My mouth curled into a smile.
The gym? On a Friday night?
Dylan: We can’t get lazy now. We don’t want to be stuck in Single A ball for long
I think I need photographic evidence that you were working out
It took a few seconds, then two images loaded. The first showed Jase with a towel slung low on his hips, beads of water rolling down his chest.
The second was of Dylan shirtless, wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants. His hair was damp, and he flexed his biceps, showing off how beneficial that time in the gym had been.
Jase: Is that good enough or do you need another angle?
Dylan: We can send a video if you need more than photos
I squeezed my thighs together and typed:
Those will do
Understatement of the century.
I locked my phone before anyone could look over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of two hot baseball players. Those photos were definitely going to be revisited later, though. Preferably in my bed, with my vibrator handy.
8
Jase
An hourinto a three-hour flight out of Fort Myers had me feeling restless, and Dylan kept hogging the armrest he apparently thought was his. “You drool on my shoulder, and I’m jabbing you in the ribs.”
He cracked one eye open. “You’re already complaining, and we’re not even halfway there.”
“Then stop stealing my space.”
“These seats suck. My ass is numb.” He shut his eyes again and shifted in the cramped seat.
“You spent three weeks running outfield drills in Florida’s heat and humidity. I think your precious ass will survive sitting for a few hours.”
“You’re the worst.”
“You love me.” I smirked.
“Unfortunately.” He grinned, keeping his eyes closed.
Even though we no longer lived together, we still spent as much time with each other as possible. We had our own training schedules, and our teams had put us up in apartments, but whenwe weren’t training or sleeping, we were usually grabbing a bite to eat or just hanging out together. It was going to suck when the next season started, and we were no longer in the same town. At least we had about six months before that happened.
With the lights turned down and most of the window shades lowered to block the afternoon sun, the cabin was dim. Most people were staring at their phones, some had earbuds in, and nobody talked much. My brain refused to slow down after three weeks at rookie camp. The Red Sox coaches had been on me for every missed ground ball and gave me notes after the cage round. It was intense, to say the least. Dylan had been across the complex in Crushers gear, running outfield drills on a different field. Now we were on our way to Cape Cod to see the President and First Lady walk their son down the aisle (or however they were doing it), and there was a real chance their daughter would get us into her bedroom again.
Even though my phone was in airplane mode, I was using the plane’s Wi-Fi. While scrolling through social media, my phone buzzed with a text. It was from the woman I’d been thinking about. She sent a message to our group chat with Dylan:
Status report. Are my guys in the air or did you miss your flight?
Dylan reached for his phone. “That Faye?”
“Yeah, she called us ‘her guys’.”
“No shit?”
We’re in the air, but D’s crying about his ass
