That's What I Thought Too

This is my first attempt at a follow-up story.

For those without time to read the original tale. Brent, our narrator, sustains a baseball injury resulting in his ability to sway some people's thoughts. He hasn't a clue how to use this ability responsibly. He initially plans to use his talent to get sex, but falls in love. The love of his life is headed to England to further her studies as she is very intelligent. He abandons his college baseball career for an attempt at cricket. Music silences his telepathic ability. I would recommend reading the original tale as I doubt I've done an adequate job of segueing from part one to two.

The medical conditions and solutions are fiction. Don't get your hopes, dander, knickers, or panties bunched up.

Not much sex in this and I'm posting in the same category as the original. This is more an exercise is storytelling than an erotic adventure. Please read my profile for my stance on feedback. Feel free to email suggestions or start a conversation.

Thanks to anon Jay Jay for some inspirational thoughts.

Richard Leigh: "Sometimes think 'I love you still'. Wonder if I always will. But I know it's just until, I get over you."

+ + + +

I HATE my telepathic talent. I just want to be normal again. I've found the happy zone using it though. When I don't have earbuds trickling music into my head, I sit thinking 'FOCUS'. I've had too many close calls with bus and cab drivers being affected by my thoughts and nearly causing accidents. Inadvertently affecting people, too close to me, bothers me greatly.

My friends are wondering what kind of mental problems I have, as I am never seen without earbuds.

As Steph and I planned our migration to London, I learned it was her father funding my excursion. He's a partner in a Washington DC based firm. Nothing spared for daddy's girl.

Steph and I have spent many nights exploring how we want our lives to turn out. I still hold out hope for using my athletic ability to make a living. Steph has been approached by several think tanks, and there's no doubt in my mind that she will end up working at one of them.

We both want children. For Steph, it's her number one priority. If she could choose, it would be a son, followed a year later, with a daughter. We go hot and cold on whether we should live in London or back in the US. Too many unknowns. Until my athletic career fizzles, next week or ten years from now, it's ludicrous to even discuss many of our concerns. Likewise, Steph is in high demand. Whoever makes the best offer, and can she afford to ignore it, will bring us to a major crossroad.

At times a crystal ball would make these discussions easier to resolve. What didn't need resolution was our sex life. I was always horny and some days Steph was even hornier. The love making, with and without music blaring, makes us oblivious to our surroundings.

We packed our lives into two suitcases each. Anything else of value was sent to our parents. London was calling and we were both psyched. Steph was attending classes in Oxford England which is an hour train ride from London. We stayed in a hotel for the first week.

+ + + +

The second day in London I had my tryout with the professional cricket team I'd spoken with a month earlier. Foster was the old man calling the shots. He had scraggly white hair and smoked a pipe. He was exceptionally difficult to understand with his gravelly voice and accent.

"Dja thing you kin pay?"

"Excuse me?"

"Dja thing you kin pay?"

When I looked confused "Do you think you can play?"

"Sorry about that. I'm still having some problems with the British accent. Yes, I know I can play."

"Lessee how fast ya be."

After warming up I dusted my competition when we ran around the inside of the fence line. I finished so far in front of the others they cut it off and were walking back across the field.

"Ye kin run. Grabba bat."

I picked up one of the heavier ones, which was also one of the longer ones. It was obvious I didn't know where to set up. I had watched videos but failed to realize how close to the wicket I should stand. The bowler had the decency to wiggle his finger at me until I was where I should be. Some of the players were watching and snickering.

"Just hit, don't run" came a voice from the side.

After clocking a dozen throws one of the other coaches came over and started giving me advice. He had the bowler move the delivery from very outside to behind my back. My instructions were to hit every pitch. The coaches kept changing the bat I was using, some short, some light, but I kept swatting the balls.

Every ball bowled was sent somewhere. Most were sent very sharply. This attracted another of the coaches. The speed and spin on these balls was different than baseball but I wasn't having trouble getting the fat part of my bat on them. They brought in another bowler and then a third. I needed a break as my arms were getting weary. Somewhere along the line a suit had joined the coaches.

Mr. Coat and tie "How quickly can you get your agent here?"

I bluffed "Tomorrow?"

"Be back here at noon. Does that work for you?"

"Sure. What do you want me to do next?"

Foster spoke up "Go shag a few."

I spent the next ten minutes shagging what they called dollys. They were what baseball players called cans of corn. The easiest to track down and catch pop flys. Then they had live batting practice and I covered a section of the field. The other players were pretty enthusiastic about me playing with them.

The team had a hit around and I felt pretty good about myself. There was very little interaction at close quarters so I rarely had to worry about what I was thinking.

Overall, I spent three hours with them. They appeared satisfied with my tryout.

+ + + +

I didn't have an agent so I sent a text to Steph as soon as I left. She texted back a few minutes later and let me know her father would get me the name of a reputable one.

Gordon was the agent I met at a pub around supper time. I was happy that I couldn't get him to blink. It was too loud in the pub so we crossed over to the park. I was hoping like hell that this guy was competent since his questions had me doubting my intelligence. Whatever he could get me I'd owe him sixteen percent. There were bonuses he could earn based on certain financial benchmarks. I looked at the numbers and thought 'Yeah right, like I'm going to make that much.'

After Gordon and I met with the suits for the cricket team, all I could say was 'Holy shit. Good job Gordon.'

+ + + +

Every day I spent four hours practicing, and three more hours watching videos. I'll spend a little time here giving my American friends back home a quick cricket primer.

Cricket is played on a very large field, something like two baseball parks. There's a 'pitch area' centered in the field. That's where all the action starts and ends. It's roughly the same distance as a baseball mound to the home plate umpire. At each end of the pitch area is a set of three stakes called a wicket. Precariously balanced between the three stakes are bits of wood. If those hit the ground, the nearest offensive player is out. There is one offensive and one defensive player at each wicket.

The defensive player, doing the equivalent of pitching, is called a bowler. He bowls six balls, which is called an inning. Then the other defensive player bowls six balls. The defensive players bowl in opposite directions, back and forth. The offensive players are protecting the wicket from the bowled ball. The bowled ball must bounce once before it reaches the batter.

When the batter hits the ball, both offensive players try to reach the other end of the pitch area before the ball is back to the wicket. They run with their bats. That's called a single run. If the hit is good enough, the offensive players will go down and back. That's called a double run. If the ball is hit out of the playing field on the ground, it counts for 'four' runs. If the ball is hit out of the playing field in the air, its worth 'six' runs.

An offensive player is out when the defense is able to tap the wicket with the ball before the offensive player is within reach of the wicket. Very much like a force out in baseball. Actually there are many ways a batter can be out. A common one, exactly like baseball, is catching a ball before it hits the ground. Swinging, missing, and the ball hits the wicket is an out.

There are eleven offensive batters. One and two start. When an out is made, the third takes his place. When the next out is made the fourth player takes his place. The 'side out' occurs when there's only one offensive player left. Then, the other team get to bat until they reach 'side out' or score more than the first team.

A century is when a single offensive player accounts for one hundred runs. The game is played without gloves. The ball is similar in size to a baseball.

For the true cricket lover, I've left out and fudged some of the facts, but this is meant as an overview. My apologies to the purists.

Given my telepathic talent, this game is perfect as there's nothing I can think about that alters the outcome of the game.

+ + + +

Since I was now playing cricket in London, we decided to get a place about halfway between Oxford and London.

My first game experience went really well. It's not baseball, but this is just as much fun. You hit, run, watch one other batsman hit, then do it again until they get you out. Defense takes its toll. You can be out on the field for a few hours.

I was the last batsman but managed to get two fours and a six. My total was twenty four runs and I was the last man standing. I was almost out on my second at bat. The guy that nearly had me was going to feel it. I cracked a blistering line drive that glanced off of him. He was immediately shaking his hand in pain.

I found myself as the seventh batsman for the next game. After four games there, and my first century, I settled in as the regular third batsman. Gordon presented me with a few endorsement contracts. This was so cool.

Steph didn't much care for the antics of the ladies during and after the games. I had several bras and a few knickers tossed in my direction. The exposed pussies and tits were an enjoyable sight. My single teammates had their choice of available and very willing ladies. Yes, most were younger, but there were plenty available across the age spectrum.

I was very uncomfortable doing my first few interviews. After I started doing them, with earbuds in, my confidence grew. My favorite music wasn't music at all. It was rain forest noises. I had grown tired of listening to my playlist. Trying to memorize ninety minutes of bird noises was nearly impossible.

On many days, I could come home to Steph and honestly report that I had not used my ability. Our love life was on cruise control. If we missed a day, it was due to away games or studying for must pass tests at school.

My schooling was not progressing as fast as I had initially anticipated but, with the money coming in, it could afford to be stretched out. I was making as much with endorsements as I was with my salary. Gordon had already hit a few of his bonus benchmarks, which I gladly paid.

+ + + +

It started just before our first Christmas together. On several occasions I found Steph with red bloodshot eyes. Sometimes she had a wadded up tissue in her hands. Although I prompted her, she always said she was just working through some personal issues.

The day after Christmas I decided to use my ability to force the issue. I turned off the music, took Steph's hands in mine, and started mentally chanting 'Honesty'.

Initially Steph wouldn't make eye contact and tried to break free. A few minutes into our standoff my world collapsed.

"Brent, I can't marry you."

It took me a few seconds to digest what she so painfully stated.

"Why?"

"My number one priority is to have children. At least two. I can't risk them having your ability. That would be unfair to them and to society. You use your ability responsibly. A child would not know or understand how much damage they could impart. I don't want to adopt. I want my own babies. I don't want some random artificial insemination. I want to know that the man is honorable and intelligent. The thought of me cuckolding you is completely unacceptable. I'm out of options."

I slumped into the couch. Steph climbed onto my lap and wrapped her arms around me. She started crying uncontrollably.

"It's not fair. I've never loved anyone as much as I love you. I have to be true to myself though. Please don't hate me."

I couldn't find my voice. I just clung to Steph. We made love one last time. She was gone to her classes when I left in the morning. I called my team trainer. We have an urologist we use. I went to see him and packed when I returned. I left Steph a note.

'Steph, I agree with what you are saying. I had a vasectomy this morning. I love you enough to set you free. Maybe fate will bring us back together. I hope whoever you find loves you at least half as much as I do. Please don't try to contact me. This is tough enough already. All my love, Brent.'

I had written the note while recovering from the vasectomy. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I'd lose my ability without active balls. What a cruel irony that would have been. The nurses blinking, as I left the clinic, told me otherwise.

My cricket teammates said they'd put me up for a few days until I found my own place.

Steph sent a text later that afternoon 'I told my dad that it was my fault that you left. I didn't want him blaming you for this. All my love Steph.'

+ + + +

With Steph out looking for her baby maker, I was free to entertain the numerous offers extended after games. At other times I resorted to mental puppetry. 'Squeeze' was still my favorite thought when having sex.

I continued to nurse my education along and eventually got my degree. I didn't need to find work as cricket, and lots of endorsements, had me well off financially. The endorsements may have trickled in but, one year into my career, I was astounded at the amount I was being paid to show my face and say a few lines of scripted nonsense.

I continued having success playing cricket. I wasn't a bunny for any of the bowlers. In my short career no bowler ever dismissed me more than three times. The bloke that got me three times paid dearly though as I took him for six nine times. I proudly accepted my teammate's accolades for being their top gun. Although I never led the league, I was in the top ten with doubles, fours, and sixes.

I scored a century in my innings on several occasions. I had two ducks in the first half of my rookie season but none since. My speed comes into play nearly as much while hitting as when on defense.

The press nicknamed me Mr. Double as I was able to stretch one run hits into twos. My outfield training also helped cut down many opponents trying to stretch their one run hit into two. My speed really came into playing holding hits to the gaps to twos instead of fours.

+ + + +

Five years later:

It was early April. My date for the evening was a young lady who had attracted my attention after our last home game. She walked up to me and pulled her shirt down. Across her braless chest was her name, Marie, and her phone number. Her boobs weren't all that big but she did have very puffy nipples, which I really like. These phone calls are crapshoots.

"Marie, this is Brent. You hustled me with your very beautiful chest after the game last week."

"Hi Brent. I wasn't sure if you'd call. How can I pleasure you?"

"How about dinner. My treat. Where do you want to meet?"

"Well, I don't have a sitter and my son is a little difficult to handle."

"I don't care. Name a place. Bring him along."

Marie directed me to a cozy diner. As I sat waiting for her my mood turned sour. The wall mounted TV was covering the story of the day. A terrorist bombing in a subway station had killed nine. One of the dead was a cricket teammate. I was in no mood for company and thought about cancelling this date.

Marie, with a small child in tow, sat beside me. She placed her son across from her.

"This is Roger."

"Nice to meet you Roger."

Roger had this blank stare as if he was a hollow shell.

"Don't let it bother you. He has some disease or problem and hasn't answered a question in about a year."

I was nibbling on my chips while the bitchy waitress took their drink order.

Marie was trying to get Roger to answer "Roger, juice or milk? Juice or milk Roger? He'll have milk."

We made small talk until the waitress brought their drinks "Whadayouwant?"

Marie went first "I'll have the chicken salad. Roger, pancakes or waffles? Pancakes or waffles Roger."

I thought to myself "CHOOSE!"

"Pancakes" Roger blurted.

"Oh my! ROGER! He'll have pancakes!"

"Yah, I heard him hun. Powdered sugar or syrup?"

"Roger, Powdered sugar or syrup? Powdered sugar or syrup Roger."

I tried it again "CHOOSE!"

"Syrup."

"Oh my! ROGER!"

I turned and saw tears in Marie's eyes. I had to pursue this.

"Marie, I'm interested in child psychology. Tell me more about the problem you've been having getting Roger to talk?"

"About a year ago he stopped talking. I don't have the money to hire a specialist and the clinic says I should continue to work with him until he gets over this phase. I've done some research, on the web, and found a few other mothers with children like this. I'm so tickled. He hasn't answered a question in so long and now two in a row."

Pointing to Roger "Can I?"

"Sure."

"Roger, my name is Brent. Can you look at me?"

Looking at me I thought "Blink."

Roger confirmed what I already knew. Marie didn't blink.

"Roger, juice or milk?"

I thought "CHOOSE!"

"Mom, I hate milk. I want juice."

"Oh my! ROGER!"

"You try it Marie."

"Roger, fork or spoon for your pancakes?"

I could see Roger's eyes go blank.

"Roger, fork or spoon for your pancakes?"

"Roger, fork or spoon for your pancakes?"

Marie's smile morphed into a look of fear.

"It's ok Marie. At least you know he's still in there. If you don't mind I'd like to work with him again sometime."

"I can't pay you."

"Marie, I'm not looking to get paid. I think I can help Roger but I can't guarantee anything."

"I get off work at five tomorrow. Would you like to meet here or my apartment?"

"Whichever you are more comfortable with."

"Let's meet here. I only live two blocks away but it's tough to give directions."

We sealed it with a kiss. I explained the link I had to the subway bombing and asked Marie if we could try 'the dating portion' another night. I paid our tab and spent the night looking up child psychology classes offered at the university. I no longer hated my ability. I had a purpose. Marie says there are others like Roger. If I could find a way to unlock Roger, my injury would be a blessing.

I signed up for some classes the following morning. After cricket practice I spent the day researching Roger's condition. That proved to be difficult. There were several documented cases of children being swallowed into this incommunicado state. I couldn't find one instance where the child returned to normal. The suicide rate was extremely high.

I had my opinion. Roger understood the question, knew what his choices were, but he couldn't break free of the decision making loop. My simple suggestion to choose was the push he needed. It took forever for 5 pm to roll around.

"Hi Marie. Good afternoon Roger. Do you remember me? I'm Brent."

Roger looked at nothing in particular. I thought "CHOOSE!"

"Yes."

Marie gasped then "I don't understand how it is that he responds to you. Let's go."

While walking to her apartment I explained my theory to Marie. Roger was suffering from a form of analysis paralysis. A possible contributing factor could be fear of failure. Panic probably fueled the descent into the abyss. I was making this stuff up as I went.