Switch Hitter

Switch Hitter

By

Roz Lee

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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental and the product of the authors imagination or have been used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2013 by Roz Lee

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the copyright holder.

http://www.rozlee.net

ISBN: 978-0-9884344-7-9

Dedication

To all those who are afraid to be themselves.

Acknowledgements

There are many people standing behind and alongside me who make it possible to bring my stories to light. First and foremost is my husband of thirty-five years. Never once has he complained about a late meal or voiced a doubt about my ability to succeed in the crazy world of romance fiction. His unwavering support is a gift beyond measure.

Standing with him are my children who are the light in my life. They’ve grown into the beautiful people I knew they could from the very beginning. They inspire me daily.

I am a storyteller at heart, but not much of a grammarian. This is no fault of the excellent teachers who gave it their all in an effort to make their lessons stick. The lesson I did learn was, if you can’t do it yourself, hire someone who can. Many thanks to Laura Garland, my excellent editor, who must have been an English teacher’s dream student. For her, the lessons stuck, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

I was also taught not to judge a book by its cover, but that, we all know, is a bunch of hooey. First impressions matter, no matter if you’re meeting a potential lover or choosing which book to purchase. Many thanks to Talina Perkins at Bookinitdesigns.com for the awesome cover of this, and all my Mustangs Baseball books.

Chapter One

Bentley slipped on his shoes and straightened the hems on his dress slacks. He’d played a decent game, no errors, fielded two outs, and contributed a single, a double, plus two RBI’s to the Mustangs’ win. Not bad for a day’s work. All he wanted to do now was go home, kick back a few brews then go to bed. With a little luck, Ashley wouldn’t have to work late tonight, and he’d have someone to cuddle up to. He smiled to himself thinking of all the ways he’d like to snuggle with her, but she’d been working insane hours the last few weeks. The chances of getting to do anything with her tonight were slim to none.

A ripple of excited chatter near the door caught his attention.
Another reporter, most likely
. With one last check to make sure nothing was hanging out that shouldn’t be, he slid his cell phone, car keys, and wallet into their respective pockets. Turning the corner at the end of his bank of lockers, he stopped. A group of players in various stages of dress clustered around a central figure. His heart stuttered. When it found its rhythm again, it took off like it had been zapped with a cattle prod.

Sean fuckin’ Flannery. In the Mustangs’ Clubhouse.

Stripping him in his mind, his memory filled in every detail hidden by the man’s designer duds. The interloper looked up, those laser blue eyes meeting his. The air between them seemed charged with electricity. Bentley realized time and distance hadn’t done a goddamn thing except maybe make him want the man more. Blood rushed south. His dick stood at attention.

I don’t need him. I’m a man, not a fucking pervert.

He moved, intending to get the hell out, but Sean pushed his way through the group of players surrounding him. The bastard looked like a fuckin’ cover model. An artful scruff of beard screamed testosterone overload, setting off his perfect facial features, making him look perpetually ready for bed. At just over six feet tall, he moved with the grace of a natural athlete.

I don’t want him.

From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. The next thing he knew, a fist headed right at his face. Bentley ducked, causing the bastard’s rock of a hand to connect with his eye instead of square in the middle of his face.

What the fuck?

Five years of fear, self-hatred, denial, and disgust bubbled to the surface.
I want him. I want to fuck his brains out—right here, right now.
He retaliated in a more appropriate way, given they were surrounded by people—he smashed the man’s too perfect nose. Blood spurted like he’d smashed one of those little ketchup packets from a fast-food place.

Take that, you fucking asshole.

The man went down. Bent followed him to the floor where they rolled around, punching and cursing at each other like a couple of hotheaded adolescents. The bastard landed his share of blows to Bentley’s ribs and stomach. Bent got in a few jabs of his own before someone shouted, “Whoa!”

“Hey!” Strong fingers closed over his forearm, yanking it back before he could slam his fist into the man’s face one last time. “Break it up!”

Doyle Walker’s voice felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. Panting, he allowed his teammates to haul him to his feet. He stepped back a respectable distance. Someone handed Flannery a towel that he pressed to his nose.

I hope I fucking broke it.

“What’s going on here?” Doyle demanded.

“Nothing,” they answered in unison.

“It sure as hell didn’t look like nothing to me.” The Mustangs’ manager looked around at the gathering. “Get out of here, all of you.” No one moved. He pointed his index finger at the man who started the altercation. “My office. Tomorrow. Ten-thirty.”

Bent smirked then Doyle turned to him. “You. My office, tomorrow. Eleven o’clock.”

Well, shit.

Sean headed off in the direction of the restroom, the towel still pressed to his nose. Bent shrugged off the hands still holding him. Ignoring his teammates’ curious looks and amused grins, he left.

* * *

Bentley gulped the beer, placed the empty bottle on the kitchen counter, and grabbed another from the still open refrigerator. The chilled air raised gooseflesh on his bare arms, but did nothing to cool his raging temper. Using his forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow, he slumped against the counter and raised the bottle to his lips. The frosty liquid went down smooth, providing a momentary distraction.

His eye socket throbbed where the son of a bitch hit him.

Unbelievable.

Closing his eyes, he brought the cold bottle to his temple, gently rolling it over the tender flesh around his right eye. The bruising was going to be epic in a few hours.
Just fuckin’ fantastic.
With a little luck, he’d messed up Sean’s face, too. The asshole was too damn pretty for his own good.

An image formed in his pounding head. His cock sprang to attention. His stomach churned. Why Sean Flannery? He’d never had any reaction to a man before, and he damn sure didn’t want it now any more than he’d wanted it five years ago.

He rubbed his aching cock through his trousers.
Shit.
He’d hoped the intervening years along with the move to Dallas would have cured him of his perverse desires, but apparently, that wasn’t the case. All Sean needed to do was look at him and he got hard. It was those damn blue eyes of his. They did something to Bent, made him crazy because they saw too much. Saw things no one else did, things that shouldn’t be there in the first place.

Five fuckin’ years since he’d left the Pioneers, and he still remembered the kick to the gut that sent him running as clear as if it happened yesterday.

The circumstances hadn’t been unusual. Naked men in showers and locker rooms were a part of baseball, but they’d both been late leaving. He had no idea what Sean’s excuse had been, but he’d spent too much time with the trainers after the game. The locker room was empty when, naked, he’d headed to the shower.

He always remembered the moment in slow motion as if it had been over too soon, when in reality it seemed like forever. The hiss of water spraying, the plop-splatter of large soapy drops hitting the tile floor, beckoning his tired muscles. As soon as he breached the curtain of heat and humidity, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Sean Flannery stood there with his back to the open doorway. Desire hit Bentley like a wrecking ball to his gut. Blood rushed to his groin, short-circuiting his central nervous system and robbing him of good sense. He couldn’t move. His cock throbbed, demanding attention. He automatically fisted the heavy flesh, seeking relief he had no right wanting.

He watched, transfixed as Sean slicked his too-long black hair back from his face. Water sluiced over his muscled back forming a wide river running along the deep valley created by his shoulder blades. Bentley’s gaze followed the stream down, down…down to the first baseman’s tight ass. He couldn’t look away, could only stroke himself, imagining what it would be like to touch his perfect skin, to slide his cock between those taut cheeks, to command and possess such a glorious creature.

He had no idea how long he stood there holding himself…staring, creating fantasy after fantasy in his mind of them together, fucking, kissing—doing every perverted thing he could dream up. But then the object of his desire noticed. Bent felt like a deer in headlights, the car speeding right at him a hundred miles an hour. He knew he needed to get out of its way or die, but he couldn’t. The bright lights blinded him to the danger, held him enthralled, so deep down his fear became need.

When Sean twisted his torso, his chin skimming his shoulder like some fucking porn star, those goddamn blue headlights locked on him, he welcomed the head-on collision—anything to put him out of his misery, to end the sick, perverted thoughts running through his mind before he acted on them.

Sean took advantage of Bentley’s paralysis, looking his fill, his gaze pausing on his fisted erection, which just made the damn thing grow harder. Without a word, Sean turned so the shower beat against his back.

Bentley’s brain screamed, “Don’t look,” but the message from his cerebral cortex never made it to his eyes. His gaze traveled south. Water drops glistened on Sean’s bronzed chest, clung to whirls of dark hair matted over flat copper nipples. A smattering of hair arrowed downward, drawing his attention to an impressive erection.

His mouth went dry. His cock throbbed in his fist. Warning bells clanged in his head.
What the fuck are you doing? Get out! Now!
His gut twisted. Forbidden yearnings heated his blood, tightening his scrotum. Sweat stung his eyes. He was one dying brain cell away from dropping to his knees and sucking Sean’s enormous appendage into his mouth when the harsh clank of a door slamming nearby jolted him out of his stupor.

Fear of discovery doused his ardor faster than a cold shower. Breathing like a racehorse on the backstretch, he locked gazes with Sean who didn’t seem in the least disturbed by the encounter. The bastard pursed his lips in a mock kiss then turned around to resume his shower as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Bent’s stomach heaved. Panic released a flood of adrenaline, loosening the shackles of desire binding his feet. Turning, he fled to the restroom where he bowed to the porcelain god until his abdominal muscles cramped and his head felt like it might burst.

Five years later, the memory still made him harder than cured lumber, striking fear in his heart. He’d asked to be traded the next day. Within a week, he’d landed in Dallas. He’d faced Sean on the field over the years but managed to keep his distance. Until today.

In an instant, everything he’d felt in the Pioneers locker room rushed back in a tidal wave of wretched need and sickening desire. He had no idea why the fucker swung at him today, but he had. The instant Sean’s fist made contact with his face, something inside him burst loose.

Bent used the back of his hand to swipe at the tears streaming down his cheeks. Damn it. Fuck yeah. He’d wanted to hit Sean for years. Had
dreamed
of beating the shit out of the man. And, goddamn, it had felt so fucking good to touch him at last—to feel those muscles beneath him, the solid weight of Sean pressing into him as they rolled around on the floor.

After all the intervening years, not a goddamn thing had changed. He still wanted Sean Flannery.

He drained the bottle in his hand then opened another, slinking down to the floor, his back to the cabinets. Toeing off his shoes, he released his belt buckle with his free hand then fumbled with the zipper. His head hit the cupboard with a thump.

“Shit!”

Another long drag from the beer bottle then he gave in to his need. He worked his zipper down, sighing at the sheer relief of releasing his cock from its imprisonment. Drowning his desire with alcohol was useless. He’d tried it countless times since that day in the showers, to no avail. Desperate, he’d endeavored to bury his unholy need for Sean under a slew of women. One after another paraded through his life, until one, with her honesty and devotion, captured his heart.

Ashley made him forget about Sean. He’d even begun to think about marrying her, but hadn’t yet gotten up the nerve to pop the question. Thank God, she wasn’t home to see his sorry state or everything he’d built with her would be over.

Taking his dick in hand, he pumped, savoring the languid push and pull that couldn’t make him forget, but would at least give him a few seconds of peace. He worked his cock, while at the same time he tried to numb his brain with legal depressants. Watching the purple head rhythmically peek through the ring formed by his thumb and index finger, he thought about the fight. God, Sean was in great physical shape. His abs were sculpted marble, his arms, solid muscle. Those thighs! Oh man. He’d imagined how they would feel five years ago, but now he knew. There was strength there.

Bentley spit on his palm. Moments later, he gave up on saliva as a lubricant and poured the last of his beer into his lap, the cold brew was no match for the flame burning inside him. Scrunching his eyes tight, he pulled is knees up, letting them fall wide. He increased the tempo. With every slap against his pubic bone, he imagined it was the sound of Sean’s thighs slamming against his ass. The groans escaping his lips became his lover’s. When he came, spewing cum over his dress shirt, the name on his lips was one he hated.

* * *

Ashley got home late—again. She’d been putting in longer hours at the office than Bentley put in at the ballpark the last few weeks, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. She loved her job as the News Director for a major sports network. She was the first woman, as well as the youngest to hold the position. One day she hoped to marry and have a family, but she wasn’t in a big hurry. For the moment, she was happy enough with the way things were. Bentley Randolph was everything she wanted in a man—smart, focused, and sexy as hell. What wasn’t there to love about a professional athlete in his prime?

The Mustangs game had taken place earlier in the day. From what she’d heard, Bentley had played well, so when she walked in to find him sulking in his favorite easy chair with an ice pack pressed to the right side of his face, she panicked.