Work Text:
February 2011
Pitchers and catchers have to report two weeks early to spring training.
Buster’s hanging with Jeremy Affeldt behind the batting cage. He likes that Affeldt’s a born-again Christian cause it reminds him of Leesburg, where people go to church on Sunday and you know what to expect. Yeah, it’s great to be back, but Scottsdale’s weird. Too much Wilson in the clubhouse today for him, too much about beards and tattoos and some cable show they’re making about last season. He was relieved to get out and just whack fungoes. Now they’re watching the starters - pathetic! - run sprints between the bases. It’s already eighty-five and they're sweating.
- We’re gonna have twins, Buster tells Affeldt. - In August.
- You stud, says Jeremy, smacking him hard on the back. -Dynasty, man. You gonna name one of ‘em Buster?
- You’re about the twelfth person that’s said that, says Buster. - What if they’re girls?
- No way, man, says Affeldt. - They’ll be boys, definitely. You’re gonna be a baseball dad like Cal Ripken.
Buster smiles, picturing himself.
Finished with their sprints, the starters plonk down in the outfield, heaving. Buster watches; Lincecum’s pouring his water bottle over his long hair, working it in with his hands, laughing at something Zeets’s saying. The water soaks into his jersey and merges with the dark sweat streaks on his back and under his arms.
Later, in the clubhouse, coming out of the shower, Buster has to step over Tim, who’s lounging on his side on the carpet, propped on his pitching arm, watching Zito play guitar.
- Barry’s swooning me, says Tim playfully, reaching up to grab Buster’s ankle in mid-step.
Buster yanks his ankle free, shaking his head. - Whatever, he thinks to himself as he dresses at his locker a few yards away.
The two pitchers lean close to each other, whispering, and Buster instinctively looks over, wondering if they’re talking about him. He’s impressed by how broad Tim’s shoulders look, how steep the slope is between his trapezoids and deltoids and his narrow waist. The press calls him 'Tiny Tim,' but Buster knows better. He’s seen him naked in the showers. That jersey he wears, so loose-fitting he kind of swims around in it, is how he makes batters think he’s a twink. And then he hits them with a pitch with so much speed and movement that they can’t even see it. Now Lincecum’s leaning back, Zito’s laughing, and Tim’s powerful shoulders flex beneath his beat-up hoodie. His velocity’s up, Buster’s heard. Musta went and did some serious lifting in the off-season.
That winter, Buster'd did some thinking about Timmy making that pass at him. After a while, though, he’d decided it was nothing. Tim was drunk; they’d just won the World Series. Heck, there was probably all kinds of weird stuff happening around the clubhouse that night. No point in making a big deal about it.
Now he’s just glad to be back behind the plate calling pitches.
The day he and Tim are scheduled in the bullpen, he arrives while Lincecum’s still lying face up on the grass stretching, arms behind him flat, the rest of his body pulling away. It’s unnatural, the way he stretches. Tim’s listening to his iPod, singing to himself while he spreads his legs into what’s nearly a split. Back straight, he touches his chest to the grass and grabs his feet.
- Hey, says Tim, pulling out an earbud.
- What’s playing? asks Buster.
- Marvin Gaye. Are you good to go?
Tim jumps up easily, brushes grass off his pants, and grabs his glove. Buster mostly listens to country, and Timmy’s got weird taste in music - what kind of name is ‘gay’ for a band? - so he lets the subject of music drop.
Once they start, the rhythm does set up as though they’re working to music. Catching is fun when there’s no batter, thinks Buster, blocking a breaking ball in the dirt. Righetti’s right about the source of Tim’s increased velocity; over the winter he’s put on about fifteen pounds of muscle. He’s lost that skinny teenager look; now he’s starting to look more like an athlete, those shoulders and glutes making his two-seamer blaze. He’s also got a new pitch, a good hard slider that’ll be useful against the two or three batters that’ve figured out how to hit his fastball.
-Geez, Timmy, I’m not psychic, says Buster, scrambling to snag a pitch that’s high and wide.
-Aw, fuck, sorry, says Lincecum.
As they practice, Buster wonders what's different. Nothing’s changed. But Tim’s pitching. The seven-foot stride, the way it nearly knocks him off the mound. The hair flying. The way Tim’s left eye stays fixed on Buster over his shoulder as he throws. As he’s putting down sign, watching Lincecum focus hard on the fingers he’s flashing between his legs, Buster finds himself wondering it’d feel like to take the curve of that tight ass in his hands again.
//
For spring training, some of the guys rent condos in a complex off Camelback where the security’s tight. The older players, the married ones, want to do their laundry or carry groceries in from the parking lot without being mobbed by fans. Buster likes that his one-bedroom’s right down the hall from the gym.
He usually sleeps hard, but tonight he’s roused at two-thirty by the angry voices of a couple arguing in the courtyard below his window, so loud that even the air-conditioner doesn’t drown them out. He sighs, kicks off the covers, and puts on a pair of baseball shorts and running shoes. A couple of miles on the treadmill, he’s learned, tires him out enough so he can get back to sleep.
When Buster lets himself into the gym with his passcard, the lights are already on. Lincecum's on one of the treadmills, the grade and the speed jacked up pretty high. Lincecum’s facing away from him and his iPod's cranking out something so loud he’s not even aware that Buster’s there. Buster rubs his eyes and steps onto the treadmill next to Tim’s, punching in thirty minutes. As Buster’s machine’s belt begins to move, Lincecum finally glances over at him. He presses “stop” and pulls out an earbud.
- Can’t sleep? He and Buster have run into each other here before.
- Got woken up, says Buster.
- Me neither, says Tim.
Buster’s machine’s now got him running briskly; Tim cues something up on his iPod and resumes his workout, and for awhile they’re running hard together, facing the darkened full-length windows which give out on the complex’s swimming pool, lit up bright blue, outside. Buster, still sleepy, kind of enjoys the strange feeling of running in the middle of the night. Lincecum’s doing intervals, so every five minutes or so he’s running so hard Buster can feel drops of sweat flying off him.
Eventually Lincecum’s completely soaked. He steps off the treadmill, pulls his shirt off, swigs half a bottle of water and towels his head. When he uses his hands to slick back his long dark hair, Buster hits ‘stop’ on his own machine. It’s been twenty-eight minutes; close enough. He’s sweating too - there's a rivulet running down his spine and into his shorts - but he feels good, relaxed and loose and ready for bed.
Lincecum is sitting on one of the lifting benches, toweling himself off and putting his stuff back into his gym bag. He’s probing around his left kneecap with his fingers.
- Hurt?
- No big, says Tim. - Probably just need to stretch my quads more. It’s clicking on the right. I supinate, my gait’s kind of fucked up.
Buster sits down next to him, feeling awkward. What's the etiquette for late-night exercise sessions; is he expected to stick around for jock talk, or can he just crawl back to bed? Lincecum’s cheeks are flushed, and as he pulls his hair up off his sweaty neck, Buster notices he’s got some kind of black Chinese tattoo where his neck meets his shoulders.
- What’s with the tat? asks Buster.
- It’s Japanese, says Lincecum. The character for ‘man.’ All the guys in my family have it.
When Buster leans over to get a closer look, he notices that Lincecum’s looking at him with an expression of frank curiosity. He’s smiling a little, as though he’s up to something.
- It’s OK, says Lincecum.
- What?
Buster’s only ever done this with girls, but turns out it’s easy, so easy, to take Tim’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking the ace’s hair back behind his ears, and lean in to kiss him. The kiss is tentative, like his first kiss in middle school, when his girlfriend had braces and he had to be extra-gentle. Tim’s lips are soft and salty from his workout, his skin's cool, and Buster feels his lips curve into a smile.
Buster pulls back.
- I can’t believe this, says Buster. Tim’s still just sitting there, his hands gripping the bench, and he’s still smiling.
- Man up, dude, says Lincecum. - Welcome to real life.
And then he flashes Buster a huge, slow grin, and Buster feels like he’s falling down an elevator shaft.