Troy snorts. “That form wasn’t even close to right.” He walks over to the machine, taking his position by the big net that’s there to catch the balls. “Come here. Take a few swings, and then we’ll get in another round with the weights. Might as well. That’s how I usually pace my workout.”
He hits a button on the front of the silver machine, and I hear the contraption that pitches the balls warming up. “Go,” he says, handing me a bat. “See what you can do.”
I take it and find my position, basically doing what I know from the few times I played tennis with a friend in high school, since that’s the closest thing I can think of.
Immediately, Troy corrects me.
“Align your bat over the plate. Hands touching, both eyes on the pitcher, but don’t turn your body to the mound.”
I make the micro-adjustments. Suddenly, a ball comes flying at me, and my instincts take over to knock it away, sending it flying back to the rear net with a thwack.
“Hell yeah!” I yell. “I’m a natural.” Another ball comes flying at me, and I hit it back, too, although it dings off my bat and bounces to the ground instead of soaring.
Troy hits a button on the machine, quieting it. “Everything about what you just did was a little bit wrong.”
I laugh, gripping the bat and playing with the pose. “Alright, better than a lot wrong.” I hand it to him. “Show me how it’s done.”
Troy grunts. He takes the bat and turns, grabbing the folding aluminum chair by the batting box. After he positions it at the base, he turns on the machine and then sits.
I watch him settle into his position. He stretches his legs in front, centers his body, and totally inhabits his strength. With the bat reared back and his muscles tight, I can suddenly see the game alive in Troy again, the athleticism dripping off of him like sweat down his back.
“I save my knee now,” he says as he turns his eyes up front. “But from the hip up, everything else is the same as you should do it.”
A ball comes flying his way, and Troy blasts it, nailing it high and fast. He stretches his arms back and repositions himself before slamming another pitch.
“Damn,” I say appreciatively.
Fuck. He’s so hot right now. I don’t even understand. The way his legs are stretched, how he throws his strength into every hit, the heavy rise and fall of his broad, hairy chest.
My dick rises up strong.
Troy stands and hands me the bat. “Try it again.”
I step up to the plate, check through my position mentally, and when a ball comes flying, I swing and make satisfying, solid contact.
“Better,” Troy says. “But it’s like you’re trying to play tennis or something.”
I look down at my feet and adjust myself. “This any better?” I guess.
When he frowns, I arch my back to make my butt stick out. “Or like this?”
Troy’s frown deepens. “No,” he says bluntly.
When another ball comes, I do my best to hit it with the right form, but make sure my butt is still up high. I haven’t watched much baseball, but I know the butts always look really good when the guys are at bat.
I make contact, sending the ball bouncing across the floor.
“Your feet got your hips messed up, and it made your swing too tight.”
I look at him over my shoulder. “Show me?” I ask.
Troy glares at me. I think he’s going to balk, but instead, he tightens his brow. “Here,” he says and steps right behind me.
I suck in a surprised breath, and my hard dick throbs in my jock.
“Hips,” he says, and his big hand lands on my hip, pulling me. “Back like this.” His rough voice is right in my ear, and even though we’re barely touching, I can feel him everywhere, like the whisper of his beard at my neck. “Shoulders and knees,” he says, one hand on my shoulder and the other down my leg. “Like that, and rotate.” Troy swings my body, pushing against me everywhere as we turn.
A baseball flies out of the machine, hitting the net behind us with a thud.
