That hadn’t stopped me from helping him double-stuff our neighbor’s pussy on more than one occasion. Or sucking off Chicago’s rookie catcher while Roman had fucked his ass after last month’s matchup in the Windy City.
“You’re welcome to join us,” he hedged.
I shook my head. The occasional threesome with my roommate was fun, but that was more Roman’s thing. Besides, tonight I had something more sinful in mind.
“I appreciate the invitation, but this is our one week off in months, and I’m going to spend it face-first in deep-fried heaven.”
Roman shrugged. “Your loss. You could’ve spent it face-first in Hillary.”
Matty’s laugh woke the pittie resting on his shoe and earned us a few harsh glares from our fellow yogis. We probably should’ve saved the fucking and funnel cake talk until after the class.
It was our second day at the Columbia County Fair, and I, for one, was ready to curl up with a corndog and call it a night. Playing a doubleheader in ninety-degree heat, in front of forty-thousand screaming fans was nothing compared to the mental and emotional exhaustion that came from autographing mitts and tits for hours on end.
Thousands of people had turned out for the annual event held halfway between Portland and Rose City, just west of the Columbia River. For two days, while our pitcher and catcher represented the Roasters at this year’s All-Star game, and the rest of our teammates caught up on their beauty rest, Matty, Roman, and I had schmoozed the crowd, posed for pictures with baseball fans from across the Pacific Northwest, and judged the marionberry pie bakeoff. Oregon’s obsession with the marionberry was borderline psychotic, if you asked me, but I never turned down a piece—or nine—of pie.
The three of us had beenvoluntoldto represent the Roasters’ franchise by Dani, the team’s social media director, though most days she felt more like the team’s mom. The last thing any of us wanted was to disappoint her, a fate worse than death.
Officially, Dani had tasked us—three social, eligible, and slightly oversexed bachelors—with representing the team and their partnership with the Rose City Dog Rescue. Hence this afternoon’s yoga class with adoptable puppies, our final event for the weekend. Unofficially, I came to cuddle dogs and deepthroat pickles on a stick.
What could I say? I was a simple man.
It didn’t take much to make me happy. Bread, baseball, blow jobs and The Beatles . . . preferably in that order.
Carbs were my love language, and nobody did carbs quite like the county fair. I had never met a funnel cake or Cheeto-dusted hot dog or honey-fried chicken sandwich—with donuts for buns—that was anything less than orgasmic. So what if it led to late-night indigestion or heartburn? That was a problem for future me.
Besides, great love meant enduring great pain. That was what my Great Aunt Helga said, at least.
I might not be able to stomach fried dough like I had in my early twenties, but pancake-battered pickles deep fried in oil seemed like a good compromise. Practically a salad, if you asked me, especially when paired with a mango mule slushie.
Fruitsandvegetables. Mom would be so proud.
We buried our noses in our mats for the final few minutes of “stretch and fetch,” until at last, the instructor bowed her head and dismissed the class. After that, we spent another twenty minutes or so fielding the questions—and phone numbers—hurled in our direction. Based on Matty’s sappy smile, it looked like I was the only one going home without a threesome tonight.Fine by me.I was just as happy with my hand, so long as the other one had a potato swirl.
You hear that, Mom? That’s two vegetables.
Just as we finished gathering up the last of the mats and foam blocks, my eyes landed on a familiar face at the back of the dissipating crowd. One head stood above the rest. More specifically, the dirty blond locks piled into a messy bun atop that head.
“Huh.”
“What?” Matty asked.
“I thought it was hot out, but I guess it was just Hell.”
He glanced over his shoulder, smiling when his attention landed on the man walking toward us across the small, grassy field.
Brock Heller.
Better known amongst the locker room as Hell, Heller Skelter, or, my personal favorite, Hades’s lost hellhound.
The man should come with a warning. One that read: “Don’t let the freckles and swagger fool you—I’m a menace.”
It was widely known that the illustrious sports journalist could make or break any athlete’s career with the power of his pen. He also hostedHigh Cheese, one of the most downloaded baseball podcasts on Spotify. That meant there were two ways he could ruin my life—print and audio.
That hadn’t stopped me from eye-fucking him every chance I’d gotten these past few months.
“Gentlemen,” he said, nodding in our direction.
“Heller,” Matty greeted, extending his hand. Ever the Southern gentleman. “Good to see you again.”
