this is practically speed-writing, folks
Matt Joyce hit his first home run today. Just a quickie. Apparently 717 words is what passes for a drabble with me. Joyce/Verlander, R.
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.
the Detroit difference
He expects the silent treatment when he gets back to the dugout, his first big league homer and all, and that's the tradition, isn't it? Rookies get the silent treatment-- but he's hugged and slapped and high-fived immediately when he comes in. He does his little hug-and-hop routine with Cabrera, and isn't that something, not even up a full week and already he's got a routine with someone, this team, man. Everyone's excited for him and no one's even bothering to hide it.
He asks, later in the game, when it's becoming clear that they're going to lose and everyone on the bench is looking for something else to do, anything but watching the game. Robertson shrugs and says that's just how we do it in Detroit, kid, guess we just do things a little different here.
Matt can get behind that, sure. Different. Different is a big part of why he's here at all, different, in his case, means that someone up top was willing to pull the trigger, make the call, bring him up to these seriously major leagues. So he's definitely in favor of different.
He gets taken out for drinks after the game by the team, which is traditional, and he doesn't have to pay for anything. It's only been a few years since he was out of college, free drinks are still a pretty big deal, and it was, after all, his first big league homer. Matt drinks kind of a lot, maybe, but if ever there was an appropriate occasion, man.
Verlander takes him home, navigating him through the bar and into his car and out of his car and weaving up to the hotel room, because he only just got here to Detroit, Matt did, and he doesn't know how long he's staying, no sense in signing a lease just yet.
"Yer a good guy," Matt says to Verlander, leaning on him heavily, and he means it. Verlander is so good. He's a year older than Matt and it seems like he's been up forever, he's that good, but he still talks to Matt like they're on the same level, like age is what matters, not rookie or vet status. Like the fact that they know about the same bands and movies makes them equals (trying to explain the concept of emo rock to Kenny Rogers has to be one of the most surreal experiences of Matt's life so far), like the fact that they both know what LOLcats are and find them fucking hilarious gives them something in common (trying to explain that to Todd Jones is something from which Matt may never recover).
"Awww, thanks man," Verlander says, just a little slurred, he's only a little little bit drunk. He tips Matt onto his bed and grins down at him. "Hey, you know, we got a thing. A celebratin' thing, for your first big hit, yeah?"
"Yeah?"
Verlander nods. He nods some more, then leans over the bed and sloppily kisses Matt, hey, wow, right on the mouth. Not expected, that, and Matt only opens his mouth in surprise, but Verlander seems to take it as some kind of invitation, because he slides his tongue in and if Matt thought he was kissing sloppily before, well.
"This's tradition?" he asks, breath hitching, as Verlander fumbles a hand down his front, long fingers on Matt's stomach, his belt buckle, his zipper, his, god, wrapping around his dick, long pitcher's fingers, who the fuck knew?
Verlander nods into the crook of his neck, fingers tight, breath hot.
It's maybe bullshit, of course, but they do shit different here in Detroit, Matt knows, so he's been told, and who's he to mess with the way things are done? Just a rookie, man, if this is how they do it, he's not going to stand in the way of it, not when he's halfway to hard and Verlander's hand feels like a hot brand against his skin, the damp rasp of Verlander's goatee at his neck sending unexpected shocks through his system.
Verlander's thumb rubs the head of his dick, and Matt can feel the callus there, the shape of it born from countless baseball seams, and no sir, he's not going to mess with whatever passes for tradition here in Detroit.
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.
the Detroit difference
He expects the silent treatment when he gets back to the dugout, his first big league homer and all, and that's the tradition, isn't it? Rookies get the silent treatment-- but he's hugged and slapped and high-fived immediately when he comes in. He does his little hug-and-hop routine with Cabrera, and isn't that something, not even up a full week and already he's got a routine with someone, this team, man. Everyone's excited for him and no one's even bothering to hide it.
He asks, later in the game, when it's becoming clear that they're going to lose and everyone on the bench is looking for something else to do, anything but watching the game. Robertson shrugs and says that's just how we do it in Detroit, kid, guess we just do things a little different here.
Matt can get behind that, sure. Different. Different is a big part of why he's here at all, different, in his case, means that someone up top was willing to pull the trigger, make the call, bring him up to these seriously major leagues. So he's definitely in favor of different.
He gets taken out for drinks after the game by the team, which is traditional, and he doesn't have to pay for anything. It's only been a few years since he was out of college, free drinks are still a pretty big deal, and it was, after all, his first big league homer. Matt drinks kind of a lot, maybe, but if ever there was an appropriate occasion, man.
Verlander takes him home, navigating him through the bar and into his car and out of his car and weaving up to the hotel room, because he only just got here to Detroit, Matt did, and he doesn't know how long he's staying, no sense in signing a lease just yet.
"Yer a good guy," Matt says to Verlander, leaning on him heavily, and he means it. Verlander is so good. He's a year older than Matt and it seems like he's been up forever, he's that good, but he still talks to Matt like they're on the same level, like age is what matters, not rookie or vet status. Like the fact that they know about the same bands and movies makes them equals (trying to explain the concept of emo rock to Kenny Rogers has to be one of the most surreal experiences of Matt's life so far), like the fact that they both know what LOLcats are and find them fucking hilarious gives them something in common (trying to explain that to Todd Jones is something from which Matt may never recover).
"Awww, thanks man," Verlander says, just a little slurred, he's only a little little bit drunk. He tips Matt onto his bed and grins down at him. "Hey, you know, we got a thing. A celebratin' thing, for your first big hit, yeah?"
"Yeah?"
Verlander nods. He nods some more, then leans over the bed and sloppily kisses Matt, hey, wow, right on the mouth. Not expected, that, and Matt only opens his mouth in surprise, but Verlander seems to take it as some kind of invitation, because he slides his tongue in and if Matt thought he was kissing sloppily before, well.
"This's tradition?" he asks, breath hitching, as Verlander fumbles a hand down his front, long fingers on Matt's stomach, his belt buckle, his zipper, his, god, wrapping around his dick, long pitcher's fingers, who the fuck knew?
Verlander nods into the crook of his neck, fingers tight, breath hot.
It's maybe bullshit, of course, but they do shit different here in Detroit, Matt knows, so he's been told, and who's he to mess with the way things are done? Just a rookie, man, if this is how they do it, he's not going to stand in the way of it, not when he's halfway to hard and Verlander's hand feels like a hot brand against his skin, the damp rasp of Verlander's goatee at his neck sending unexpected shocks through his system.
Verlander's thumb rubs the head of his dick, and Matt can feel the callus there, the shape of it born from countless baseball seams, and no sir, he's not going to mess with whatever passes for tradition here in Detroit.