Baseball Parties
Cole
The one rule I had about parties at the house during baseball season was that they happened after we finished a weekend series. So, no parties on Friday or Saturday nights when we had games the next day, but Sunday nights were up for grabs. Which was why the baseball house at Fullton State was currently at capacity.
Why would anyone listen to me, you might be asking yourself? Because I was the damn captain of the team, and I lived in the house. What I said went. When the other guys lived here and I was gone, they could do whatever they wanted. They could burn down my rules and make new ones for all I cared. But as long as I was a senior and this was my last chance to get drafted and play professional baseball, they would do what I said. Or they could all get the hell out and find a new location to party at.
No one gave me shit though, to be honest. I’d been on the team since I was a freshman. I’d paid my dues. Nothing had been handed to me, unlike some of the other guys here. Listen, just because we were teammates, it didn’t mean that we were friends. I wouldn’t associate with a handful of these guys off the field if I wasn’t forced to. And that wasn’t me being a dick. I was just being real.
Baseball players were known for their egos. I understood that. I was one, and I wouldn’t pretend I didn’t have one, but there was a time and place to be cocky. Most of the guys tended to forget that, whipping their proverbial dicks out every chance they got to see who had the bigger one. We never lost sight of the fact that it was a competition out there. A competition to be seen, to get bites from scouts, to beat out your teammates if you had to for a place in the minor leagues. This might have been a team sport, but only one person at a time got selected in the draft.
“Cole!” someone yelled my name, but I had no idea who.
Looking around the crowded space, I noticed Chance Carter waving me over from the backyard. I wiggled my bedroom door handle, making sure that it was locked, before tucking the keys in my pocket and heading toward Chance and the keg he stood next to.
If I thought it would take me only a second to reach him, I was wrong. Girls stopped me, pawing at my chest, congratulating me on our win, all of them practically foaming at the mouth in anticipation. It was bizarre, and I should be used to it by now, but a part of me still wasn’t. These girls acted like we had magic keys to a castle only we could see but they were dying to get into. They treated us like gods, something to be envied, vied for, and hopefully won over.
I’d admit that my dick had loved it at first. The girls had made it so easy for me—an eighteen-year-old freshman who’d had sex one time in high school. Once they found out I was on the baseball team, they swarmed me every chance they got, flirting, pretending like they were interested in me when they were only interested in having a story to tell. I was too naive to put that together at the time—the fact that some girls simply wanted to be able to say they’d fucked me. I’d always thought that girls were all feelings, all the time, but that definitely wasn’t true. Welcome to college.
My ego had initially loved the newfound attention, craved it even. Until I noticed how distracted pussy made the other players on the team. They stopped focusing solely on the game. My first year, I watched how females caused problems on the field, started fights between teammates, and incited unnecessary drama. I didn’t have the time or desire for any of that, so I’d started keeping most girls at arm’s length. That wasn’t to say that I stopped hooking up completely—because I didn’t. It just wasn’t that often, no matter what other people said.
If you believed the things said about me on campus, then I wouldn’t even have time to be on the baseball field, what with my apparent nonstop hopping from one chick’s bed to another’s. It was a lie, an exaggeration at best, but what did I care? As long as my game was on fire and the scouts were seeing me play well, my fellow students could say whatever they wanted.
The truth was that I rarely slept around. I definitely had a few one-night stands under my belt. I was a single guy in college on the hottest baseball team in the country. I used it to my advantage whenever I felt the need. I hadn’t meant to turn into such a stereotypical jock, but it’d happened anyway.
“Cole, find me later?” a busty fake blonde whispered in my ear as I pushed through the crowd toward the sliding glass door.
“Not likely,” I shot back without sparing her another glance.
I knew she was pouting, her injected bottom lip sticking out way too far for her face.
Why did girls keep doing that shit? Did they really think we liked the way it looked or even cared?
Ladies, we guys loved that you had a mouth in general. We daydreamed about the things we’d like to do to it or put in it or having it wrapped around our dicks. But we never daydreamed about you making them bigger. If anything, we wished you’d stop. There was enough fake shit in this world; you didn’t need to fill your face with it.
“What’s up, Carter?” I said, calling Chance by his last name once I finally reached him. I clapped him on the back as he handed me a beer in a red plastic cup.
Chance was the son of a baseball legend here at Fullton State and our pitching coach, Jack Carter. He was only a sophomore, but he was one of the best catchers I’d ever seen behind the plate, and he was starting this year, after playing second string to a senior last season.
The best part about Chance was that he never acted like he was owed a damn thing. He worked hard, even as a freshman, and I’d taken to him right away, respecting his work ethic and the way he carried himself. It was rare that someone so young could be so focused and driven, but then again, he’d grown up with a legend, so maybe it was to be expected.
“Hanging out at the keg isn’t a great way to avoid the ladies, Chance,” I teased, knowing that he had a rule about not dating or hooking up with any girls. Ever. I used to make fun of him for it when he first joined the team, but once my senior year had started, I’d understood all too well what he’d been trying to do.
Chance shrugged. “Coming to the baseball house isn’t a great way to avoid the ladies,” he said in response, and I laughed.
You see, most guys had to chase girls in college, but if you were on the baseball team, they came to you. And if you were Chance Carter, you tripled that number.
“You did it right, man,” I said, tipping back my beer and taking a small sip. I didn’t drink often during the season, and I never got drunk.
His eyes narrowed. “What’d I do right exactly?”
“The girls. You said no right from the start. I’m just saying no now. It feels like too little, too late,” I admitted, as if my sex life had led to the fact that I hadn’t gotten drafted at the end of last season. It had nothing to do with it and everything to do with my shitty batting average. I was great in the outfield, fast, with an arm like a rocket, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to have the stats at the plate to go along with it.
You see, getting drafted was a bit easier if you were a pitcher or a catcher. Teams always clamored for as much pitching as they could get, convinced that the more pitching they had, the better off they’d be. And catchers were a close second. But being a position player, trying to get drafted, was a little tougher. They looked for a strong, powerful bat among your other attributes. But if you sucked at hitting, you weren’t getting picked up. And by the end of last year, I had fallen into a slump I couldn’t get out of.