Page 38 of Pitcher

Thank God I didn’t have to sound like a whiny bitch and tell her I needed a distraction while they did it.

“Thanks, Ans,” I mutter, intently aware Coach and Dr. Phelps have gone quiet next to me.

I hear Anniston apologize to someone at the store, but I don’t feel bad they have to put back her items. Shit happens. And my girl always puts me first. Deal with it.

We say our goodbyes to each other, and I hang up, already pulling up a social media app. “She’ll be here soon, and then you can piss me off for the rest of the night,” I say into the treatment room, directing my comment to either of them.

Someone sighs, but I don’t look up. One, I’m a teensy bit embarrassed. And two, I don’t give a fuck how long they have to stay after work. They knew I was a diva when they offered me the scholarship to pitch for them.

“Be sure to tell security she’ll need to be let in,” I add at the last minute.

Coach mutters, “I’m sure that wouldn’t stop her anyway.”

I chuckle. Anniston loves to give Coach Anderson hell, but deep down, they both respect each other.

“It won’t, but it’ll save him a headache and an incident report later.”

Thirty minutes later, security buzzes the treatment room and announces Anniston’s arrival. Coach grumbles but labors to the door and lets her in. Anniston McCallister breezes through the threshold smelling all kinds of edible and pins me with a concerned look.

I try to shrug but grimace instead.

“It’s not a big deal. I just need to be able to pitch in a few days.”

I can tell she wants to argue, but she knows the lengths I will go not to work for my father.

“Don’t lie to me, Von Bremen.”

“Anniston,” Coach soothes, stepping in and putting a hand on her shoulder before we fight in front of them.

I love verbally sparring with McCallister. Someone always ends up heaving and sweating in anger—her—and it does epic things to her tits.

Coach pulls her to the side so Dr. Phelps can fill her in on the condition of my shoulder. Every once in a while, she looks back at me and frowns.

We gotta do what we gotta do, baby, I send her way in the form of a sad smile.

When she’s up to date, Dr. Phelps retreats into the medicine room and Anniston and Coach move toward the table where I’m still perched like a hood ornament, a bag of ice strapped to my shoulder.

Here goes my manhood.

Anniston’s hand reaches for my hair, and I feel my eyes drift shut with each pull of her fingers. “Are you sure about this?”

What I wouldn’t give to skip this and go home…

“No, but I need to pitch,” I answer softly, opening my eyes long enough to see her frown.

She nods in understanding, even though I know it pains her to do so. Anniston is very much a believer in conservative medicine. I bet she would have suggested ice and Tylenol too.

“Okay.”

Her consent doesn’t mean she’s happy about it, but regardless, her hands rake through my hair gently, each stroke pulling me closer and closer to her chest. By the time Dr. Phelps returns, bearing a gift of pain, I’m somewhat relaxed.

“All right, Theo, let’s get you feeling better.”

Technically, a blow job would have me feeling better much faster than this shot, but I don’t argue with the good doctor. I doubt he’s had an epic blow job in years.

Someone slides the bag off my shoulder, and I suck in a breath. Anticipation is the worst, and Anniston doesn’t miss my reaction.

“I’m thinking pizza and porn tonight,” she says all innocently. “The pizza will make me feel better and, well, the porn will help you and the unfortunate souls who will reap the aftermath of your next few shitty days. Maybe you’ll go easy on them if you aren’t so pent up.”

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