Page 5 of Totally Opposed

I didn’t notice it at first. Most likely because I was seeing someone, and unlike my douchebag ex, that meant something to me. But now I can’t unsee it. Unsee him. I find him in every room, look for him on the field. I almost cheered for him when he struck out one of our players at the end of last year. And that is just another reason I can’t go there. He’s a Funky Monkey, the enemy.

We’ve played on opposite teams in the Banana Ball League for years now, and he’s never given me any indication he might even be slightly interested in a guy like me. He’s always friendly, and he and I worked on a few ideas last year for some promos, but that was it. The only thing he’s ever talked to me about is baseball. It’s always business. He’s proved he isn’t shy in asking out a guy he likes. If hewasinterested in me, he’d ask me out like he did with Harry, which just further proves he’s definitelynotinto me.

Don’t let yourself even think of the possibility.I try to tell myself, but my eyes are locked on the way his ass picks up in perfect rounds as he jogs away, and now all I can think about is sinking my teeth into it.

“Monsieur, Alan, are we good?” Dennis calls in his mock French tone that is so far from French.

“Yeah,” I reply, not really paying attention, still.

“Then do you think you can sing this time?” he says, and I let the rest of my surroundings in, Phillip is halfway downthe stairs, shaking his head at me with a deep frown across his forehead, and Dennis is standing with his hands on his hips like he’s about to have a full-blown tantrum.

“Oh shit, yeah. Sorry. I’m ready,” I say, and we run it again. This time, I don’t fall on the chairs, and it’s actually pretty cool being lifted and spun around. Even if it is Phillip, cause no way would I ever go there.

Dennis makes a few additions to the field routine, finally calling in the rest of the team to get them involved, and then we run it three more times with everyone, the last time in full uniform with the media manager, Will, recording on a drone while two guys hold devices in front of Phillip and I. Anyone who thinks what we do isn’t hard work just needs to spend a day with us, it’s five in the afternoon, and I’m sweating and exhausted. I’ve been up since four getting in my early workout and steam before training, then we finished batting practice, hit the gym for an hour on weights, then cardio program out on the field, and the last hour, I’ve been dancing and singing on top of all that. But when Dennis cheers at the end of the run, we know we’ve nailed it, and the team can finally head inside to shower. I spend a few minutes stretching out my muscles on the field but also watching Ryan. He’s pitching into the net on the far side, checking his speed. I can’t make out the exact number from here, but I swear I just saw triple digits. Fuck, that’s fast. He throws another, but on the release, he grabs his shoulder.

“Motherfucker,” he calls, and that I hear clear as day.

Shit. He’s hurt. Kyle, one of the team physios, rushes over to him. I want to run over, too. My body is vibrating it wants to so badly. But I’m not a physio. I’m not even first aid trained unless you count the mandatory basic stuff they get us to do each year.

So I just stand there watching as Kyle strips off Ryan’s shirt and moves to sit behind him on the grass. If he’s hurt badly, he could be out for the whole season. Fuck, if it’s really bad, thiscould be it for his career. A few guys from his team who were still on the field crowd around him making it hard to see what’s happening.

But then a gap opens just in time to watch Kyle slide his hands over Ryan’s shoulder, massaging up his muscled arm, and when relief spreads across Ryan’s face and he leans his head back against Kyle, moaning, “Yeah right there,” my dick responds. It’s messed up. I know it is. Ryan’s on the ground hurt, and I’m over here imagining it’s me behind him, exploring his muscles with my hands, making him moan. But by the look on his face, it mustn’t be as bad as it could have been. Maybe it will just need a good massage. I know how to massage. Should have become a PT instead of a player, looks like they have all the fun.

Chapter three

Ryan

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Igroan through gritted teeth as I lay on the cold bed in Kyle’s treatment room. He massages the muscles of my shoulder, pushing his fingers into the tender tissue without a care in the world for how much it fucking hurts.

“A little pain now is better than a whole lotta hurt later,” Kyle repeats for the third time, digging his fingers in harder. I don’t even try to hold in the sounds it elicits. I do wish that this treatment bed had something to bite down on in this face hole, though. I’m clenching my jaw so tight I could break a tooth.

“Okay, okay, okay, that’s enough, right?” I finally say, lifting my head from the bed, and he backs off a little before slathering my skin with a heat gel.

“No pitching for a few days. You’ll need a massage and stretches twice daily, and I’m sending you a revised workout plan. How does five work for you?”

I push up with my good arm to sit.

“I hope you mean five p.m.”

“Nope. Sorry, it’s the only morning slot I have open at the moment with the season starting up. There are more than a few of you a little out of condition. Did you maintain your throwing program over break?”

“If I say no, are you going to tell the coaches?”

He raises one eyebrow. “You’re one of the older players out there. You have to stay on top of it all if you want to avoid retirement.”

“I’m twenty-eight.” He frowns. “Okay, I’m twenty-nine.” But if I’m being honest, I’m almost thirty, but I don’t want to believe how close that number is creeping up on me. Pitchers are in their prime in their twenties. I’m already well over that, and even though I’m not as old as Harry and Gordon, and I look like I could have just stepped out of college.Thank you, fear of turning into a tomato in the sun all those years. Sunscreen really is a skin saver. I already hear Harry and Gordon talking about retirement, and I don’t want to even think about how close that day might be for me, too. Though if the rumors are true, I might not get a choice.

“So I’m no spring chicken anymore, but I got a hella lot of years left in me. I pitched one hundred and two today. I might not have been sticking to the throwing program all through the break, but I wasn’t slacking off either. I basically lived at the pool. Swimming is a great workout for your arms, you know.”

“Well, if you want to be able to still pitch over one hundred, you better be here at five a.m. and seven p.m. every day this week, and follow the adjusted program I’m sending you.” He taps and swipes on his tablet.

“Five and seven?”

“I did say twice a day, didn’t I?”

“Pretty sure you didn’t.”

“Well, I am now.”

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