quickie for the third
Prompt from beckla30: Rick Porcello/Jordan Tata.
Which is not really a prompt, so!
Rick Porcello/Jordan Tata. Preslash? G.
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.
born in '88
Jordan doesn't recognize the kid who flops down over the rail next to him. Looks young, though. Younger than Jordan for sure; maybe even younger than Verlander. He can't be bothered to know all the minor leaguers, so if the kid's looking for conversation, he's come to the wrong place. Jordan's perfectly content to ignore him.
Tries to, anyways.
"Hey," the kid says, nudging him in the ribs. "What's your secret?"
Jordan glares, but the kid doesn't even flinch. "What secret?"
The kid rubs a hand over his own smooth jawline and widens his eyes at Jordan. Oh, honestly. Jordan smirks and rubs a thumb along the line of dark beard growing on his own jaw and raises an eyebrow. The kid settles in and looks expectant. Jordan rolls his eyes, making sure the kid can see it.
"No secret, kid."
The kid's eyebrows come together, giving him a puckered, worried look. "Hell, you're a minor leaguer too, aren'tcha? You gotta be doing something to get it to come in that full..."
"I've been up a little." Jordan watches the kid's eyes widen at that. "When were you born?" The kid hesitates, rocking back and forth on the rail a little. "C'mon," Jordan wheedles. "1985? '86?"
"'88," the kid says, sulkily.
Jordan bursts out laughing and the kid glares. "Seriously? Shit, you're what, 20?"
The kid looks away and says, even more sulkily, "Nineteen. My birthday's in December."
"Oh, my god. You just barely turned 19..." Jordan takes another minute to stop laughing and get himself under control again. "OK, wow. Well, shit, kid, no wonder you're still tryin' to get outta the peach fuzz stage." The frown lines between the kid's eyes are getting deeper, and Jordan decides to be generous. "Hey, look. I'm 26, OK? By the time you're my age you'll probably be growin' more beard than Robertson."
The kid looks somewhat mollified, and Jordan settles against the rail again. They watch the batters practice bunting in silence for a while, listening to the soft cracks of the bat and the loud swearing whenever someone's fingers get smashed because they're holding the bat wrong.
Jordan feels fingers creep along his cheek and stiffens, ready to whip around, but the kid grabs his shoulder and raises his eyebrows, smiling. Jordan narrows his own eyes, but stays frozen as the fingers of the kid's other hand feel out the planes of his cheekbone, the angles of his jaw, fingernails making tiny scritching noises as they tick across the bristles of his beard.
"Just checkin'," the kid says. "Seein' if it's real."
"Uh, yeah." Jordan's a little weirded out, but the kid seems to think it's normal, because he strokes firmly over Jordan's cheek with his thumb and smiles again, releasing him like nothing happened.
"Should probably introduce myself, by the way," the kid adds, reaching out with the hand he just had on Jordan's face. Jordan takes it and shakes firmly. Pitcher's calluses, he notes. "Name's Porcello. Rick Porcello."
"That anything like Bond, James Bond?" Jordan teases, but shit, he knows that name, Porcello's supposed to be the best damned prospect in the organization. He had no idea the guy was so young, though. "Nice to meetcha anyhow, Porcello. I'm--"
"Jordan Tata, I know." Porcello smiles, a huge toothy grin that squinches his eyes up and makes him look all of 12 years old, and Jordan knows, for sure, that he's gonna have a hell of a time keeping up with this one.
Which is not really a prompt, so!
Rick Porcello/Jordan Tata. Preslash? G.
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.
born in '88
Jordan doesn't recognize the kid who flops down over the rail next to him. Looks young, though. Younger than Jordan for sure; maybe even younger than Verlander. He can't be bothered to know all the minor leaguers, so if the kid's looking for conversation, he's come to the wrong place. Jordan's perfectly content to ignore him.
Tries to, anyways.
"Hey," the kid says, nudging him in the ribs. "What's your secret?"
Jordan glares, but the kid doesn't even flinch. "What secret?"
The kid rubs a hand over his own smooth jawline and widens his eyes at Jordan. Oh, honestly. Jordan smirks and rubs a thumb along the line of dark beard growing on his own jaw and raises an eyebrow. The kid settles in and looks expectant. Jordan rolls his eyes, making sure the kid can see it.
"No secret, kid."
The kid's eyebrows come together, giving him a puckered, worried look. "Hell, you're a minor leaguer too, aren'tcha? You gotta be doing something to get it to come in that full..."
"I've been up a little." Jordan watches the kid's eyes widen at that. "When were you born?" The kid hesitates, rocking back and forth on the rail a little. "C'mon," Jordan wheedles. "1985? '86?"
"'88," the kid says, sulkily.
Jordan bursts out laughing and the kid glares. "Seriously? Shit, you're what, 20?"
The kid looks away and says, even more sulkily, "Nineteen. My birthday's in December."
"Oh, my god. You just barely turned 19..." Jordan takes another minute to stop laughing and get himself under control again. "OK, wow. Well, shit, kid, no wonder you're still tryin' to get outta the peach fuzz stage." The frown lines between the kid's eyes are getting deeper, and Jordan decides to be generous. "Hey, look. I'm 26, OK? By the time you're my age you'll probably be growin' more beard than Robertson."
The kid looks somewhat mollified, and Jordan settles against the rail again. They watch the batters practice bunting in silence for a while, listening to the soft cracks of the bat and the loud swearing whenever someone's fingers get smashed because they're holding the bat wrong.
Jordan feels fingers creep along his cheek and stiffens, ready to whip around, but the kid grabs his shoulder and raises his eyebrows, smiling. Jordan narrows his own eyes, but stays frozen as the fingers of the kid's other hand feel out the planes of his cheekbone, the angles of his jaw, fingernails making tiny scritching noises as they tick across the bristles of his beard.
"Just checkin'," the kid says. "Seein' if it's real."
"Uh, yeah." Jordan's a little weirded out, but the kid seems to think it's normal, because he strokes firmly over Jordan's cheek with his thumb and smiles again, releasing him like nothing happened.
"Should probably introduce myself, by the way," the kid adds, reaching out with the hand he just had on Jordan's face. Jordan takes it and shakes firmly. Pitcher's calluses, he notes. "Name's Porcello. Rick Porcello."
"That anything like Bond, James Bond?" Jordan teases, but shit, he knows that name, Porcello's supposed to be the best damned prospect in the organization. He had no idea the guy was so young, though. "Nice to meetcha anyhow, Porcello. I'm--"
"Jordan Tata, I know." Porcello smiles, a huge toothy grin that squinches his eyes up and makes him look all of 12 years old, and Jordan knows, for sure, that he's gonna have a hell of a time keeping up with this one.