’d have to shave. I couldn’t stand to feel itchy when the scruff grew in.

Stepping into the glass stall, I stood under the spray, letting the hot water sluice over my head and shoulders. Was there anything more refreshing than a hot shower? My muscles loosened, and I turned my face up to the spray, breathing out a relaxed sigh. Working my body wash into a good lather, I was able to get most of the red paint off my hands, except for the stubborn layer caked under my blunt nails. My hands left a sudsy trail over my pecs, down my flat stomach, to the short light brown curls around the base of my cock. My hand slid easily down my soft shaft, and I stroked it several times, giving it a satisfying tug before cupping my balls. The steam kissed my skin and made my head feel light. Rolling it back on my shoulders, I breathed a satisfied sigh, stroking my dick a little faster until it was hard.

My God, that felt good.

It was time to find another hook-up. Maybe I’d hit up that bar again. The one I went to the last time, where I met… Buck . Damn, he was a good lay. I needed another Buck .

Buck . There was no way that was his real name. Not that Colin was mine. Nor did I care. I got what I wanted and so did he. Another warm body for a handful of hours, sinking my cock into a tight ass, plowing until I came hard enough to last me a couple of weeks until I needed to do it again.

Just the memory of his tight ass, that velvet grip choking my cock, made my balls draw up tight. The muscles in my stomach contracted, and thick white ropes pulsed from the tip of my cock. I wasn’t sure why I screamed his name as I came. Maybe because he was on my mind, and he had helped to bring me off a second time.

Thanks, Buck.