Heat coils through me, a metal rod throbbing in my fist.
“I’d take your ass right on home plate,” I tell him. I spit on my hand again, dreaming about the tight friction of his hole as I stroke myself.
“Yeah?” He goes back and jerks himself harder, his voice catching. “I’d suck you off to start. Push you against the fence and swallow your cock.”
My hips buck, and I start fucking my hand. “I’d get you good and ready for my cock,” I tell him, slipping into the fantasy. “Splay you out over home plate and eat your ass until you’re begging for it.”
“Oh yeah,” Orlando says appreciatively, swirling his finger against his hole and back to his shaft, up and down again. “Give it to me. Please. I need it. I’ll yell so loud, I’ll fill that fucking stadium with my voice.”
I grunt and lean forward, needing to get closer to him, to feel his body radiate.
“And you know what I’ll do once I make you come a few times?” I tell him.
“Tell me,” Orlando says. His face is flushed, and he looks like he’s ready to come apart. “What will you do, Troy?”
“Drag you into the locker and make you fuck me, too,” I tell him.
Orlando lets out a long, low groan of approval. “Fuck yeah you will.”
The idea rushes through me. Orlando’s cock could enter me. He could fuck me just like I want to fuck him, and right now, verging on an orgasm and dripping sweat, I can barely handle how hot that is.
Would I seriously do that? But he doesn’t slow down.
“I’ll fuck you against the lockers,” Orlando says. “Fuck you in the showers.”
“Fuck you on the pitcher’s mound with the whole damn stadium watching,” I say, and Orlando jerks. His expression twists, and an orgasm explodes out of him. The thick, white ropes coat his stomach, and seeing that is enough to do me in. I climax just as hard, falling back and away from Orlando again.
We both lie there in the silence, catching our breath. When my ears stop ringing, I push myself up on the yoga mat and look at him.
Orlando gives me a lazy smile. “Thanks,” he says. “I needed that.”
I huff. “Yeah,” I agree. “Me, too.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
ORLANDO
How do you tell a guy like Troy that you’re falling hard for him? The idea feels like explaining to a grizzly bear that you need a hug.
He and I are at the stadium, alone in a training room near the offices. Now that my sling is off, I’m doing physical therapy here while the team trains on the field. Troy’s by for a meeting with the team management and owners ahead of the MLS Cup, mainly regarding Zeke’s overpacked schedule, which gave us an easy excuse to meet up.
The doctors gave me some good news, and even though I’m still nowhere near returning to competitive play, I’m not stuck in bed, either.
And Troy’s lingering long enough to spot me when I know there are a million other things he should be doing. It feels good to see him, reassuring, although I’ve noticed he’s even grumpier than usual today.
Instead of blurting out that I want him to be my boyfriend, I’m trying to apply the lessons I’ve been learning. I want to approach it the right way, confident but not cocky. Troy’s made himself an indispensable part of my recovery. The respect he’s showing me and my game fuels my focus and hardens my intent to deliver this season.
If I tell him how I feel and he shoots me down, it will wreck me. Not to mention what that could do to my game. Losing Troy would be devastating in so many ways.
What if he decides I’m too much trouble, and he doesn’t want me the way I want him? He’s never said anything about wanting more, with me or anyone else.
Soon as I entertain those doubts, the other insecurities start to amplify. If the team is great without me, and I’m only my best because of Troy, what does that mean?
Troy curses at his phone and throws it on a big cushioned bench.
“What’s pissing you off today?” I ask as I stretch on a mat.
He shakes his head. “Work.”
