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3. Ryan

Chapter three

Ryan

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I groan through gritted teeth as I lay on the cold bed in Kyle’s treatment room. He massages the muscles of my shoulder, pushing his fingers into the tender tissue without a care in the world for how much it fucking hurts.

“A little pain now is better than a whole lotta hurt later,” Kyle repeats for the third time, digging his fingers in harder. I don’t even try to hold in the sounds it elicits. I do wish that this treatment bed had something to bite down on in this face hole, though. I’m clenching my jaw so tight I could break a tooth.

“Okay, okay, okay, that’s enough, right?” I finally say, lifting my head from the bed, and he backs off a little before slathering my skin with a heat gel.

“No pitching for a few days. You’ll need a massage and stretches twice daily, and I’m sending you a revised workout plan. How does five work for you?”

I push up with my good arm to sit.

“I hope you mean five p.m.”

“Nope. Sorry, it’s the only morning slot I have open at the moment with the season starting up. There are more than a few of you a little out of condition. Did you maintain your throwing program over break?”

“If I say no, are you going to tell the coaches?”

He raises one eyebrow. “You’re one of the older players out there. You have to stay on top of it all if you want to avoid retirement.”

“I’m twenty-eight.” He frowns. “Okay, I’m twenty-nine.” But if I’m being honest, I’m almost thirty, but I don’t want to believe how close that number is creeping up on me. Pitchers are in their prime in their twenties. I’m already well over that, and even though I’m not as old as Harry and Gordon, and I look like I could have just stepped out of college. Thank you, fear of turning into a tomato in the sun all those years. Sunscreen really is a skin saver . I already hear Harry and Gordon talking about retirement, and I don’t want to even think about how close that day might be for me, too. Though if the rumors are true, I might not get a choice.

“So I’m no spring chicken anymore, but I got a hella lot of years left in me. I pitched one hundred and two today. I might not have been sticking to the throwing program all through the break, but I wasn’t slacking off either. I basically lived at the pool. Swimming is a great workout for your arms, you know.”

“Well, if you want to be able to still pitch over one hundred, you better be here at five a.m. and seven p.m. every day this week, and follow the adjusted program I’m sending you.” He taps and swipes on his tablet.

“Five and seven?”

“I did say twice a day, didn’t I?”

“Pretty sure you didn’t.”

“Well, I am now.”

I wonder if Kyle has heard something about this rumor.

“Hey, did you hear that maybe only one of our teams get to stay on next year?” I ask, and his eyebrows rise a little.

“I have heard the gossip, but nothing from anyone that would actually know.”

“So, you don’t think it’s true?”

“I have no idea. But if I were you, I would follow my PT’s advice so that if it is, I’m still throwing the fastest ball in the league,” he says, then goes back to tapping on his tablet. I try to pull on my shirt, but my shoulder screams at me. It hurts worse now than when I felt the twang at practice. The treatment being worse than the freaking injury is so not fair.

I toss the shirt over my shoulder instead. It’ll have had to come back off in the showers, anyway. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Five a.m., and don’t be late.”

“You’re the boss,” I reply and head to the locker rooms. I don’t hate getting up early, I love it. Always have. With college, I was always up at four to hit the pool before morning classes, which is something I’ve continued over the years. But with having to get here by five for Kyle’s torture session, I’ll have no time for a decent swim.

When I reach the locker rooms, everyone has cleared out already, but the faint sound of running water echoes through from the showers, so I know at least someone is still here.

I strip off my pants, toss them on top of my bag, and grab a towel, wrapping it around my waist. Before I get to the showers, I hear someone singing, and I pause in the hallway just outside of the room. They’re singing “Tiny Dancer”. The original of the song Alan and Phillip were dancing to for the next opening number. I can’t tell who it is from just the voice, but he’s good. Really good. He’s tapping on something that’s making a smacking noise to keep time and fully going for it. I feel kind of like a creep standing outside the room listening, and it’s not like we haven’t all sung or, at minimum, lip-synced to so many songs over the last year. So I step into the doorway ready to tell them how great they can sing, but I freeze when I see it’s Alan. His back is to me, soap running over his muscled shoulders. Fuck. What should I do? I could stand here and just watch him, but that’s even creepier than staying in the hallway listening. I should just act like it’s any other day, cause it is, and any other day if any of the guys are singing in the showers, we just either hum along or join in.

The chorus hits, and I’m about to break through my nerves and join him in singing, but then I swear I hear him sing, “Hold me closer, tiny Tanner.” That can’t be right. He probably just got water in his mouth or something when he was singing. No way did he just sing my last name instead of the actual words. I step back, ready to abort, but don’t see the mop and bucket sitting there. It clangs to the floor, and he spins to face me, wide dark brown eyes boring into my soul. My gaze immediately goes to his wet glistening cock, and then, like a fucking teenager, I instantly go hard.

“Sorry, didn’t know anyone was in here,” I lie, turning away to hang my towel and hide my erection.

He doesn’t reply right away, and it’s probably because he either, a, knows I’m full of shit cause he was just singing at the top of his lungs in an empty shower room, or b, is weirded out by the fact he just saw me check out his dick. Yep, probably b.

I sidestep to the showers on the opposite wall and turn the water on, letting the heat wash over my aching muscles, my heart thumping in my ears with every second that passes. If he wants to pretend like nothing weird just happened, then I am totally okay with that. It’s better than him freaking out and blasting me for checking him out. Which he would be justified in doing. It’s not cool. I can usually control myself. True, there are normally a whole heap more men in here showering, and not once have they done anything to bring about the situation I’m still dealing with right now, but they are not Alan Beaker.

Fuck. Stop. I can’t do this. Harry was right. Hooking up with another player is a bad idea. Plus, he’s Animal Control, the competition. How would that even work? No. It wouldn’t. Shit, stop thinking about Alan Beaker and his long, thick cock.

I pump a few squirts of soap into a washcloth and rub it over my chest, hoping to better distract myself by actually doing what I came in here to do. After what feels like a fucking long time washing in silence, except for the running water, he begins humming the tune again, and then his hum becomes a soft song, and as much as I want to control myself, I can’t. I join in, and we continue like that, our backs toward each other, singing Elton John as we wash the day’s dirt and sweat away.

We near the end of the song, and I glance over my shoulder. He’s got his back to me, too, his dark hair dripping water over his tanned ass, making it shine, and my cock throbs. Nope. I can’t do this. I switch off the shower, grab my towel, and get the hell out of there, throwing on my clothes as fast as I can despite the pain in my shoulder and still being half wet.

When I get home, Duckie and Ian are on the couch snuggled up watching something on television, and they glance my way to say hi.

Ian goes back to watching the television right away, but Duckie’s eyebrows pick up on one side, and his lips morph into a sinister smirk.

“What have we been up to tonight?” he asks, and now Ian’s paused the television, and his attention is on me again, too.

“Nothing,” I lie, holding my bag in front of me to hide the fact I am still half-hard. While it was able to soften a little on the way home, just the slightest thought of Alan in the shower brings it right back up again.

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Duckie says.

“Is it raining?” Ian asks, pushing up from the couch to check out the window.

“No,” I reply on my way to my room, and before they can ask anything more, I close the door behind me, lean back against it, and shut my eyes. Water drips from my half-washed hair down my face. Urgh, I have to have a proper shower, and I still have to eat, too.

I crack open the bedroom door.

“Hey, did you guys want to order in, or have you already eaten?” I call, and Duckie leans half over the back of the couch.

“We were just about to ask you the same thing. I’m happy to order pizza if you want one?”

“Sure, I’ll have pepperoni, bacon, and onion. I’ll send you the money, too.”

“You got it last time. Technically, we owe you two dinners.”

“How do you figure?”

“There are two of us and one of you. Ian and I share a lot of things but our taste in pizza isn’t one of them.”

“Cool, well, I’m going to jump in the shower. I mustn’t have washed out this soap enough. I’ll be out soon.”

“No quackers,” Duckie calls, and as soon as his back is turned, I slip into the bathroom just outside my bedroom door. Having my own bathroom is amazing. I’ve never had this. Not once in my whole life. I had to share with my asshole ex, which, okay, sharing with a partner is a given, but he claimed the counter for all his random creams and serums, plus two of the three drawers which left me living out of a travel bag I had to put under the sink. Before going to college, I lived with my family sharing a bathroom with not only my parents, but my cousin, Teddy, too. It was madness at times. College was the same, only with more people to share with, but at least they also had more toilets and showers to go around. My shared house was the worst, though. It’s one thing to walk in and find piss on the floor from a family member, but when it’s from basically strangers, the ick factor goes from low to very fucking high.

I strip off the wet clothes and climb into the shower, only this time when the water washes over my back and my mind replays images of Alan and his glistening cock, I don’t push them away. I let them morph into fantasies of him coming up behind me while we sang, pressing his cock between the cheeks of my ass, grinding up against me, and jerking me off while my hands reach around to squeeze that perfect ass until we both come.

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