Page 8 of Fastball Fever
I wrap my hand around my cock and begin to pump in a rhythm that feels like an intimate dance, a solo performance where every stroke brings me closer to the edge—with Amy's face hovering in front of me.Here, I am the master of this dirty workout, every movement deliberate and familiar, promising satisfaction.The wet sound of my hand pumping fills the space, along with my grunts and hissing breaths.
"Fuck," I growl."Amy, ah…"
I hiss and snarl, pumping faster and more urgently while I slap a palm flat on the shower wall.I pump until my legs quiver and a surge of molten pleasure floods through me.Oh, shit.I rest my head against the tile, letting the steam envelop me as I wait for my pulse to slow its wild pace.How long has it been since I indulged myself like this in the shower?It feels like an eternity.I never came this hard in the shower when I was married to Alicia.
Amy Keller turns me into a maniac.
When I finally drag myself out of the shower and get dressed, the locker room is still empty.Just me and some chipped linoleum tiles as an audience.Clean and dressed, I check my phone.Four messages from Alicia.Can't resist smiling even though I should know better.
Alicia:Dinner tonight?Pick you up after training?
Charlie:Sorry, busy tonight.
Before my ex-wife can try to seduce me into falling back into old habits, I shove my phone into my hip pocket.The parking lot's mostly empty, just a few cars are still here.Mine sits under a tree, and I'm grateful for the shade.I slide into the driver's seat gingerly, feeling my morning workout throbbing in every muscle.My phone buzzes again the moment I sit down.I can guess who it is.It would be damn nuts to look.
So, of course, I do.
Alicia:Brunch tomorrow?You can't resist mimosas with me.
I let that statement hang in the air as I fire up the engine, blasting sports radio as if that will shake off the living ghost of my failed marriage.A panel of analysts speculate about trades and line-ups, the Admirals' chances of making the playoffs this season, and more.They talk about me like I'm already gone—"the player formerly known as Charlie"—and I twist the dial to shut them up mid-sentence.
Back at my apartment, I kick off my shoes and sprawl out on the sofa, too wiped to crawl into the bedroom.I live alone, so who cares if I don't even bother taking my shirt off.
If Amy doesn't kill me tomorrow, Alicia just might.
Chapter Five
Wisdom from the Dugout
My muscles burn.I can feel every step like a needle in my knee as I trudge into the dugout, leaving another brutal practice behind.Amy's methods are ruthless.She stands on the field with her arms crossed, barking orders at me or whoever else gets in the way of the routine she's mapped out for me—or should I say the torture she's mapped out.I collapse onto the bench, ignoring the way it groans under my weight, and stare out at the Jacksonville skyline glowing in the distance.
It's almost dark, but she's still out there.
My teammates gave up on practicing a while ago.As they left the field, the guys gave me encouraging thumbs-ups as well as grins and winks.Yeah, they've supported me all the way.But I have a feeling that if I can't get my fastball back soon, I'll be a former member of the Jacksonville Admirals.
Now that Amy and I are alone, I can't help but notice the way she stretches her arms above her head.The movement awakens my dick in a way I really don't want to happen right now.I swerve my head in the opposite direction, but my eyes insist on following her.Phil is already here in the dugout, shuffling through papers like he doesn't have a care in the world.
"Long day?"he asks, raising his head just enough to glance at me sideways.
"Yeah, it feels that way," I mutter.My shirt clings to my skin, and even I can smell the sweaty stench wafting off me.
Phil goes back to his paperwork.
And I…well, I can't stop my mind from reliving every movement Amy made during our session.The way her tits bounce when she pretends to throw a pitch.How she bites her lip with her tongue sticking out a little every time she does that.Oh, and I can't forget how she wriggles her ass while playing the umpire to my pitcher.
Yet I also can't forget the training routine.It's indelibly inked on my brain.
Amy's voice still echoes in my ears too, compelling me to remember how she pushed me to my limits, demanding more, unrelenting in her determination.That's exactly what a great coach ought to do.She's driven me into the ground since day one, and I'm beginning to realize that's what I've needed all along.Her whip-cracking is the only thing that might get me back to where I was before the injury.But every time I see her, every time I hear her call my name, the most inappropriate thoughts fill my head.
"You did well out there," Phil says."Amy's a ballbuster, but she knows what she's doing."
I nod absently.Maybe I should give her credit, but I'm still pissed that I even care what she thinks of me.
The stadium is mostly empty, the distant sound of cars drifting in from outside.The metal bench is cold beneath me.It's peaceful in a way, and I let myself relax for the first time all day.I watch Phil, his sturdy frame leaning over the clipboard, his pen scratching methodically against the paper.
"You know," he says without looking up, "you are getting your form back."
"Doesn't feel like it."I flex my fingers, feeling the dull throb that races all the way up my arm.Still, I can't deny the pain has been lessening lately.
