drive-by ficcing
Fic! Gratuitous porn! NC-17! Justin Verlander/Bobby Higginson! Ha HA!
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
cup of coffee
He was ready, that wasn't the problem. He was. He'd spent most of the season pitching his way to a 1.67 ERA, and then he was promoted and kept up a 0.28 ERA, which was pretty much better than anyone ever. And, OK. That was in AA ball, and maybe it was kind of a small sample size, but AA ball was loads harder than Lakeland, and he'd never had an ERA over 3.50 at Old Dominion either, which was also pretty fucking good.
OK. OK. Erie, AA, it wasn't exactly the big leagues. But the hitters there were going to be in AAA soon, some of them anyways, and that wasn't really the case in A ball-- most of those guys were either really young, or weren't going anywhere. So maybe his numbers in Lakeland weren't all that impressive; he'd been pitching against older kids in college than he had in Lakeland. But Erie, Erie was a whole other ballgame, and he was dominating there too.
He couldn't wait to get up to Toledo, because in AAA, there were actual big leaguers on rehab assignments, and prospects just about to be called up, and then he'd really show them all exactly how good he was. Which was very good.
The call came in and he had hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, sauntered casually into the manager's office like he didn't know why he'd been asked to come in. He had already been imagining what he'd look like in the Toledo uniform, whether the pinstripes would make him look even more absurdly lanky than usual or what.
"Don't get too excited, kid," the manager had said. "It's just a cup o' coffee, it's just 'cause'a injuries. They just want you to start a coupl'a games for 'em." He went on about time tables and transportation, stuff Verlander didn't hear because he was sulking over only getting called up to AAA for a couple games, and then the manager said something about Detroit, and he had to ask him to repeat it.
"The Tigers?" He had definitely squeaked a little bit, which was something he would have to stop doing, apparently quickly. "Are you sure?"
The manager had rolled his eyes at him. Of course he was sure-- he'd gotten the fucking phone call, after all, and then the fax with the necessary transfer paperwork and travel instructions. Maybe phone calls could be pranked, but faxes on proprietary team stationary, not so much.
He couldn't say that he'd never dreamed it, because what minor leaguer, seeing his name on all the top prospect lists, wouldn't dream about the instant call-up, the amazing season-saving personally orchestrated victory, the permanent contract. He'd dreamed it in honest unconscious dreams, in lucid waking dreams, in delicious fantasy daydreams. It wasn't just his dream; it was the dream.
But dreaming was one thing. Dreaming, that was something you did in idle moments, bored, staring out over the field. It didn't actually happen like that. He hadn't expected this, no matter how much he'd dreamed about it.
Just a couple starts. A taste of the big league club, a real crack at big league pitching, a chance for the team and the fans and the manager and the owners and everyone to see what he could do.
So he was ready. Just. Maybe a tiny bit nervous.
----
The thing with the big leagues is that they're awesome. Like, completely awesome. Verlander knows he's not going to be here for very long, but the team's putting him up in the nicest downtown hotel like he's some kind of permanent team member. It's pretty swank, and he doesn't even have to make his own bed. They've got a whole uniform waiting for him at the park and it actually fits, even the pants, which hasn't happened for him since he outgrew his first Little League uniform. They hadn't made Little League pants long enough for a kid his height.
There's no limit on funds like there is in the minors, no out-of-pocket vending machine expenses or anything like that. The clubhouse attendants in Detroit will get him anything he wants. Well, not quite anything; Jason Johnson tells him to ask for a bottle of vodka and snickers in the corner when he gets shot down, and he guesses asking for a hooker wouldn't go over well either. He figures a male hooker would go over even less smoothly. Major League Baseball doesn't have an official "don't ask, don't tell" policy, but that's just because, Verlander assumes, the average baseball player is smarter than the average military guy, and doesn't need the obvious spelled out for him.
Any equipment he wants, though, he just has to ask and it's his. Any non-alcoholic beverage, any kind of food, any kind of vitamin or brace or piece of baseball equipment. Any magazine, any information at all about any opposing player-- there are books of stats on these guys, shelves of tapes, and people to sort through it all for him and give him what he says he needs.
The clubhouse is much roomier than he's used to, with much better seating and much bigger lockers. The showers are cleaner, the warm-up equipment all newer. The dugout is bigger too, and when he pokes his head out to look at the field, he almost gets dizzy, seeing the third deck (a third deck! people want to bother watching him from all the way up there!) from that field-level angle.
The big leagues are amazing until he actually has to pitch, and then they aren't amazing at all.
He's sitting in front of that nice big locker after his first game, dazed. They weren't kidding about big league batters being a huge step up from the guys in the minors. He wasn't even sure if they were the same species.
None of his offspeed stuff had worked. None of it. He'd been reduced to trying to sneak fastballs over the strikezone, something that had worked on the batters in AA ball, but up here apparently his best fastball was an offering on a platter when the guy at the plate knew it was coming-- and they'd all known it was coming, because that was all he had. He didn't know why. He'd never had all his tricky pitches just desert him like that before, but then again he'd never pitched in the big leagues before either.
"Hey." He looks up; Bonderman is staring down at him, big and awkward, twisting a towel between his hands. "Hey, first outing's always rough. You'll be fine."
"Yeah. OK. Thanks." It comes out more terse and abrupt than he'd like, but he's not going to be comforted by a kid who's barely a few months older than him. Bonderman's been up with the big league team for years now, and if he's being honest with himself he can admit that that rankles. Bonderman's not any better than he is, probably worse, his fastball doesn't have the same kind of pop and spin that Verlander's does, so why's he been up here for so much longer? Unfair, Verlander thinks, and then feels bad for thinking it.
Bonderman shoots him an unreadable look. "OK," he says, twisting that towel again, and Verlander's captured for just a moment by the look of the nubbly white fabric shifting tautly under his big palms before Bonderman backs up a step, turns around and heads for his own locker.
----
Shit. Shit. He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, hard. This is so bad.
He hadn't been expecting it, that was part of the problem. He'd heard rumors about the Tigers, but they'd all been about Pudge. Nobody had come out and said anything, of course, but the innuendo had been there all the same. He'd actually been looking forward to it a little bit; had allowed himself to think maybe, just maybe...
It had only taken him half a day in Pudge's presence to rule that out, though. He doesn't have a 100% track record with his gaydar, of course, no one does, but he's pretty proud of it all the same, and Pudge doesn't ping him at all.
He can see where the rumors come from; Pudge is a handsy guy, always touching his pitchers, slinging an arm around the waists of his coaches, things like that. Pudge stands pretty close to guys when he's talking to them, and Pudge's shirts are kind of ridiculous. But Verlander can see right away that Pudge is about as straight as they come. Something in the way he carries himself, the way he talks. Pudge being touchy and in-your-face and flamboyantly dressed isn't Pudge being gay-- it's just Pudge being Puerto Rican, and the only people who would confuse the two are people who don't know the first thing about either gay guys or Puerto Ricans.
Which is probably most of Major League Baseball. Verlander sighs and rubs his temples. Again, shit.
He was just completely unprepared for the pings to come in from somewhere else. That creeping sense that someone's eyes were lingering just a moment too long on his body in the lockerroom. The tiny gestures, the different posture. He's good at sensing these things; he's had to be, because he's always had to be careful, so careful, knowing he was destined for the pros for a long time now.
The problem is that, because he wasn't expecting it, he let himself look around too long, sending out his own pings. He had let his eyes follow the tantalizing slice of jock strap showing through Pudge's sliding shorts, the tensile cling of fabric on Farnsworth's thighs, the high planes of Magglio's cheekbones, the impossible soft swell of Pena's lips. He'd thought he was safe, because if Pudge was straight, he could let his eyes wander all he liked, and there'd be nobody to catch him at it so long as he didn't do something stupid like whip it out and start jacking off right there in the clubhouse. It was frustrating, being a professional ballplayer and being inclined like he was, but there were perks, and the lockerroom was definitely one of them.
So he'd been careless. On one of his non-starting days, he had been talking to Pudge at his locker, discussing offspeed pitch grips and changing the signs, all of them fresh out of the showers after a hot afternoon game. When Pudge turned to go, he had let his eyes linger on the place where the rounded muscles framing Pudge's spine dipped and curved and disappeared behind a low-slung white towel. Then he'd got that prickle at the back of his neck, the fine hairs raising up, and he'd lifted his eyes to look past Pudge, meeting the calm, even gaze of Bobby Higginson halfway across the clubhouse.
Fucking busted.
He can't afford this. He's a minor leaguer trying to make his mark with the major league team, and if so much as a whiff of this gets out, he may as well hang up his cleats and take his glove and go home right now.
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes again, like he can press everything back into his head if only he tries hard enough. He remembers the way Higginson had held his gaze for just a second too long. Higginson knew; there had been no doubt in his mind about that. He remembers the way Higginson's lips had twitched just a tiny bit, the way one eyebrow had moved minutely up.
He needs to make this go away, and he knows how to do that. He's never done it in the majors before, but he supposes, suppressing hysterical laughter, that he may as well get all of his big league firsts out of the way while he's up here.
----
The whole thing ends up pretty much surprising the hell out of him. In the minors, this was a nasty little transaction, the kind of thing that just ended up reminding him how irrevocably screwed up he was. It's not like that at all in the majors.
In college, he'd been a little too easy about photos being taken at a party, and he'd found himself under the baseball field bleachers with a professional scout at midnight, mud leaking into his sneakers and a tin of Altoids in his pocket to get the taste out after. One of his teammates in Lakeland had caught him flirting with a guy in a bar when they were on the road. He'd ended up with his pants around his knees in the alley behind the bar, the brick wall digging scratches into his palms as he braced himself against it. In Erie, he'd gotten drunk and said something about the ass of the catcher of a team they were playing. He'd had to suck off the catcher and his own pitching coach to keep that one from getting out. He was pretty sure his manager hadn't heard a thing about it.
It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't pleasant, but he did what he had to do. The worst had been the scout, an overweight, balding guy in his 50s, and Verlander had been just 19, but it had been worth it. If word had got out, his career wouldn't have been over-- it never would have even started.
So he's nothing short of astonished to find that, when he's got Higginson's cock in his mouth and Higginson's hands clenched tightly in his hair, he's actually almost enjoying it.
Part of it is probably the fact that Higginson isn't half bad. He might even be someone Verlander would go after under normal circumstances. He's 12 years older than Verlander, but he's in good shape, his stomach hard and flat, his thighs all lean muscle under the dark hair. The few strands of gray scattered in his spiky, tousled hair look good on him. He's got this amazing, sculpted jawline, and a wide, expressive mouth with a soft lower lip that he allows Verlander to suck on without a word of complaint.
That's another thing. Verlander's never kissed a guy when he was, basically, buying their silence before, but when he shows up at Higginson's apartment, the first thing Higginson does after closing the door and sitting him down on the couch is lean down to kiss him. Higginson keeps his hands on either side of Verlander's face, holding him in place. Higginson's goatee scratches against his own, a rough-sharp sensation that goes straight to Verlander's cock like he's got a wire strung up direct between his face and his lap.
He groans into Higginson's mouth, and that's when Higginson shifts his angle, lets Verlander suck his lower lip into his mouth. Higginson's hand going under his shirt feels more like a gift than an imposition, and that's new for this kind of transaction too. Higginson palms his ribs, gropes across his chest, tweaks a nipple hard so that Verlander arches up under his hand and Higginson smiles against Verlander's mouth. Usually this is fast and dirty and he's never had another ballplayer touch him like he gave a shit about what Verlander was getting out of the whole thing before.
He's achingly hard by the time Higginson pulls his mouth free with a brief wet sucking noise. He stares up at Higginson, standing over him, one hand still cupped around the side of Verlander's face, the other slowly twisting one of Verlander's nipples back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. Verlander's not stupid; he lets his eyes get big, lets his mouth hang open to pant, lets himself look young and scrawny and blind-sided by desire. He has, after all, done this before.
This is probably the first time he's not entirely faking it, though.
Big leagues, he thinks, as Higginson directs him into the bedroom, pushes him down gently onto his knees at the foot of the bed. He thinks it again when Higginson takes his pants off, revealing those leanly muscled legs, chiseled into shape by 10 years of big league ball. He thinks it again when he puts a hand on one of Higginson's thighs to brace himself, sits up on his knees and uses his other hand to direct Higginson's cock between his lips. Higginson doesn't grab him and try to choke him; he lets Verlander work at his own pace, getting used to the length and heft of the new presence in his mouth.
Verlander is seized by an almost inexplicable need to prove how good he is at this. Maybe it's because Higginson seems willing to let him take the initiative, like Higginson trusts that he actually is good at it. Usually he just wants this to be over as fast as possible. Not on his own time, of course-- there was one memorable encounter, just after his 21st birthday, when he had kept a guy right on the edge for two hours, using just his tongue and his lips, and when the guy had finally come he had actually passed out right there on the couch.
This isn't like that time. Verlander's here because he has to be, not because he particularly wants to be. But he tightens his hand around the base of Higginson's cock anyways and pulls his mouth back to suck on the head, teasing the hot, smooth surface of it with the flat of his tongue. Higginson's hands slide almost helplessly into his hair, fingers tightening reflexively, but Higginson still doesn't shove him down or anything.
Verlander stretches his jaw and lowers his head down until his lips are pressed up against the top of his fist. He rolls his eyes up as far as they'll go to sneak a look at Higginson. This is risky behavior; in the minors, it probably would have got him punched. The guys he'd fucked and sucked off to keep quiet weren't fags, and they didn't want to look at the fag they were doing. They just wanted his mouth or his ass or his hands, and that was all he'd been willing to give them anyways.
Higginson huffs out a laugh when his eyes meet Verlander's. One hand slides down from the top of Verlander's head to his cheek, fingers rubbing lightly against his straining jaw. "Lookit you," Higginson says, amused and not at all pissed off. "Ain't that pretty."
When Verlander realizes he's not going to get hit, he closes his eyes and goes back to work, bobbing his head and hollowing his cheeks to make that good suction, churning his tongue to keep that saliva flowing. He's dimly aware that he's rocking his pelvis forward onto one of Higginson's shins, desperately trying to relieve the pressure there, but he's mostly distracted by the intoxicatingly powerful feeling of Higginson's thigh tensing hard under his hand, Higginson's hips twitching, Higginson's breath hitching low in his stomach.
He's surprised when Higginson tightens his grip on Verlander's hair and pulls him off. Higginson's eyes are dark with arousal and endorphins. "That's enough," Higginson growls, voice as rough as if he'd been the one giving the blowjob. "Get up here. Gonna fuck you." Normally this would be the time for Verlander to squeeze his eyes shut and remind himself to think of the big leagues, but this time he can't get out of his clothes fast enough, because he's so fucking hard that he can feel his erection in his toes, in his fingers, in his fucking eyeballs.
Higginson bothers to use a condom. Higginson actually asks if he's allergic to latex. Higginson bothers to use lube, and Higginson bothers to open him up slowly, twisting one finger into Verlander, then a second, then a third, until Verlander is shoving his ass back onto Higginson's hand, begging and honestly meaning it.
The air against his lubed-up asshole is cold for a second as Higginson holds him open, then the warm blunt presence of Higginson's cock is there, sliding up and down slightly. Verlander can't keep himself from rocking back into it, the heat and the hardness drawing him helplessly. Higginson uses a hand to guide himself into Verlander, and the pressure of the head of his cock stretching Verlander's muscles is enough to make him drop his head, spread his knees wider, raising his ass up and opening himself freely.
When Higginson thrusts in, the relief of it is so strong that Verlander thinks he loses consciousness for a second. Higginson's second thrust buries him entirely, the thick patch of his pubic hair rubbing up against Verlander's ass, the tip of his cock bumping against Verlander's prostate. Verlander makes a squeaky noise that he couldn't stop even if he wanted to and all of his toes curl up at once, hard.
Higginson fucks him hard, relentless, not giving him any time to acclimate once he's in the first time. Verlander rests his head on the bed, letting it muffle the noises he's making. His cock is leaking precome on Higginson's sheets, his ass is waving in the air, helpless under Higginson's thrusts. He's pretty sure that he's drooling, but his face is so overheated that he can't even tell. He thinks he might be able to come from the fleshy sounds of Higginson's body slamming into his alone.
This is the big leagues, he thinks. This is it. Obviously those guys in the minors, the players and coaches and scouts, they don't know the first thing about how this game is played. No wonder most of them will never make it past AA.
Higginson rubs a hand down Verlander's back, reaching his arm out to curl his fingers in the short hair at the nape of his neck. Verlander whimpers. "Good boy," Higginson says. "I'm so glad. We could reach. An understanding." And Verlander knows that his secret is safe with Higginson, he won't have any more trouble there. It's real nice for Higginson to lay it out like that, real professional.
Higginson slams in hard and Verlander screams, painpleasurerelief hitting him like a bat to the back of the head as he comes all over the bed.
----
He does awful in his second game too. His offspeed stuff is still MIA, and while it's nice to see that he can still throw a pretty good fastball when he's so nervous he feels like throwing up, that's not really going to cut it up here.
This time, when Bonderman squeezes his shoulder in the clubhouse afterwards, he smiles wryly instead of squirming away. Bonderman smiles back, and although it's a very small and awkward kind of smile, he's not offended. That just seems to be the extent of Bonderman's ability to make facial expressions.
So he doesn't do anything this year. Whatever. He'll be back next year; he's sure of it. Only two starts this time around; it doesn't even count. He still has an entire official rookie year to look forward to.
He doesn't see much of Higginson, because Higginson's arguing with the club and sitting on the bench a lot and, eventually, retiring. But that's OK. Verlander wasn't exactly looking to get wined and dined or anything like that. He did what he had to do, and if it was a lot more awesome than it used to be, well, that's just because the big leagues are a lot more awesome than the minors.
He's ready for the majors, and this, well, it just isn't a problem.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
cup of coffee
He was ready, that wasn't the problem. He was. He'd spent most of the season pitching his way to a 1.67 ERA, and then he was promoted and kept up a 0.28 ERA, which was pretty much better than anyone ever. And, OK. That was in AA ball, and maybe it was kind of a small sample size, but AA ball was loads harder than Lakeland, and he'd never had an ERA over 3.50 at Old Dominion either, which was also pretty fucking good.
OK. OK. Erie, AA, it wasn't exactly the big leagues. But the hitters there were going to be in AAA soon, some of them anyways, and that wasn't really the case in A ball-- most of those guys were either really young, or weren't going anywhere. So maybe his numbers in Lakeland weren't all that impressive; he'd been pitching against older kids in college than he had in Lakeland. But Erie, Erie was a whole other ballgame, and he was dominating there too.
He couldn't wait to get up to Toledo, because in AAA, there were actual big leaguers on rehab assignments, and prospects just about to be called up, and then he'd really show them all exactly how good he was. Which was very good.
The call came in and he had hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, sauntered casually into the manager's office like he didn't know why he'd been asked to come in. He had already been imagining what he'd look like in the Toledo uniform, whether the pinstripes would make him look even more absurdly lanky than usual or what.
"Don't get too excited, kid," the manager had said. "It's just a cup o' coffee, it's just 'cause'a injuries. They just want you to start a coupl'a games for 'em." He went on about time tables and transportation, stuff Verlander didn't hear because he was sulking over only getting called up to AAA for a couple games, and then the manager said something about Detroit, and he had to ask him to repeat it.
"The Tigers?" He had definitely squeaked a little bit, which was something he would have to stop doing, apparently quickly. "Are you sure?"
The manager had rolled his eyes at him. Of course he was sure-- he'd gotten the fucking phone call, after all, and then the fax with the necessary transfer paperwork and travel instructions. Maybe phone calls could be pranked, but faxes on proprietary team stationary, not so much.
He couldn't say that he'd never dreamed it, because what minor leaguer, seeing his name on all the top prospect lists, wouldn't dream about the instant call-up, the amazing season-saving personally orchestrated victory, the permanent contract. He'd dreamed it in honest unconscious dreams, in lucid waking dreams, in delicious fantasy daydreams. It wasn't just his dream; it was the dream.
But dreaming was one thing. Dreaming, that was something you did in idle moments, bored, staring out over the field. It didn't actually happen like that. He hadn't expected this, no matter how much he'd dreamed about it.
Just a couple starts. A taste of the big league club, a real crack at big league pitching, a chance for the team and the fans and the manager and the owners and everyone to see what he could do.
So he was ready. Just. Maybe a tiny bit nervous.
----
The thing with the big leagues is that they're awesome. Like, completely awesome. Verlander knows he's not going to be here for very long, but the team's putting him up in the nicest downtown hotel like he's some kind of permanent team member. It's pretty swank, and he doesn't even have to make his own bed. They've got a whole uniform waiting for him at the park and it actually fits, even the pants, which hasn't happened for him since he outgrew his first Little League uniform. They hadn't made Little League pants long enough for a kid his height.
There's no limit on funds like there is in the minors, no out-of-pocket vending machine expenses or anything like that. The clubhouse attendants in Detroit will get him anything he wants. Well, not quite anything; Jason Johnson tells him to ask for a bottle of vodka and snickers in the corner when he gets shot down, and he guesses asking for a hooker wouldn't go over well either. He figures a male hooker would go over even less smoothly. Major League Baseball doesn't have an official "don't ask, don't tell" policy, but that's just because, Verlander assumes, the average baseball player is smarter than the average military guy, and doesn't need the obvious spelled out for him.
Any equipment he wants, though, he just has to ask and it's his. Any non-alcoholic beverage, any kind of food, any kind of vitamin or brace or piece of baseball equipment. Any magazine, any information at all about any opposing player-- there are books of stats on these guys, shelves of tapes, and people to sort through it all for him and give him what he says he needs.
The clubhouse is much roomier than he's used to, with much better seating and much bigger lockers. The showers are cleaner, the warm-up equipment all newer. The dugout is bigger too, and when he pokes his head out to look at the field, he almost gets dizzy, seeing the third deck (a third deck! people want to bother watching him from all the way up there!) from that field-level angle.
The big leagues are amazing until he actually has to pitch, and then they aren't amazing at all.
He's sitting in front of that nice big locker after his first game, dazed. They weren't kidding about big league batters being a huge step up from the guys in the minors. He wasn't even sure if they were the same species.
None of his offspeed stuff had worked. None of it. He'd been reduced to trying to sneak fastballs over the strikezone, something that had worked on the batters in AA ball, but up here apparently his best fastball was an offering on a platter when the guy at the plate knew it was coming-- and they'd all known it was coming, because that was all he had. He didn't know why. He'd never had all his tricky pitches just desert him like that before, but then again he'd never pitched in the big leagues before either.
"Hey." He looks up; Bonderman is staring down at him, big and awkward, twisting a towel between his hands. "Hey, first outing's always rough. You'll be fine."
"Yeah. OK. Thanks." It comes out more terse and abrupt than he'd like, but he's not going to be comforted by a kid who's barely a few months older than him. Bonderman's been up with the big league team for years now, and if he's being honest with himself he can admit that that rankles. Bonderman's not any better than he is, probably worse, his fastball doesn't have the same kind of pop and spin that Verlander's does, so why's he been up here for so much longer? Unfair, Verlander thinks, and then feels bad for thinking it.
Bonderman shoots him an unreadable look. "OK," he says, twisting that towel again, and Verlander's captured for just a moment by the look of the nubbly white fabric shifting tautly under his big palms before Bonderman backs up a step, turns around and heads for his own locker.
----
Shit. Shit. He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, hard. This is so bad.
He hadn't been expecting it, that was part of the problem. He'd heard rumors about the Tigers, but they'd all been about Pudge. Nobody had come out and said anything, of course, but the innuendo had been there all the same. He'd actually been looking forward to it a little bit; had allowed himself to think maybe, just maybe...
It had only taken him half a day in Pudge's presence to rule that out, though. He doesn't have a 100% track record with his gaydar, of course, no one does, but he's pretty proud of it all the same, and Pudge doesn't ping him at all.
He can see where the rumors come from; Pudge is a handsy guy, always touching his pitchers, slinging an arm around the waists of his coaches, things like that. Pudge stands pretty close to guys when he's talking to them, and Pudge's shirts are kind of ridiculous. But Verlander can see right away that Pudge is about as straight as they come. Something in the way he carries himself, the way he talks. Pudge being touchy and in-your-face and flamboyantly dressed isn't Pudge being gay-- it's just Pudge being Puerto Rican, and the only people who would confuse the two are people who don't know the first thing about either gay guys or Puerto Ricans.
Which is probably most of Major League Baseball. Verlander sighs and rubs his temples. Again, shit.
He was just completely unprepared for the pings to come in from somewhere else. That creeping sense that someone's eyes were lingering just a moment too long on his body in the lockerroom. The tiny gestures, the different posture. He's good at sensing these things; he's had to be, because he's always had to be careful, so careful, knowing he was destined for the pros for a long time now.
The problem is that, because he wasn't expecting it, he let himself look around too long, sending out his own pings. He had let his eyes follow the tantalizing slice of jock strap showing through Pudge's sliding shorts, the tensile cling of fabric on Farnsworth's thighs, the high planes of Magglio's cheekbones, the impossible soft swell of Pena's lips. He'd thought he was safe, because if Pudge was straight, he could let his eyes wander all he liked, and there'd be nobody to catch him at it so long as he didn't do something stupid like whip it out and start jacking off right there in the clubhouse. It was frustrating, being a professional ballplayer and being inclined like he was, but there were perks, and the lockerroom was definitely one of them.
So he'd been careless. On one of his non-starting days, he had been talking to Pudge at his locker, discussing offspeed pitch grips and changing the signs, all of them fresh out of the showers after a hot afternoon game. When Pudge turned to go, he had let his eyes linger on the place where the rounded muscles framing Pudge's spine dipped and curved and disappeared behind a low-slung white towel. Then he'd got that prickle at the back of his neck, the fine hairs raising up, and he'd lifted his eyes to look past Pudge, meeting the calm, even gaze of Bobby Higginson halfway across the clubhouse.
Fucking busted.
He can't afford this. He's a minor leaguer trying to make his mark with the major league team, and if so much as a whiff of this gets out, he may as well hang up his cleats and take his glove and go home right now.
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes again, like he can press everything back into his head if only he tries hard enough. He remembers the way Higginson had held his gaze for just a second too long. Higginson knew; there had been no doubt in his mind about that. He remembers the way Higginson's lips had twitched just a tiny bit, the way one eyebrow had moved minutely up.
He needs to make this go away, and he knows how to do that. He's never done it in the majors before, but he supposes, suppressing hysterical laughter, that he may as well get all of his big league firsts out of the way while he's up here.
----
The whole thing ends up pretty much surprising the hell out of him. In the minors, this was a nasty little transaction, the kind of thing that just ended up reminding him how irrevocably screwed up he was. It's not like that at all in the majors.
In college, he'd been a little too easy about photos being taken at a party, and he'd found himself under the baseball field bleachers with a professional scout at midnight, mud leaking into his sneakers and a tin of Altoids in his pocket to get the taste out after. One of his teammates in Lakeland had caught him flirting with a guy in a bar when they were on the road. He'd ended up with his pants around his knees in the alley behind the bar, the brick wall digging scratches into his palms as he braced himself against it. In Erie, he'd gotten drunk and said something about the ass of the catcher of a team they were playing. He'd had to suck off the catcher and his own pitching coach to keep that one from getting out. He was pretty sure his manager hadn't heard a thing about it.
It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't pleasant, but he did what he had to do. The worst had been the scout, an overweight, balding guy in his 50s, and Verlander had been just 19, but it had been worth it. If word had got out, his career wouldn't have been over-- it never would have even started.
So he's nothing short of astonished to find that, when he's got Higginson's cock in his mouth and Higginson's hands clenched tightly in his hair, he's actually almost enjoying it.
Part of it is probably the fact that Higginson isn't half bad. He might even be someone Verlander would go after under normal circumstances. He's 12 years older than Verlander, but he's in good shape, his stomach hard and flat, his thighs all lean muscle under the dark hair. The few strands of gray scattered in his spiky, tousled hair look good on him. He's got this amazing, sculpted jawline, and a wide, expressive mouth with a soft lower lip that he allows Verlander to suck on without a word of complaint.
That's another thing. Verlander's never kissed a guy when he was, basically, buying their silence before, but when he shows up at Higginson's apartment, the first thing Higginson does after closing the door and sitting him down on the couch is lean down to kiss him. Higginson keeps his hands on either side of Verlander's face, holding him in place. Higginson's goatee scratches against his own, a rough-sharp sensation that goes straight to Verlander's cock like he's got a wire strung up direct between his face and his lap.
He groans into Higginson's mouth, and that's when Higginson shifts his angle, lets Verlander suck his lower lip into his mouth. Higginson's hand going under his shirt feels more like a gift than an imposition, and that's new for this kind of transaction too. Higginson palms his ribs, gropes across his chest, tweaks a nipple hard so that Verlander arches up under his hand and Higginson smiles against Verlander's mouth. Usually this is fast and dirty and he's never had another ballplayer touch him like he gave a shit about what Verlander was getting out of the whole thing before.
He's achingly hard by the time Higginson pulls his mouth free with a brief wet sucking noise. He stares up at Higginson, standing over him, one hand still cupped around the side of Verlander's face, the other slowly twisting one of Verlander's nipples back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. Verlander's not stupid; he lets his eyes get big, lets his mouth hang open to pant, lets himself look young and scrawny and blind-sided by desire. He has, after all, done this before.
This is probably the first time he's not entirely faking it, though.
Big leagues, he thinks, as Higginson directs him into the bedroom, pushes him down gently onto his knees at the foot of the bed. He thinks it again when Higginson takes his pants off, revealing those leanly muscled legs, chiseled into shape by 10 years of big league ball. He thinks it again when he puts a hand on one of Higginson's thighs to brace himself, sits up on his knees and uses his other hand to direct Higginson's cock between his lips. Higginson doesn't grab him and try to choke him; he lets Verlander work at his own pace, getting used to the length and heft of the new presence in his mouth.
Verlander is seized by an almost inexplicable need to prove how good he is at this. Maybe it's because Higginson seems willing to let him take the initiative, like Higginson trusts that he actually is good at it. Usually he just wants this to be over as fast as possible. Not on his own time, of course-- there was one memorable encounter, just after his 21st birthday, when he had kept a guy right on the edge for two hours, using just his tongue and his lips, and when the guy had finally come he had actually passed out right there on the couch.
This isn't like that time. Verlander's here because he has to be, not because he particularly wants to be. But he tightens his hand around the base of Higginson's cock anyways and pulls his mouth back to suck on the head, teasing the hot, smooth surface of it with the flat of his tongue. Higginson's hands slide almost helplessly into his hair, fingers tightening reflexively, but Higginson still doesn't shove him down or anything.
Verlander stretches his jaw and lowers his head down until his lips are pressed up against the top of his fist. He rolls his eyes up as far as they'll go to sneak a look at Higginson. This is risky behavior; in the minors, it probably would have got him punched. The guys he'd fucked and sucked off to keep quiet weren't fags, and they didn't want to look at the fag they were doing. They just wanted his mouth or his ass or his hands, and that was all he'd been willing to give them anyways.
Higginson huffs out a laugh when his eyes meet Verlander's. One hand slides down from the top of Verlander's head to his cheek, fingers rubbing lightly against his straining jaw. "Lookit you," Higginson says, amused and not at all pissed off. "Ain't that pretty."
When Verlander realizes he's not going to get hit, he closes his eyes and goes back to work, bobbing his head and hollowing his cheeks to make that good suction, churning his tongue to keep that saliva flowing. He's dimly aware that he's rocking his pelvis forward onto one of Higginson's shins, desperately trying to relieve the pressure there, but he's mostly distracted by the intoxicatingly powerful feeling of Higginson's thigh tensing hard under his hand, Higginson's hips twitching, Higginson's breath hitching low in his stomach.
He's surprised when Higginson tightens his grip on Verlander's hair and pulls him off. Higginson's eyes are dark with arousal and endorphins. "That's enough," Higginson growls, voice as rough as if he'd been the one giving the blowjob. "Get up here. Gonna fuck you." Normally this would be the time for Verlander to squeeze his eyes shut and remind himself to think of the big leagues, but this time he can't get out of his clothes fast enough, because he's so fucking hard that he can feel his erection in his toes, in his fingers, in his fucking eyeballs.
Higginson bothers to use a condom. Higginson actually asks if he's allergic to latex. Higginson bothers to use lube, and Higginson bothers to open him up slowly, twisting one finger into Verlander, then a second, then a third, until Verlander is shoving his ass back onto Higginson's hand, begging and honestly meaning it.
The air against his lubed-up asshole is cold for a second as Higginson holds him open, then the warm blunt presence of Higginson's cock is there, sliding up and down slightly. Verlander can't keep himself from rocking back into it, the heat and the hardness drawing him helplessly. Higginson uses a hand to guide himself into Verlander, and the pressure of the head of his cock stretching Verlander's muscles is enough to make him drop his head, spread his knees wider, raising his ass up and opening himself freely.
When Higginson thrusts in, the relief of it is so strong that Verlander thinks he loses consciousness for a second. Higginson's second thrust buries him entirely, the thick patch of his pubic hair rubbing up against Verlander's ass, the tip of his cock bumping against Verlander's prostate. Verlander makes a squeaky noise that he couldn't stop even if he wanted to and all of his toes curl up at once, hard.
Higginson fucks him hard, relentless, not giving him any time to acclimate once he's in the first time. Verlander rests his head on the bed, letting it muffle the noises he's making. His cock is leaking precome on Higginson's sheets, his ass is waving in the air, helpless under Higginson's thrusts. He's pretty sure that he's drooling, but his face is so overheated that he can't even tell. He thinks he might be able to come from the fleshy sounds of Higginson's body slamming into his alone.
This is the big leagues, he thinks. This is it. Obviously those guys in the minors, the players and coaches and scouts, they don't know the first thing about how this game is played. No wonder most of them will never make it past AA.
Higginson rubs a hand down Verlander's back, reaching his arm out to curl his fingers in the short hair at the nape of his neck. Verlander whimpers. "Good boy," Higginson says. "I'm so glad. We could reach. An understanding." And Verlander knows that his secret is safe with Higginson, he won't have any more trouble there. It's real nice for Higginson to lay it out like that, real professional.
Higginson slams in hard and Verlander screams, painpleasurerelief hitting him like a bat to the back of the head as he comes all over the bed.
----
He does awful in his second game too. His offspeed stuff is still MIA, and while it's nice to see that he can still throw a pretty good fastball when he's so nervous he feels like throwing up, that's not really going to cut it up here.
This time, when Bonderman squeezes his shoulder in the clubhouse afterwards, he smiles wryly instead of squirming away. Bonderman smiles back, and although it's a very small and awkward kind of smile, he's not offended. That just seems to be the extent of Bonderman's ability to make facial expressions.
So he doesn't do anything this year. Whatever. He'll be back next year; he's sure of it. Only two starts this time around; it doesn't even count. He still has an entire official rookie year to look forward to.
He doesn't see much of Higginson, because Higginson's arguing with the club and sitting on the bench a lot and, eventually, retiring. But that's OK. Verlander wasn't exactly looking to get wined and dined or anything like that. He did what he had to do, and if it was a lot more awesome than it used to be, well, that's just because the big leagues are a lot more awesome than the minors.
He's ready for the majors, and this, well, it just isn't a problem.