It's not easy being a major league baseball player who's in the closet, but that's what Mac and Dove have to do in order to have their careers and each other. When Mac has an especially frustrating day, he knows he needs to deal with it himself. So imagine his surprise when Dove appears at his hotel door: they don't do this during the season. Is Dove changing the rules? And if so, can Mac follow?
Story also appears in the Scoring anthology.
Mac stormed into the hotel room, throwing his gear hard enough to leave a dent in the wall. Every joint in his fucking torso burned, the rubdown from the trainer and the ten thousand gallons of Icy Hot not helping in the motherfucking least.
Six to one.
Six to ONE.
How the fuck had they let six fucking runs slide by? Why the fuck had Coach let that idiot Greg play for five fucking innings? The kid had to be giving out free fucking blowjobs.
Six runs down before they let him pitch and against those East Coast assholes. Against that evil son of a bitch.
He slammed his hand into the doorframe, the pain jolting him, right through the shoulder. "Fuck!"
"That can be fucking arranged." The voice was low and deep, a thread of anger running through it. "But you hurt that arm, and I'll make you go cold fucking turkey."
Mac spun around, heart slamming in his chest. "You leave me the fuck alone, you bastard!"
He glared at Jason Dover, the sonofabitch who'd hit two home runs and accounted for five of those six runs.
Dove gave him a hard grin, steel in his eyes. "Oh, I don't think so."
"This is my hotel room." He had to keep looking; he couldn't stop. So fucking fine, so solid, so real. Dove's teeth were bright against the dark skin.
"Yep." Dove advanced on him, strength and promise in every fucking step.
"I'm not doing this." They didn't do this on the road. There was too fucking much to lose, too much to risk.
"You are." Dove's big hands wrapped in the collar of his shirt and pushed him up against the back of the door with a bang, hard lips descending on his, not giving him a chance to breathe, let alone respond.
Near black eyes stared into him, bored into him as that tongue fucked his lips and the big, solid body gave him no quarter; he was stuck between the wall and a hard place.
Evil bastard. Mac hated him. Hated him.
He grabbed Dove's head, the short, tight, black curls tickling his palm. Growling into the kiss, Dove ground against him, hard cock the best damn thing he'd felt all god damn day.
He pushed back, fighting Dove's strength, making Dove work for it. They hadn't called him in for innings. They thought he was fucking washed up. He'd shown them washed up, pitching a fucking no-hitter in his innings. He'd show Dove washed up, too, fight that fine fucking son-of-a-bitch for it.
He could feel Dove's muscles working to keep him right there, feel them flex and shift beneath the tight jeans, the even tighter t-shirt.
"Hate you." He bit Dove's full bottom lip, wanting to make it sting.
Dove grunted, hands leaving his shirt collar. One wrapped around the back of his head, the other grabbed hold of his ass, hard. He could feel that heavy club of a cock, grinding against him, making promises that Dove kept, over and over.
Dove broke the kiss, moving to bite at his throat. "Go on and fight me. Show me how fucking mad you are."
"You asshole. This is my fucking hotel room. Mine." He shoved at Dove's shoulders, hands sliding on the t-shirt.
Dove pressed him back into the door harder. "Yep. And I walked right in."