Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
While he took a quick call, I reached for a pamphlet sticking out of a stack of papers on his desk. Easton Pirates Kick-Off Banquet.
The booklet was from February, the yearly event signaling the beginning of baseball season. And now it was almost the end of April, the season would be coming to a close in another few weeks, and then the focus would be on regionals. Dad’s nervous energy about the finals was palpable, and the same was true of his assistant, Coach Adams. It was a big deal for the university, any win a draw for recruitment purposes as well. Not that there weren’t other tournaments throughout the year, but this one was considered the mother lode.
I flipped the page and studied the portrait shots of the players and the positions listed beneath them. Back then, I certainly didn’t know them as well as I did now. That was what four days a week of games and practices and bus rides and locker-room hijinks got you.
Dad didn’t know about all the teasing going on behind the scenes, but I’d never tell him because the team breaking in the newb was a rite of passage. And in this case the new guy was me—Coach’s son or not. I wasn’t a total pushover, but they sure thought I was in the beginning. Their pranks definitely got me acclimated fast. Like a row of them mooning me my first week—in their jockstraps, for Christ’s sake. Little did they know, that image would fill my fantasies for years to come. Or putting all sorts of rubber critters in the piles of laundry I carted to the clubhouse washer, like a squeaky mouse. That fucker looked so real, I’d squealed and ran, and they still razzed me about it to this day.
The players were pretty cool, overall, except for our best pitcher, Maclain, who could be a broody jackass. But I just ignored him. Tried my best to ignore all of them, really.
Though, it was hard to ignore our resident shortstop, Brady Donovan. Or his penchant for gummy bears, which I kept stocked in the clubhouse lounge for the players, along with any other snacks that would satisfy their proclivities.
Donovan was just so hot and sweet, almost overly so as he tried to include me in everything. I felt a bit guilty turning him down most of the time, but I needed to keep a professional distance, or Dad would have something to say about it.
Still, he was pretty to look at, with all that blond hair, long, translucent eyelashes, and deep-blue eyes. If you asked me if I’d ever gotten a glimpse of his nice cock or plump ass in the locker room, I’d deny it. Nope, never peeked once—not that these guys didn’t drop their towels and stand in front of each other nude all the freaking time. There was apparently no shame in baseball.
My refusal to look was intentional because these guys might turn cruel in one second flat if they thought I was some gay boy staring at their junk. Lexington might’ve been one of the more liberal-leaning cities in Kentucky, but that wasn’t always reflected in their testosterone-fueled sports programs.
Besides, I didn’t really care about their junk. Especially not after picking up sweaty jockstraps or laundering a load of dirt-stained uniforms.
Dad lifted a finger, urging me to give him another minute, as I flipped the page in the booklet and stared at my photo. Kellan Crawford. Bat Boy.
Ugh, I hated that label, but it was tradition in baseball, and younger kids would kill for the opportunity. Some probably thought I got the job because my dad was the coach, and that was another reason I refused to become too friendly with any of the players. That way they couldn’t complain that he was giving anyone special treatment. What they didn’t know was that I’d lobbied for the position, and Dad had taken weeks to decide whether I should join his staff.
He took into consideration my major and the fact that I knew baseball almost as well as he did. Plus, having his son as his right-hand man might help ease some of the stressors in his schedule.
“No flirting with the guys,” he’d said with a stern look on the night he’d accepted my proposal.
I’d rolled my eyes. “Seriously?”
Dad had always accepted my sexuality, and even confided that he and Mom had their suspicions early on. Still, I worried that Dad was disappointed in who I was, which might’ve spawned my meager attempt at playing Little League. Turned out, I wasn’t very good, but that was when I caught the bug and had begun showing a natural interest in sports—albeit in a different way.
When I chose my major, Dad seemed excited, and when he noticed my tendency to spout off stats, he became even more actively invested in me and my career. I would never officially be on the field, obviously, but by the end of college, neither would most of these guys. If they didn’t have a backup plan, they were screwed.