Page 73 of When Ben Loved Tim
“Then fake it,” I suggest, attempting to lighten the mood. “Blow up a couple of balloons and shove them up your shirt. Let him squeeze those instead.”
“That’s it!” Krista says, leaping to her feet.
“I was kidding!”
“I know.” She rushes over to her desk and opens a drawer. When she turns around, something made of latex is dangling between two pinched fingers, and thank goodness it isn’t a condom. “Balloons!” Krista declares. “We can use them in our presentation. That’s like… literal inflation!”
I laugh. “Great idea! Let’s get back to it.”
I stand and glance at the photo on her wall once more. Tim is smiling at me like I did a good job of safely navigating the conversation. So why do I feel the stirrings of guilt?
* * * * *
I’m sitting cross-legged on Tim’s bed while biting my bottom lip in anticipation. When he called to tell me his parents went out to dinner, I came running. Tim ordered pizza for us, which we ate at the dining room table, candlelight and all. The vibe was more goofy than romantic. I’m just so happy when I’m around him that it makes me giddy. He seems to be in a good mood too, considering that he’s currently humoring my request.
“Hurry up and come out of the closet!” I shout.
“Almost ready,” is his muffled response.
I’m staring at his closet door when it finally swings open. The breath catches in my throat as Tim saunters out dressed in a baseball uniform. The shirt and pants are navy fabric with white piping. Red socks pulled up to his shins match the half-length sleeves of the undershirt. The uniform does exactly what I’d like to do by gripping his body.
“This is from my old school,” Tim says, pulling at the front of the shirt, “so it’s a little small. I must have gotten bigger.”
“You and me both,” I murmur, shifting my legs out from under me to make room for my swelling erection. “So are you a pitcher or a catcher?”
“I’m definitely a pitcher,” Tim says firmly, picking up on the innuendo.
“Are you really?” I ask while trying to visualize him out on the field. “Like for real. Or does everyone on the team take turns throwing the ball?”
Tim stares at me. Then he laughs. “You really don’t know?”
“Maybe I’m just testing you.”
“Uh-huh. No, we don’t take turns. I’m mostly a center fielder.”
“So you’re somewhere in the middle?” I say leadingly.
Tim doesn’t take the bait. “It’s because I’m the fastest guy on the team. Just wait until you see me play. I’m the king of stealing bases.”
“So how come you’re not in track and field?”
I catch the longing on his face before he manages to hide it away. “My dad is into baseball.”
“And he expects you to follow in his footsteps?”
Tim looks even more uncomfortable. “Nah. He never played.”
“So he’s living through you vicariously? That’s even worse! My dad loves stage magicians, but he doesn’t expect me to start pulling rabbits out of my hat.”
Tim shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter.
“What about college?” I press.
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”
“You’re going to keep playing? Isn’t that when it gets serious?”
“Not if I don’t get a scholarship,” Tim says, standing up a little straighter. “I haven’t yet. On purpose.”
