Page 25 of Choke Up

ELLIS

"Dude, you were on fire today!"

A guy named Nate slaps my brother on the ass as he walks past us on our way out of the athletic building. My brother swipes out to smack the guy, but his arm and shoulder are still wrapped in the ice sleeve that Coach and the trainers are making him wear after each game and practice. Apparently, Huntston University's new golden arm needs to be babied, especially after the third weekend of pitching three scrimmages in a row.

Tonight, he pitched a near shutout. The only batter he didn’t strike out was Gabe, whom Coach put in the batting lineup just for shits and giggles in the last inning. Jimmy had to take his place as catcher, which would have been comical if it wasn't sad. He looked rough. A lot of the players do, considering they'd been training every afternoon into the evening, and then playing some of the most intense scrimmages I've ever witnessed every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

Everyone's exhausted, but happy with how they’re playing. Their good moods seem to culminate in a lot of butt touching.

I snort out a laugh. "I'm just saying, if I'd known how homoerotic jock culture is, maybe I'd have played more sports."

Elliot bumps me with his hip playfully. "Maybe you should join the team."

Another guy, who I'm pretty sure is from an entirely different campus sports team, belches so loudly it echoes down the corridor.

"I'll pass, thanks," I say, and Elliot laughs again.

"Where's Gabe?" I ask.

I've gotten annoyingly used to the two of them showing up in the equipment room after their showers and waiting for me. In my attempt to cover up my nudity the day he nearly caught me with my pants down—literally—I seem to have caused some concern. So now my favorite two jackasses have gone into ultra-protective mode. Since almost getting caught seems to have scared Johnny off from risky in-person meetings, and I'm feeling guilty for my lie, I've allowed it. Besides, it's a short-term problem.

Next weekend marks the end of a six-week intensive training camp before two exhibition games, and then the team is back to regular practices before the season officially starts. By that time, their normal equipment manager will be out of his boot and back to his regular duties. The schedule makes no sense to me. I'm just glad that I'm done playing bat boy. Although I have to admit, it's been pretty exciting knowing that Johnny is around here somewhere, and I live for the random texts and pictures he sends me. Earlier today, he sent me a picture of my own ass, bent over to pick up a discarded bat. That was followed by a closeup of his crotch; his erection poorly concealed by his uniform pants.

I nearly got hit by a foul ball shortly after that. Only Gabe's quick reaction kept me from getting hit. And damn if I didn't feel like some kind of damsel in distress being saved from disaster when Gabe wrapped an arm around my waist and lifted me against his big body like I weighed nothing, moving me out of the line of fire. Not to mention that he caught the damn thing, too. I could have swooned.

Although it did kind of ruin a theory I had running through my mind. It's probably for the best, though. I'd spent so much time pretending Johnny is Gabe in my mind, that the t-shirt and catcher's gear in the equipment room almost convinced me that there was a possibility it could actually be him. That would be impossible, though. He's never looked at me like that, or showed any signs that he thinks of me as anything more than Elliot's little brother. And he certainly can't be in two places at once, because he was in his catcher's gear when I got those pictures.

"I think he ran off to meet his girlfriend," Elliot says. "But I'm assuming he's going to meet us at the pizza place. The whole team is going."

Yeah, and there's that. Apparently, Gabe has met someone.

"What's that face for?"

I hurry to rearrange whatever reaction I'd unknowingly broadcasted. "Uh, nothing. Just remind me to thank him for the bruises he left on me. I think I might have been better off getting hit by the ball."

"That was a ninety-five mile per hour fastball, Ellis. You wouldn't have wanted to catch that in the face, I promise you."

"It bounced off the other guy's bat first. It would have been fine."

"You're just embarrassed. Everyone besides you has already forgotten, I promise."

I was embarrassed, but not for the reasons he thinks. My physical reaction to being manhandled by Gabe was obvious to me, and I hoped no one noticed the half-chub I was sporting when the coach and trainers ran over to make sure I wasn't injured. Not to mention everyone in the stands watching, which was more than all the other scrimmages combined, since it was the last one and word had gotten out about Elliot's magic arm. I even heard a girl swoon about it after I made it back to the dugout, that she'd have given her left tit to be saved by the big, sexy catcher like that.

Suddenly, a body that feels heavy enough to be a truck plows into me, scooping me up off the ground. I'm hanging upside down over Gabe's shoulder when one of the other guys, Tripp Landon, runs over and smacks my ass. It's hard enough that the smack, and my not-entirely masculine shriek, can be heard well up the sidewalk. Several players turn around and laugh, a few running toward us. Thankfully, Gabe doesn't let them get their hands on me. He evades them by running, jostling me roughly as I bounce on his shoulder, beating against his stupidly muscular back.

"Let me down, you asshole!"

I'm out of breath by the time he puts me down, and I try not to be too incensed by the way the nearby team members punch my shoulders and ruffle my hair. It's hard to be mad at them when they're just treating me like one of their own; they've been very welcoming to me while I was playing bat boy. And unlike Elliot and Gabe's high school team, these guys are all just as nice to me when my brother isn't around, even greeting me with high-fives or waving when I walk past any of them on campus. They're all pretty cool. It's not their fault that they're a bunch of meathead neanderthals that find it amusing to toss around someone smaller than them. At five-eight, I'm actually average height, but I'm at least an inch shorter and have a much slimmer build than any of the players on the team.

"Do they do this shit to Brandon?" I ask my brother when the gaggle of silly jocks moves on to trying to ball tap each other. Geniuses, I'm telling you.

"Hell no," Tripp says behind me. "He's not fun like you are. Or nearly as cute."

My spine stiffens, and my face heats. I turn my head to give him an incredulous look. He winks, but then Gabe gets his attention, pointing to his shoes. Tripp looks down, and then Gabe's foot moves in front of him, and he falls.

"He tripped," Gabe says, deadpan, as everyone cracks up.

I'm not sure if that was supposed to be for my benefit or not, but my face is hot. I walk quietly until we get to the parking lot, and then climb into the back seat. Tripp flags us down, presumably to ride with us, but Gabe pulls out of the parking lot so fast I'm surprised the tires don't squeal on our way out.

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