Throughout the game, I could feel his eyes on me, and I needed to tune him out or I’d mess up big-time. Jones was way more agreeable about my calls, but somehow, I missed Maclain making me work for it and giving me a hard time.
The bus ride home was quiet because we lost by three runs, and Coach Crawford was sitting up front with Coach Adams and Kellan, their heads bent together, discussing strategy. Kellan was damned good at stats, and I could see him working for a professional team someday.
This time, I was a distance away from Maclain, and I could only see his profile as he leaned his head against the window, likely trying to nap. I had the urge to slide onto the empty seat beside him and just sit in comfortable silence or maybe ask him more questions about his life, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be welcome.
Except when the bus pulled into the home field parking lot and we began filing off, he looked toward the back of the bus as if searching for me—at least that’s what I told myself—and I thought maybe I could’ve chanced the seat visit after all.
7
Maclain
It was Friday night, the weekend of our first series of away games. As I slid into a bus seat beside Sinclair, whom I normally bunked with on these trips, I felt nervous. Not only because of pitching one of the doubleheaders tomorrow, but because of the looming reality of sharing a room with Girard.
Maybe there was a way to get out of it. It wasn’t like Coach would be doing midnight sweeps of our rooms, but knowing these jokers, someone would slip and rat us out.
I could also admit I was being irrational about the whole thing. What was the big deal about sharing a room with a member of my own team? But given that I was trying to keep my distance from Girard, as well as from my unsettling feelings, being in the same space, sleeping, listening to him breathe, close enough to touch…yeah, it felt like a big deal.
But Coach was right. Girard and I needed to mesh better in order to win games. Goddamn it.
I heard Kellan laugh, and I turned toward the back and glared at him like it was all his fault. He and Donovan sitting together on bus rides for real now instead of Donovan sneaking a few minutes here and there was nauseating. They kept it professional on the field, just like Coach had asked. But in their downtime, with those damned earbuds they were always sharing, they were too much. Gag. I ignored the ache in my gut telling me I was only jealous of their closeness and having someone to rely on.
On cue, my stepfather’s voice floated through my head. They don’t have to shove it in our faces, he’d said of the gay couple in the restaurant and countless other times over the years. Now my stomach revolted even further. If he knew I was fantasizing on the regular about our catcher, he’d have some things to say about me too, and likely ignore me more, maybe even for good.
What would my mother think, were she still alive? Something told me she’d have just the right thing to say. Or maybe that was the flowery version I carried in my head. My memories of her were steadily fading as time went by, which was why that fucking bee meant so much to me. Dad had gifted me my very first glove, and that used to be special to me as well, even though I was sure Mom had put him up to it, probably even purchased it herself. Now it sat somewhere in my childhood room, collecting dust along with my trophies.
I glanced ahead of me to where Girard was involved in a conversation with his former roommate, Fischer. At least he wasn’t trying to shove honey candy at me this time. What the hell was that about? I refused to admit he was sort of sweet when he wasn’t being completely annoying.
It was late when we arrived in Valdosta to play the Devils, having stopped for dinner at a fast-food restaurant on the way down. Starved by that time, we scarfed down burgers and fries like they were going out of style. This team could definitely eat. Drink too, but no one got out of hand on these trips during the season—we knew better, with our record and reputation on the line.
“Get a good night’s sleep,” Coach said as Kellan handed out room keys in the lobby. “See you in the morning.”
At least Kellan had the sense to look sheepish as he handed me and Girard ours. Nobody joked about it as a group of us stepped in the elevator together. Rooming with Girard felt heavy to me, and maybe to him too, because when we got to our room, the uncomfortable silence between us persisted as we chose our beds and rummaged through our bags, likely to give our hands something to do. But I could’ve been projecting, because I seemed way more wooden in my movements as I walked to the window to check out our view of the parking lot while Girard hummed some popular tune I couldn’t put my finger on.
“Gonna jump in the shower,” Girard said, closing himself behind the bathroom door, and that immediately lessened the tension. Holy fuck, how was this even going to play out if we were this uptight around each other?
I changed into a pair of nylon shorts, slid beneath the covers, then mindlessly clicked around the channels on the television, finally settling on a comedy.
I’d gotten sucked in and was chuckling at some stupid antic on the screen when Girard came out with a towel wrapped around his waist to retrieve some clothes from his bag. This was nothing new—he would walk by me that way at least three times a week—but something about us being in this setting, alone, felt nearly suffocating.
Now my gaze slid over to him for a long minute, which was something I avoided like hell in the locker room, especially after the shower incident.
When I noticed the bruises on his biceps, I gasped. They looked deep and painful and probably fresh from the first couple of weeks of the season. I wondered if his mom—whom he regularly talked about in an affectionate way that didn’t make me gag but rather intrigued me, go figure—was alarmed by his injuries.
His back straightened. “What’s wrong?”
I pointed to his arm. “Those are from stray pitches?”
He shrugged. “You’ve never noticed before?”
“Not like I stare at your body. I’m not…” My words trailed off as Girard scrutinized me, and I had to look away, ashamed of what I’d been about to say, all because I was so fucking afraid of my feelings.
“We’re always naked around each other. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being curious,” he said carefully, then made a frustrated noise. “Christ, Maclain. Don’t tell me you’ve never wondered what people were packing and looked just for the hell of it.”
“No.” My pulse was throbbing in my ears. “Fuck no.”
“Okay, whatever you want to tell yourself,” he grumbled. He seemed irritated and a bit bummed—nothing new there—and for the first time all day, it put us right back in that edgy zone where we normally lived with each other. It had become almost a comfort to me, which was really fucked up.
“And to answer your question, yeah, I get all kinds of bruises from stray balls. I wear shin guards, obviously, but my thighs take the brunt of it.”
He moved aside his towel and pointed out a deep bruise on his upper thigh.
“Damn.” I tried so freaking hard to focus on the tender, purple skin, but my eyes kept straying to his cock. It was thick and lying against his thigh in front of a nest of dark, wiry hair and, holy shit, I was getting hard.
And now I was certain Girard was just screwing with me as he dropped the towel and moved around the room like he owned the place.