Switch Hitter Page 5

  A jolt of elation at seeing him there, a big smile on his face, made Bent shit-faced happy for a split second before he squashed the feeling.

  As soon as his foot touched home plate, he raised his hand to accept the round of high-fives from his teammates. He would have looked like a total ass if he hadn’t slapped palms with Sean, too. Their hands met in mid-air, but instead of a quick slap, Sean wrapped his fingers around Bentley’s hand, turning the celebratory smack into a masculine caress.

  To everyone watching it appeared normal, but there was nothing normal about the sizzle of lust the first baseman’s touch incited. Bent looked from their clasped hands to the other man’s face. Their gazes met, held for a second before Sean looked away, Bent saw something that rocked him to the core. Not just lust, but something more—a depth of understanding beyond the physical. Yeah, the other guys understood the elation, the excitement, the pride in what he’d done, but they had their own agendas. Ashley, too, would be proud of him, but her understanding was limited. She didn’t play the game. She couldn’t know what it meant to him to achieve his level of success.

  Sean did. He’d seen it in the other man’s eyes. The man had been genuinely happy for him. No professional jealousy. No envy. Just pride and a wealth of understanding with no hidden agendas.

  As much as the knowledge frightened him, it warmed him, too. He’d never had such a connection with another person. Maybe if he’d had a brother like Jeff and Jason Holder had each other. They both played, and he’d never gotten a whiff of any jealousy between them. But he’d grown up with one pesky little sister who did nothing but complain about having to go to his games.

  He accepted congratulations from his teammates in the dugout, racked his helmet and batting gloves before taking a seat on the far end of the bench. Dispensing himself a cup of water from the cooler next to him, he drank it down.

  A gap between players standing along the dugout fence allowed him to see Sean in the batter’s box. The count was already one ball, one strike on the batter. A lefty facing a left-handed pitcher. Too bad Sean wasn’t a switch hitter like himself. Didn’t matter if the pitcher was right or left-handed, Bent could switch sides of the batter’s box without skipping a beat.

  “Strike two,” the umpire called.

  An invisible cord pulled Bent from the bench to the fence. He curled his fingers over the top rail. Sean appeared relaxed going through his pre-batting ritual.

  One foot in the box, one out, Sean adjusted his grip on the bat then looked toward the dugout. His gaze landed on Bentley. Time stood still for the space of a heartbeat. The noise of the crowd faded away. There was no one else, just the two of them locked in silent communication.

  Come on, Flannery. You can do it.

  Sean stepped into the box and turned his attention to the pitcher, breaking the spell or whatever it was passing between them.

  Bent’s head spun. He clutched the rail with a white-knuckled grip to keep from tumbling off the low wall supporting the fence.

  What the hell just happened?

  Shaken, he focused on the field.

  Nothing. It was nothing.

  The pitcher wound up, threw the ball. Bent recognized the instant Sean made the decision to swing. His gut clenched. He knew a moment of terror, understood the exact feeling his teammate experienced as they both realized he’d swung too high.

  Smack! The ball landed smack in the center of the catcher’s mitt.

  “Steeerrrriiiike Three!” The ump, emphasizing his words with a fist jab.

  Sean’s chest rose then fell. Raising his chin high, he strode to the dugout.

  Dignity in the face of defeat.

  Pride swelled in him as he watched the conquered batter retreat. Had he ever shown as much grace after striking out? No, he didn’t think so. He was more prone to curse under his breath, shake his head, or glare at the umpire. Sean, doing none of those things, appeared the epitome of the professional baseball player.

  The railing cleared as players gathered their gear to take the field for the bottom of the inning. There was a lot of shuffling around as they found their caps and gloves. Sean trotted up the dugout steps to the field, stopping at first base. As Bent passed him on his way to his position in left field, he slapped the newest member of the team on the ass with his glove.

  Sean froze. Ass slaps were commonplace in baseball and could mean anything from, “Cheer up, man,” to, “Nice job.” Under these circumstances, it could only mean one thing, “You’re a screw-up.” But when he turned to see who had done the deed, he wasn’t so sure.

  Even if to chastise, the gesture was often in the spirit of camaraderie. Being chummy was the last thing he expected from the Mustangs left fielder. So what had Bentley meant by it?

  The question puzzled him throughout the remainder of the game. As usual, the left fielder ignored him off the field, acknowledging him on the field only when necessary to a play, which was unusual between their two on-field positions.

  For a split second before he’d stepped into the batter’s box for the final pitch, he’d locked eyes with Bent. Something had passed between them—no doubt a hex to make him swing and miss, but it had felt like something more. Wishful thinking on his part. He was sure of it now. The butt swat had been a, “See. I made you do it,” swat—nothing more.

  But still. It felt like more. He couldn’t explain it, it just was.

  Following the game, the team went straight to the airport to board a plane for their next destination. Bent kept his distance, as he had ever since Sean had taunted him at his house. The behavior was to be expected, but after the two instances during their game today, the cold-shoulder treatment was somehow more brutal, more hurtful than before.

  It seemed the tables were turned. Bent was taunting him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d told him he wouldn’t pursue a relationship, any movement toward one would have to come from him. Even though Sean wanted to believe those moments during the game were overtures of sorts, they weren’t the kind he could act upon. No, if the man wanted something more, he’d have to come right out and ask for it.

  Hell will freeze over first.

  Waiting, along with about half the team for an elevator at their new hotel, Sean watched as the first car to arrive filled. He hung back, preferring to wait for the next one rather than share a crowded cubicle with the one man he couldn’t get out of his system.

  The doors were closing when Todd Stevens stuck his arm out, forcing them open again.

  “Flannery,” he said. “Get in here.”

  “I’ll wait,” he said.

  “It’s late, and we have an early game tomorrow. Get your skinny ass in here.”

  The Mustangs third baseman wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Painfully aware he was still the new guy on the team, Sean wedged himself into the ornate box.

  “Thirty-four,” he said.

  “Already punched.”

  The press of male bodies did nothing for him, save the one squashed in the back corner. Even if he hadn’t seen him, he would have known he was there. He always knew when Bentley was nearby. The constant knowledge was his own private hell.

  After a few stops, the crowd had thinned somewhat, and he breathed a little easier, able to move without bumping into someone. He watched the floor numbers light up as the car climbed upward. The car stopped at the thirty-fourth floor.

  “This is me,” he said, stepping out. “See you in the morning.”

  He paused, looking for the placard indicating in which direction he would find his room.

  “This is me, too.”

  Bentley.

  Shit.

  Locating the sign, he prayed their rooms were on opposite ends of the corridor. He took off just as the elevator doors swished shut.

  “Hey, Sean,” Bentley called out.

  He stopped, glanced at the ceiling, silently blaming the universe for conspiring against him. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he turned to face the love of hi
s life. “What?”

  Bent checked the hallway before he spoke. “Can we talk?” He shifted on his feet. “I know it’s late, but what I have to say won’t take long. A minute.”

  “We can talk here.”

  He shook his head. “My room or yours?”

  “I have a roommate.”

  “Mine then.” Turning, he headed in the opposite direction.

  Sean fell in step behind him even though every cell in his body knew it was a bad idea. Nothing good could come from a conversation between them.

  Stopping at a door mid-way down, Bent inserted his key card. When the green light flashed, he pushed the door open. Like a starved puppy, Sean followed him inside. The door clanged shut behind him.

  “How do you rate a single room?” he asked.

  “It’s in my contract.”

  Sean smirked, taking in the upgraded room complete with king-sized bed and a separate sitting area. An expensive looking piece of luggage waited for its owner on a rack in the open closet. “Of course it is. What do you want?”

  Bent tossed his key card on the desk and faced him. “I wanted to tell you I think you did a good job out there today. You’re an asset to the team.”

  Both eyebrows rose. “You brought me to your room to tell me I’m doing a good job?” His pulse raced. Every breath brought a subtle reminder of his tormenter’s unique scent. Being alone with Bent played havoc with his libido, yet he couldn’t help wondering what was behind the man’s sudden goodwill. “You could have told me anywhere.”

  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 curfe
w 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.