“What’s up, Stone?”
Speaking of the fucking ray of sunshine.
I’m very proud that I stop myself from closing my eyes and screaming to the heavenswhy. Because, of course, Michaels is going to hop on the treadmill next to mine. I ignore him and keep running. He always wants to talk to me. I don’t like to talk.
He chuckles. I have no idea why. He doesn’t seem to understand that myfuck offface means…fuck off. I like my solitude, especially when I’m in this bad of a rut.
“Killer BP sesh today.”
And here we go with the talking.
“Is there anything better than hammering some balls? When you make contact just right—” He cuts off and moans. “God, it feels so good. That zing that goes through your entire body.”
My muscles lock tight. What the literal fuck? That’s the other thing about Michaels. He’s stupid. Stupidly gorgeous. As a bisexual man with eyes, it’s hard not to notice. Even with a lifetime of conditioning myself not to. Because if you look, people assume the worst about you.
It doesn’t help that the guy runs his mouth and says the most sinful things, completely oblivious to it. He’s every queer guy's worst nightmare. A constant tease. One that’s off limits.
“And you were so hot out there.”
And he’s still going. With the torture.
“Like, man, what a sexy swing. I’ve definitely been watching and taking notes. Always gotta be working on improving that bat-handling, ya know?”
I grunt. Because what am I supposed to even say to this guy? Especially when my brain went offline the minute he started moaning and comparing hitting to orgasms. And fuck, he called me sexy. Kind of. My cock doesn’t understand, it just heard a gorgeous man say sexy in reference to me. Now the poor thing is confused. And he’s watching me, is he? Taking notes? Oh, the bat-handling tips I could give him.
Distraction. Need more distraction.
I smash the controls and up the speed on my machine…and Michaels follows suit. I shoot a glance his way and instantly regret it. His smile is in full force. I swear he’s like that yellow sponge cartoon, always with a huge smile taking up his whole face.
His eyebrows lift, and he sends me an eager puppy look. “Wanna race?”
I blink at him. Then glance at the dashboard of my machine and back at him. We are…on treadmills.
He tips his head back and laughs, throat muscles rippling. My stare grazes over every inch of that Florida-tanned, freckled skin, stretched back and begging for attention. From women. Fromwomennnnn. Even if he wasn’t straight, that’s not a place I’d ever go. Messing around with a teammate? Disaster. You don’t mix business with pleasure.
Blue eyes meet mine, crinkled at the corners and shining way too brightly for a treadmill session. “I mean, like, we match speeds,” he says, amusement still floatingthrough his words. “I know we can’treallyrace. But I bet I can go harder and longer than you.”
I sigh. Audibly. Because really?
I don’t answer him. I’m not sure I could right now. My body doesn’t know which way is up. Well, my dick knows which way is up. A sexy man just challenged it to prove to him itcan go harder and longer, and it’d gladly show him.
And while I think his treadmill “game” is ridiculous, it’s the perfect distraction for my mind and body. So, I turn up my speed again.
He matches me, and we run like that for a minute. I side-eye him and find him watching me. He winks, then increases his speed. I increase mine.
We settle in. We’re at 8 mph, and I could run at this pace easily for a couple miles. We keep glancing at each other, like we’re waiting for the other to up the speed next. I don’t want to give in, because a part of me doesn’t want to admit I’m playing this game with him. I don’t do games. I don’t shoot the shit and go out for drinks. I keep to myself unless baseball requires otherwise.
He turns his speed up to 9 mph. But I’m a competitive fucker. I can’t back down now. I push mine to 10.
We’re full-on sprinting now. Our gazes catch for the briefest of moments, and what reflects back at me goes straight to my dick. It’s pure mischief. Wicked. Bratty. And I really love a brat.
Then his finger slides to his speed. And stays there—not increasing but waiting. In challenge.
My finger lands on my controls. He goes up. I match.
More.
I match.
