Page 13 of The Battery
Fuck it.
I brought up one such ad on my phone.
Fade in from black. Enough smoke to fill a battlefield. In black-and-white, Leo’s face flashed on the screen from distant lightning. When the thunder rolled, he walked slowly through a half inch of what appeared to be thick, black oil. More thunder and lightning, more brief tableaus of Leo rubbing the oil on his mostly naked body. The final shot was him standing sideways, turning and emphasizing every possible muscle in his body like he was at a competition.Vallée, splashed on the screen in bold print. The luxury name brand. Then the men’s perfume,Sève, in flowing cursive.
That hulking mass was pressed against me yesterdaywas all I could think while I watched it. Morning wood stood at full mast.
He had just…forced. No asking. But in a courteous way? I had never experienced that before, but knew I liked it. I had absolute certainty that if I had told him to stop, he would have without question. Damn but if I didn’t want more of it. To present myself to him and say, “Hey, whatever you want. Go for it, man.”
I rolled back over and stared at the ceiling fan. Down the hall, I heard Freddie head downstairs to get the day started. I threw back the covers and waited a few minutes for things to calmdown before heading downstairs. Felt like my body was on a hair trigger. One errant thought about Leo would set me off.
It’s gonna be a long day.
*
He sat next to me and it felt like everyone knew exactly what had happened the day before. Leo draped his tattooed arm on the armrest of the leather recliner. For a moment, I thought he made a little motion with his right index finger. I clamped down on the urge to blush.
The team meeting room had stadium seating, with chairs that swallowed you whole and promised the best snooze of your life. Most of the team had congregated there for a strategy meeting. Romo stood near the projector screen with the managers while they pointed at various statistics. The Assholes were lined up in front of me. Cliques forming together where appropriate. As ever, the cheese (me) stood alone, and Leo found one of the few open spots to sit next to me. He sat with his legs wide, like he needed plenty of room for things downstairs to breathe. He wore compression leggings beneath shorts, feet wedged into sandals.
I tried to keep my head forward while I rolled my eyes as far as the optical muscles allowed. I had yet to find the opportunity to study his tattoos. Theywerea mishmash of symbols like skulls, roses, vines, words, patterns… it was art, truly. I wanted to know what each one meant.
A manager prattled on about late-inning scenarios with the Diamonds, a well-known comeback team. I half listened. It was pertinent to me, but not for the upcoming series, since I wouldn’t be there. My gaze had been fixated on Leo’s arm, as ifI could divine his secrets through the artwork on his skin, like reading tea leaves in a cup.
Subtly, Leo’s right knee snapped out and bumped into mine. He pointed toward the front of the room as if to tell me to pay attention. I cleared my throat quietly and rejected the desire to continue my study of him. He was right. Of course.
The meeting finished up after about an hour. As everyone stood to go about their day, Leo stayed seated.
“What are you up to right now?” he asked me.
I was halfway out of the seat when I sat back down. “Flat ground drills,” I said. “Rex is staying behind.” One of the assistant pitching coaches. He’d been pushing me to work on mechanics.
“Get your stuff and meet me in the outfield. I’ll talk to Rex.” He stood and jogged down the stairs without waiting for me to even agree.
Who was I to argue?
The Assholes watched the exchange, too. Good.
In ten minutes, I was jogging up from the dugout, through the infield, and to the outfield where Leo was already waiting. He carried only his catching glove and none of his other gear. He had on a backward Riders cap that he kept adjusting while pacing in slow circles around a bucket of balls.
“I thought you guys were leaving soon?” I said as I came nearer.
He looked up from the ground and gave me one of those looks. “Piss off,” it always indicated. Instead, he said, “Yeah, you’re right. Never mind about this.” Which was kind of the same thing.
“Sorry, sorry. Just… my opening gambit, I guess.”
“Stop apologizing,” he commanded. “Let’s start at forty-five feet. Rex is right—we need to work on mechanics. Yours was shit at the last game. Hit me with some fastballs.”
I let out a sigh. All right. So we weren’t talking about, well, y’know. I walked roughly sixty feet away from him. By the time I spun around, he was squatting and ready, clapping his mitt at me like Pac-Man wanting dots.
For five quiet minutes, only the sound of my grunting and the smack of the ball hitting the glove filled the space of the outfield. Leo stayed silent as he observed me. Studying, I supposed. The sexual tension I thought might be there was nowhere to be found. Replaced by, what, a mentor? Someone who genuinely wanted me to be better?
After ten fastballs he called for me to halt. “From my point of view,” Leo said, “your release point keeps changing between pitches.”
“Yeah, I figured that out,” I snapped.
Leo stared flatly at me. “So why haven’t you done anything about it?”
“That’s why we’re out here, isn’t it?”
