HER.
Day 1 of Training with Carson
Carson didn't even bother waiting for me outside after he kicked open the shower doors, yelling for me to be at his car in 't-minus seven minutes' or he'd leave me stranded here. Mind you, I was covered in dirt from the field, and my workout clothes were drenched in sweat. It was a very, very hot day today, and we spent most of practice running. I'm exhausted, but nevertheless, here I am with my hands on my hips, staring viciously at the tall man before me.
"Thanks for waiting on me, you dirty dick." I drop my bags on the ground in front of his Nike shoes, the pissed off look almost permanent on my face.
"When I say seven minutes, I mean seven minutes, Carter." He said plainly.
"Yeah, that was clear when I came out fifteen seconds later and you freaking left." I cross my arms over my chest, huffing. "Just tell me what we're doing today." I shook my head, more than annoyed with him. I knew he was a dick, but leaving at seven minutes on the dot? I was outside in the parking lot walking to his car when seven minutes hit, and he pulled off before I could reach him.
I'm already starting to really dislike Coach Speros.
He licked his lips absentmindedly, but it drew my curious eyes to them because they were refilling with color once they were visible again. He chuckled at my words, not my eyes being on his lips lustfully. "You'll see. My training techniques are quite similar to Gardner's, so I'm sure you'll catch on very quickly." He brought a whistle to his lips that I didn't even know he had hanging from the chain around his neck.
And he blew it three times.
"Fuck you." I grind out before breaking out into a run, beginning my journey to three miles. The field was nice and big. The clay on the infield was still a bit soft, as if they watered it earlier today; the normally tan-ish, brown dirt was a reddish brown, like the clay they have in Georgia.
The bases were a crisp white, no smudges from the clay—it was new looking. The turf on the outfield was lush, too, which led me to believe that they had just fixed this field up. There must be a game going on some time soon for it to look this nice. It was as nice as the fields in the MLB.
Not that I remember exactly what they look like, for the last time I was at a field was my senior year in high school. My dad took my brothers and I to a Nationals game. I had a crush on Harper's tight ass that was well shaped in his pants, so I convinced my dad to let me see him and his team in person. Of course, all my brothers wanted to go because they love baseball just as much as I do.
When I reached Carson again after finishing my three miles, I hunched over, bracing my arms on my thighs as I gasped for air. My lungs were expanding just as much as they did whenever I had sex. He grinned down at me, tilting my chin up with his index finger, watching me catch my breath. "That...was fucking great. I never knew you could run so well."
Slapping his hand off of my face, I stretched to my full height, which was still shorter than his, but hey, I'm above average height for women. "What are we doing?"
"I'm glad you asked," he steps away from me, "Grab your shit." My hand wrapped around the strap of my backpack that had my baseball bats sticking up from the side pockets, and yanked on it, throwing it over my shoulder and looping both my arms through each strap before wiggling my body to position it right. I then grabbed my second backpack and placed it on my front, letting the straps overlap with the ones from the backpack on my back. Lastly, I grabbed my duffle bag, placing the long strap across my body.
You probably couldn't even see my body with the amount of stuff I carry with me for baseball. I don't even know why I decided to bring everything with me today.
The stupid smile on Carson's face told me that he was about to run me into the ground, and the words that came out of his mouth solidified it. "Let's take a walk."
We started walking slowly, side by side around the field, starting from the infield. "Is there anybody that ever wanted to hurt Ni? Any ex-boyfriends, enemies?" He looked at me through those thick eyelashes, briefly distracting me.
"What is this?" I chuckled after my mind caught up, "Supernatural?" I elbowed him lightly, but when I looked up, his face was serious. "You don't actually think a ghost did this, do you?"
"It's not about fucking ghosts, Carter, grow up. I'm serious. Her death wasn't a pretty one and if I don't figure it out, the school will pin it on me." He ground out, stunning me. The school is threatening him to find out what happened to one of their students? Seriously?
"They can't do that," I shake my head, glancing up at his heated form. His jaw was clenched, the little muscle popping out. His nostrils flared once, but he just sighed in the end.
"They can do whatever the fuck they want...I should've just stayed quiet." He mumbled to himself. It seems to be more personal than our weird relationship, so I believe it's best not to comment on it.
We were silent as we walked around, heading into the outfield. It was there that Carson told me to lunge. "You've got to be kidding me." I frown, but he just shrugs, stopping so that I walked ahead of him.
"You have a nice ass, and gorgeous legs, but imagine how much nicer they'd look with a bit more toned-ness to them," his hand ran up the side of my thigh before resting on my hip, his fingers digging into my flesh. I bit my lip. "They'd be much firmer, and you'd run even faster. Of course," his hand slid back down before trailing up my inner thigh, "Your skin would be just as smooth and silky as it already is." He breathed before his words turned hard, "Lunge."
So I did. And it burned, but if it's for the better of the team...I'll do it. We fell into silence again, save for the 'you're doing good', and the 'your ass is looking tighter already' praises he was giving me. The whole time, I was thinking about the things I knew about Ni, and how they could help Carson. The last thing I wanted was for him to get into legal trouble for something that he damn well didn't do.
"I don't know about personal vendettas," I said quietly, too busy trying not to grit my teeth when he told me to lunge lower. Then, it clicked, "But she did tell me to promise her something."
"And that was?" His hand came down on my shoulder, and he pushed my body down more, so that my knee was brushing the ground.
"To never tell anyone about this drawer for as long as she lived. She's dead now, so I guess it doesn't apply, but there's this drawer. I don't know what's in it, but she told me to swear on her life that I wouldn't tell. I haven't told anyone before you, so I promise I didn't kill her." I had a quick flashback of her pointing to the second drawer with a pained expression painted on her face, "The second one."
He smiled at me, he actually smiled. "Thank you."
Day 2 of Training with Carson
That stupid, stupid whistle hollered again and again and again. I ran mile after mile after mile. Now, as I ran back and forth from base to base, he stands behind home plate with one hand on his hip, the other holding the silver whistle that is attached to a red rope. "Again!" He blew the whistle.
Sprinting, I went from first base to second, back to first, then to third, back to first, to second, back to first, and after all of that, I had to sprint from first to home plate. Talk about a mouth-and leg-full. "Again!"
"Stupid, spineless, brainless, compassionless, big-dicked, dick-less, dick." I murmured under my breath before letting out a hot breath of frustration. It's the second day, and I've been out here for an hour and a half, and I have yet to touch my bat. Isn't the whole point of this shit for me to bat better? Why the hell am I running so much?
Before I could even make it to home base, he blew his whistle two times. Screaming in anger, feeling heat flash through my veins, I turned hard in the dirt, leaving a shoe print, and took off into the outfield. "You feel that anger, Carter?"
"Shut the fuck up!" I cursed, not feeling a hint of remorse. He was supposed to be training me, not running me into the ground—literally. If I wanted to do this, I would've joined cross country.
"You should feel that anger every time you step up on the plate!" He yelled to me from across the field, "in order to hit hard, you need to be mad at the game! Are you mad, Carter? Huh?" He taunts me.
"Shut up!" I huffed, forcing my legs to move, for they were feeling like lead, still sore from the workout he gave me yesterday. It seemed like with each step, I was running with steel-toe boots.
"You need to pull it together, Carter. Use your fucking legs and move!" He yelled when I tripped over myself, falling. My body couldn't take it. I had to run three miles as a warm up, then I did suicides. After that, I ran two more miles, followed by the base sprints, and now he wants two more? Hell no. "Carter!"
"Fuck you!" I stood abruptly, glaring at him from across the field. "Fuck! You! I've been running my ass off for the past two days, and I still haven't gotten to bat yet. You were supposed to teach me to hit—none of this other shit. I'm done!"
"Carter!" He yelled after me once I stalked off, too bothered to go back and grab all of my things. My legs are heavy. I need a massage and some alcohol in order to depress the tightness in my muscles.
"No!" I turned around, seeing him march across the field. I hold my hand up, my index finger pointing at him as I fight the tears from exhaustion that were threatening to fall, "Don't you dare follow me!"
And with that, I stormed off without him trailing behind me.
|||
It had been three days before I decided I had overreacted. I was a tad bit late today, and I had no clue if he would be there, but I wanted to finish what I started. I told him to train me like he would train the guys, and I respect him for doing that with me, even though it felt like shit.
Maybe there's a method to his madness.
So, with my athletic shorts that were a little shorter than I liked—but I had to stick with it because I didn't do my laundry yet—my sports bra because again, laundry hasn't been done, I opened the slightly rusted gates to the field, and stepped onto the wet turf. There was a thunderstorm last night, which isn't surprising at all for Florida, but the manner of which it had stormed was enough to have us all on a flash flood warning, and we were anticipating a surprise attack from a hurricane.
Luckily, there weren't any hurricanes (and February isn't even hurricane season) so we were happy. With one glance upward, I saw Carson sitting on home plate, looking at the dark sky that was slowly brightening with a deep purple hue. The shadows of the early morning played across his face, making him look disappointed while sitting there.
He hadn't heard me walking toward him until I was about ten feet away, but when he did hear, he looked up, his grey eyes looking black without the light. "Hey," I said timidly, placing my bags on the ground in front of him before sitting beside him.
"And after three days of crying, she comes back." He teases, earning a punch to the arm. "Why did you come back?"
"I realized I was being a whiny bitch."
"Hence the nickname." He earned an elbow to the side this time. We both chuckled before I sighed. He responded to it, "You know, I've been here every morning since you left."
"Hoping and praying that I'd crawl back to you?" I joke.
"Yep," he pops the 'p'. "I'm glad you came back though," he said quietly, nudging my shoulder with his, "I was missing your whining."
"Good," I grin, standing up, and holding out my hand, waiting for him to grasp it. His big hand joined with mine, making my heart skip a beat before I pulled him up to stand in front of me. He didn't expect me to actually pull him with my strength, so the combination of me pulling him, and his legs pushing him up caused his body to collide into mine. Our bodies brushed, and he took an intake of breath when my chest pressed against his torso. My nose had smacked his chest, also, so that was...fun.
"Ready to workout?" He grinned after taking a few steps back from my body. I looked up into his gorgeous eyes and smiled.
"Heck yeah, boy."
Half an hour later I was panting while on my back in the wet, cool grass with Carson hovered over me.
"Stop," I groaned at the pain. It had been too long since I last did this.
"You want me to stop?" He breathed from above me, his cool breath fanning my face as he looked into my eyes with his own dark ones.
"No, don't stop." I gritted out, the muscle in my leg feeling as if it was about to snap from the pressure of being stretched out by this man with crazy strong muscles. He pushed my leg down, my knee becoming dangerously close to my face as he stretched the hamstring of my left leg.
"You're so flexible, it's not even funny." He said seriously, his teeth sinking into his full bottom lip, making my clit throb, begging for his lips to be latched onto it.
Why am I thinking like this?
"I used to go to yoga classes during the summer." I shrugged as much as I could with my back pressed against the ground. Carson slowly lowered my leg back down to the ground before picking up the other, and stretching it.
"That really paid off," his brows rose as my right leg went farther than my left, my knee actually touching my face now. I was feeling uncomfortable, but Carson seemed to be fascinated with this. "Wow," he drew out the vowel, "I could fuck her so good in this position." He whispered, I guess, thinking that I didn't hear, but I definitely heard.
I felt warmth spread through my body. I think I wanted him to fuck me in this position.
"How long have you been doing yoga for?" His eyes were curious, and the question threw me off. Carson hasn't ever really asked me any questions about my personal life. It's either been an insult, or baseball related conversations that are held between us.
"Well, I took the class back in high school, and fell in love with it...so five years?" I looked to the sky, waiting for the answer to come to me. "Yeah, five."
"Impressive." He lowers my leg before helping me up to a standing position. He circles around me before stopping when he was directly behind me. "Very impressive," he said slowly, lowly, his breath dancing across my neck, causing the little hairs to stand. "I want you to bend over for me."
"What?" I said breathlessly, turning my head to look back at his face. He wasn't as flustered as I was—not by a long shot. Instead, he was pursing his lips to keep from laughing at me.
"I'm trying to stretch your legs, Carter, bend over," he shook his head at me as he chuckled. His hand rested on my lower back as I slowly bent over in front of him. His hips pressed against my butt, so he stepped backward to give me space, all while cooing, "Good job."
His clean (must've been recently purchased) Nike shoe pushed my worn out shoes over in the grass, successfully pushing my feet apart and spreading my legs. I really started feeling the pull on my hamstrings at that moment. "Take a deep breath for me," he says calmly, both hands resting on my hips. My lungs expand as I take in more air on his count, then he tells me to exhale. He pushes my back softly, encouraging my body to do a deeper stretch. "Your hands should be on the ground now," he kicks my feet again, making my stance wider, "Start walking them backwards toward my body."
Doing as he said, I stretched myself, my legs slowly allowing me to get a deeper pull before he directed me to walk my hands to my right leg, "Wrap you hands around you ankle and pull lightly," he coaxed so therapeutically, it relaxed my muscles. I was feeling good.
I repeated this stretch on the other side before we moved onto arms. It wasn't long before I was nice and limber feeling. I could still go for a good massage, though. "Thank you for stretching with me," I glance to my side at Carson who was now sitting in the grass, scrolling through his phone.
"No problem."
"When did you learn to do all of that?" I wondered aloud, curious because his instructions were soothing and at some points, he gave me further information about why it's important to stretch the muscle group we were stretching; along with the benefits that come with stretching that group. He was very informative, and patient when I didn't know how to do a certain stretch.
"I took classes for physical therapy my freshman and sophomore year." He shrugs it off like it was nothing, "I wanted to be a masseur for a while. Ever since I was fourteen." He adds in, piquing my interest.
"Why?"
He chuckled, "I knew women wanted a man to put his hands on them in ways that would make them writhe in pleasure I and damn sure wanted to be that man."
"I'm guessing that changed?" I don't know why I wanted to keep asking him questions. There was...just this craving to want to get to know him. I've known him for three years, knowing in terms of knowing his name. Knowing that him and I were supposed to be in the same year, but I took a gap. Knowing that he was the best baseball player that ever came to our little school in Florida, but I've never been able to say that I know of him.
I don't know when his birthday is. I don't know what he likes to eat—what food he can't go without. I don't know if he's into reading, if he listens to audio instead, his favorite music, his view on politics. Does he write with his left hand, or right? Where is he from? What's his family history? His goals in life—what are his inspirations?
There's so much I didn't care to know about before, but now, I want to know. I need to get to know him.
Why?
"Keep asking me questions, and I'll have to think that you like me, Carter." He smirks, his eyes light and playful, but his words caused butterflies from deep down to escape their cage, fluttering their frail wings around my insides, igniting a flame onto my face as they flew closer to the surface.
He didn't see my flushed face, thank you God. He was too busy checking his phone which had pinged with a notification.
I was also thanking God for humans not having the ability to sense each other's heart rate like vampires had the gift to do because had he been able to, I would've been caught.
Because my heart was beating a mile a minute.
Day 7 of Training with Carson
Seven days. It took me seven days of grueling training, late night studying due to our nightly sessions, and sweat and tears for this moment. This very moment that I've been waiting for what seems like half of an eternity:
I brought my batting gear, and guess what?
I'm going to use it! Can I please get a round of applause?
Walking across the field, the brightest smile in the history of bright smiles was practically carved onto my face. My fingers were tapping excitedly against the straps of my bags, and I had a bounce to my every step—I was beyond elated. I even decided to make myself look good:
Some sports tights with mesh lining on the sides, going all the way up to my hips, paired with a sports bra with the entire back mesh as well. I was showing a nice amount of skin. My hair's up in a bun, and my face was probably radiating my excitement.
Carson didn't seem to share my excitement through, but I was sure that was just his bitchy coach mode face. "Why do you look so energized? It's night."
"That's why I'm energized, baby!" I throw my stuff on the ground, anticipating the whistle blowing, so I decided to run by myself. The whistle fell from his full lips, shock clearly shown on his face. I giggled, feeling the breeze of the night whip through the little tendrils of hair that were too short to make it into my bun as I picked up the pace.
I had finished three miles in twenty seven minutes.
Jumping up and down in front of Carson, I knew I was annoying him with my excitement, but who can't be excited about getting to feel the love of your life between your hands, the steel being gripped tightly by your fingertips as you get ready to hit. It's the equivalent of gripping a dick. "What am I doing today?" I beam.
"Just get your ass on the plate," he grumbled, the whistle connected to the rope bouncing off of his firm chest with each step he took toward the mound.
From there, a ball appeared, resting on the palm of his right hand. "What is this?" He asks me, tossing the ball up into the air before catching it as gravity pulled it back to its starting point.
"A baseball, Carson. Stop playing games and pitch." I pouted, my lips turning downward. His face showed no change in expression.
"Wrong," he deadpanned, tossing the ball up into the air again. "This is a high seam baseball, Carter." He rotates the ball in his hand, letting his eyes roam over its small form. "They're throwing these out. Games are played with flat seams now, but we always practice with these."
"Why?" I question. I didn't even know that there were different kinds of baseballs being used between games and practices.
"Because it makes you work harder to hit the same distance as you do with the other seam," he shrugs, but continues swiftly, "If you can hit a home run with this ball, you can knock it out of the park with the other. Promise."
"Alright," I trusted his word, walking toward my bag to get my bat out. Testing the weight in my hands, I tilted the bat from left to right before swinging it lightly. I took a deep breath, walking back to home plate, staring at the little pentagon before glancing at Carson.
He gestured to where I was standing, "Assume the position."
"On my knees, or...?" I grin when he gives me a bored look.
"Now, Carter." Somebody's patience was running thin today. Must've been some bad head given by India. I smirk at my humorous thoughts before tightening my grip on my back as I laid the barrel in the crook of my shoulder. "I can tell you five things that's wrong with your form already," he sets the ball on the ground before taking off a backpack that I didn't even know he had on him and laying it on the ground.
In a few short moments, he was behind me, telling me everything I happened to do 'wrong'. "Your feet are too close together. When you go to swing, you'll end up on your toes, shifting your weight on the wrong like leg like you always do and fuck up your swing," he kicks my feet apart, widening my stance. "Two," he begins, but I chimed in.
"You skipped one."
"Shut up before I skip my dick up your ass," the grimy bastard retorts before resuming, "Two," he emphasizes, "your posture is bad. You don't hunch over—this isn't the diving team, straighten that back up," he grabs my arms, pulling me back into him so that his entire front (legs and all) was practically tonguing down my back (metaphorically, of course).
"Do you snuggle up to all your trainees like this?" I tease, knowing he hates it whenever I refer to us snuggling/cuddling.
"Nope," he sighs, his breath fanning the top of my head, tickling my scalp where the hairs wriggled, "Just you." He then cleared his throat, "You bend your knees, not your back, okay? Now bend them...good job," he breathes. "Number three, you're holding your bat nicely, but I want it higher, so bring your elbows up...up..." I lifted my elbows, sliding my bat further up my shoulder, "up...ah, there you go."
I smiled, feeling accomplished. "You want it high so you can have the best swing," he explains, before clapping his hands together, "Great. So number four, you looked so fucking spooked right then, it was ridiculous, Carter."
"I'm nervous!" I defend myself, glancing back at him, but only being met with the sight of his chest. Stupid height. "I haven't hit a home run ever, Carson."
"It'll come to you, there's no need to be nervous. If a pitcher sees you nervous, he's already struck you out in his mind. One, he's putting you at a disadvantage because you're a female, and two, the 'oh I'm scared as fuck' face isn't going to help your situation."
"You're right."
"Damn right I'm right," he inflates his ego, "Now number five—if you don't get your motherfucking gear on, I'll kick your ass. How the hell are you supposed to bat without a helmet at the very least?" His voice deepened as the seriousness of his words were made audible. Heat spread to my cheeks as I hurried over to my bags, pulling out my helmet and gloves—how could I forget my gear?
When I was finally settled, Carson was standing on the mound, a ball in his hand, and I was officially ready. "Pitch it to me, baby!" I yell out, showing him that I'm not nervous (although I'm practically shitting my pants on the inside).
Before he wound up, he looked into my eyes for confirmation. I told him to go. And he pitched.
I swung—praying in my head that it actually goes somewhere—smacking the ball with my bat, and...hold your breath.
Foul ball. "Darn," I shake my head, but was mildly surprised when Carson pulled out another ball from his bag.
"It's okay, Carter," he assures me, "You're not always going to hit the way you want to. Stop overthinking it. When your body wants to go, it'll go, you just have to go with it one hundred percent. Don't to hesitate, alright? Just go. Embrace the go."
"Embrace the go." I repeated quietly, to which he nodded, and said it back to me.
"Embrace the go."
"I'm ready."
He pitched it to me.
Strike.
Grunting rather unattractively, I look back at Carson who pressed his lips together, "I'm pitching to you at average speed, around eighty-two to eighty-five miles per hour. If you ask me to pitch slower, the answer is no. I won't pitch faster, either, because not everyone pitches like Vinny, so you're going to have to hit it on your own. You won't do it until your mind and body are in sync. Focus."
Focus.
He pitched.
"Foul."
And again.
"That probably could've been a double."
And again.
"Foul, Carter. Hurry up, I'm running out of balls."
Again.
"There you go! You're getting closer, keep hitting hard." He encouraged, bringing a smile to my face.
Again.
"Hell yeah! I heard some baby thunder in that one." He muses, pulling out another ball. "Focus, Carter, focus."
He pitched again, and this time, it felt as if I knew exactly when to hit it. My mind said go at the same time my body said go, and I went.
Crack.
"Holy fuck!" Carson shouted, immediately turning around as the ball flew across the sky. We both watched in awe as it went a little past the gates of the field, hitting the roof of someone's car as it searched for the ground. My jaw was on the floor.
I had cracked my bat.
"Carson?" I called his name softly, almost uncertainly as I examined my poor baby.
"Raine, you did it. You fucking did it." He turned around just as the bat had slipped from my hands.
I think this is the first time he's called me by my name without the breathy, sex voice. He was walking toward me, and I was meeting him half way. His eyes were bright with excitement, and I covered my open mouth with my hand, completely at a loss for words. "I'm proud of you, Raine," he smiles sheepishly, causing my lips to curve up into a shy one.
"I-" I breathed, just now realizing the closeness of our bodies. His chest was so close to my face, I had to look up to avoid colliding with his body, and when I looked up, all I could do was smile because the color of his eyes always made me nervous. "I don't know what to say..." his steely eyes watched my lips as my words left them.
"I...I know what to say," he said just a smidge above a whisper, and I could've melted when one of his hands traveled up the curve of my spine, only for his fingers to pull the hair tie from my bun gracefully, allowing my thick curls to fall with the help of his hand. His long fingers were suddenly tangled in my mess of hair as my gaze fell to his lips that were getting nearer to mine.
He was going for the kill.
My heart was beating like a drum in a marching band before the homecoming football game. Would we pull back like last time? Would his lips actually touch mine?
Warmth.
I felt my lips heat up as his full ones touched mine softly, delicately, as if this was the only moment that would ever be filled with both of us being on the same page: we wanted this. I wanted to taste him. He wanted to taste me. No arguments, no sex, no boundaries. The grip on my hair tightened as he took a little more of me, his lips becoming firmer, more passionate. He wanted to show me how much he wanted this.
I wanted to show him, too.
Bringing my arms up, my hands rested on his head, bringing his face closer to mine after we had pulled back with a sensual sound eliciting from both our mouths. He tasted good, better than anything I had. He pulled my hair, tilting my head back so he could taste me with his tongue, invading my space in the nicest way, synchronizing with my tongue with great calculation. This was the cleanest French kiss I had ever had, and it made my pussy search for friction. He was turning me on. "Carson," I moaned lightly when he made me dizzy from his kiss. The man had really nice lips.
All too soon he pulled back, but pressed his lips to mine once more, and when he looked into my eyes, I was rendered speechless...again.
___