The Yips Pt. 01

Bryan and Lauren did not stay long, begging off with the excuse that they had a long drive back and much to prepare before the wedding, but promising to call as soon as the date and place were set.

On the drive back to Hondo, Bryan kept glancing over at his fiancé. She looked straight out the window and answered his questions with grunts.

Her parents' home was filled with photos of Lauren and her older brother, now in the Army. In every picture, Lauren looked haunted. Even smiling, Bryan could not see in that girl the seemingly happy and confident woman he had fallen in love with.

Maybe she had just grown up, matured. But he had caught a glimpse of her face on their walk from his truck to the door of the trailer when they first arrived. It was the look of an animal being returned to its cage.

**********

"Bryan, how do you stay focused with all these distractions?" The blonde made a gesture to include everything around them. At least she was not pretending to not be one of the distractions, he thought.

"Lauren," he said, taking his wife's hand. "She keeps me grounded. She's always looked out for me. Every day since I was drafted by the Red Sox, she has been the organizer. She pays the bills, feeds me.... lets me concentrate on playing. I really don't know what I would do without her."

Lauren turned upon him a face suffused with adoration and love and caressed his arm.

**********

Distractions. Bryan had been called up to the parent club, the show, the bigs, mid-summer the year before that interview when the Red Sox infield defense became a glaring handicap. One June afternoon he had been oiling a new glove in the Portland clubhouse when the manager called him into his office. A half hour later he was speeding south on I95. He got to Fenway Park an hour before game time, pulled on his new uniform, and ran onto the field to take batting practice and field a few fungoes. He was amazed by the brightness of the place, by the verdant green and clinical white and vivid red of the park. He was amazed by the unbroken sea of faces. He was amazed to find that he was starting.

He found himself sitting in the clubhouse in a daze while his new teammates went through twenty plus individual rituals to prepare themselves. Bryan felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up at a tall blonde man extending his hand.

"Mitch Rollins," he said with a big smile. "First base. Your new best friend."

Bryan shook enthusiastically. It was true -- the two infielders on the right side of the diamond had to develop a close relationship and trust. They had to know when the other was going to attack a ground ball hit between them. The second baseman had to trust that his first bagger could leap or dig errant throws. They had to decide in split seconds if the ground ball to the right side with a runner on first was going to be taken by the first baseman and fired to the shortstop covering second while the second baseman and the catcher decided who was going to sprint to first to take the return throw. A simple ground ball turned into a series of complex calculations and verbal and instinctive interactions between the infielders.

A baseball team at this level is an interdependent system that acts and reacts in microseconds. In harmony, in order. Bryan was a new gear. Sure, a gear that had worked in other machines, but here he was installed into the best, shiniest, most expensive machine he had ever been a cog in, trying to please the 35,000 stakeholders in the stands who thought the machine was theirs.

He struck out three times.

On the other hand, he made two difficult pickups of ground balls that seemed headed to the outfield, and he turned three double plays, one of them very nonroutine. After the game he stood by the postgame spread considering what food rewarded good fielding and salved poor hitting when Damon Castillo, the manager, came over and picked out a veggie wrap.

"Nice anticipation on those two balls," Damon said. "I had them figured for singles off the bat. You saved one sure run."

Bryan grinned ruefully. "Thanks. I just wish I had made more noise at the plate."

"We won. Didn't they tell you in the bush leagues that it counts the same if you win by one or by a dozen? Relax. Take a deep breath.... Actually. Do it.... Take a deep breath."

Bryan obeyed. He took a very deep professional breath.

"Now look around you," the manager said. "This clubhouse. The field. The park. The city of Boston. You are here because you belong here. I remember my first day. I was convinced I was a fraud and someone would notice their mistake. And send me packing in disgrace back to Wichita. Know what? Never happened. My manager called me into his office and told me to relax. Told me I was here because I belonged. Told me to take a deep breath."

Bryan grinned. "Thanks."

The next morning the Sox left on a long west coast road trip. Seattle for three games, Oakland for four, finishing in LA with three. Bryan had been on many tedious bus rides in the minors. This first major league trip was nothing like he had ever experienced before. Older guys who had played in the bigs often told the kids who had not had the good fortune to have been up tales of the luxuries and perks that went along with being in the show, but Bryan had never known how much to believe. Now he knew those memories had not been exaggerated. His luggage was transported from city to city without him touching or worrying about it. The team owned a jet, and every seat was first class. Meals were lavish. The hotels were five star and close to the park. Bryan got his own room.

He talked to Lauren every night and messaged her about once an hour with the amazing things he was seeing and doing. He had always missed her when he had to go on the road and felt sorry for her having to be alone. This time he was not a bit guilty. They were all of a sudden wealthy -- by baseball standards. His minor league salary had been four figures. The major league minimum, which he was automatically being paid the minute he reported to Fenway Park, was in the mid-sixes.

On the flight to Seattle, he had called Lauren and asked her to take the train from Portland to Boston, pick up their car in the players' parking lot, and start looking for a house.

He almost lost hearing in one ear from her squeals.

They had an off day in LA, and two of the outfielders invited him to a party. "Big time Hollywood producer. Went to Boston Latin. Boston College," they said. It would be a night of fun and games.

Bryan liked games.

A stretch limo picked him and four other players up from the hotel and drove them into the actual Hollywood Hills, a legendary place Bryan had never thought he would set foot upon. But he did, climbing out of the limo in front of a huge glass and steel mansion. Inside, they were greeted by their host, Oliver something, a short chubby man dressed in black and wearing a Red Sox cap.

Bryan was introduced to six women, all gorgeous, all barely dressed. Six women. Six men. He knew what the games were then.

Oliver handed him a plastic square. "You're in the Monroe suite."

Bryan began to protest, but the man cut him off. "No buts -- we'll have you back to the hotel in the morning before the bus leaves for the park. Just relax."

Bryan did relax. He poured himself a cold beer from an iced keg and wandered the grounds. The place had an arcade -- so there were actual games, as advertised. There was a billiard hall with four tables, a pinball room, a bowling alley. Outside by the pool was a sauna and a hot tub large enough to float a tugboat. He saw tennis courts, a basketball court, a batting cage. He took pictures to show Lauren. By the time he had satisfied his curiosity, he noticed that he was alone. His teammates and the women had disappeared. Bryan did not think he would find them playing pinball.

He sat down in one of the lounge chairs. Past the pool, he could see the Pacific reflecting the full moon. The lights of Los Angeles twinkled below. It was a long way from Hondo, Texas, and all because he could catch and throw and hit a white leather ball good enough to make other people want to pay to see it.

He drank the last of his beer and was contemplating having just one more before turning in when he heard her voice.

"What room are we in?"

He started and nearly tipped the chair over. He had been deep into his thoughts and the striking view. She sat down beside him, and if he had not bent his legs quickly she would have been in his lap. This seemed to disappoint her.

She was the tiniest of the beauties that had been lined up on their arrival like so many party favors, which Bryan figured they were. Upon seeing her, he had a fleeting thought that somebody brought their little sister. She was five feet maybe with her heels added, long brown hair, oval face, classical curves. Her top showed the majority of the surface area of her tits and two suggestions of areolae.

Her skirt was so short it made Bryan muse that there were no mysteries in the world anymore.

"Hi. I'm--"

"Harper. Yes, I remember."

She smiled at him. Bryan thought her smile would outsell Viagra if it could be pilled.

"And you're Bryan."

He nodded.

"So... what room are we in?"

Bryan felt irrationally upset. He had been having a perfectly peaceful time.

"We?"

She looked confused. "Don't you want to...."

Bryan looked her straight in the eyes. "Want to what?"

"To... be together?"

"Look, Harper-- Got your ID?"

"What?" She looked scared.

"Your ID. Driver's license. You are old enough to drive, I hope."

Now it was she who became upset. "Fine." She reached into a hidden pocket, amazing Bryan, who would not have guessed her skirt contained enough material to have a pocket, and handed it over.

"Sharon Ann Mohler," he read. "When did you change your name?"

"We don't use our real names," she said with exasperation. "Olly said to pick one that sounded sexy."

"And Harper is sexier than Sharon?"

She rolled her eyes instead of saying Duh.

He considered the card and did the math. "Well, at least you are legal. Unless this is a fake."

"Jesus, what do you care?" She sat up and thrust her boobs at him. "Nobody else ever cared."

"This a regular thing?"

She colored. He thought she was going to rage, but it was embarrassment.

"How many times have you been Oliver's entertainment?"

"This is the third time," she admitted, eyes down.

"Are you a..."

Her head snapped up. "No, I am not a hooker, if that's what you're thinking. I am a production assistant at Herald Pictures."

"So what's the attraction? Sex? The thrill? Is it that exciting?"

She sat silently for a minute, then she laughed. Her laugh was a musical trill that made Bryan wish for a disloyal second that he had his cock buried in her while she laughed that ferociously sexy laugh.

"Not so far," she said with regret. "The first two were... a mediocre fucking time. And tonight, I get you."

"Sorry. I'm married."

"So were they. They didn't even bother to take their rings off."

"Why should they?" Bryan asked. "You're a sure thing."

He paused. "They weren't here for your pleasure."

She looked out at the city and did not reply.

"You really know how to ruin a fun evening," she said at last.

"Yeah," he admitted. "So why me? Were you just the last one left?"

She shrugged. "You saw them."

"I sure did. Couldn't help seeing them. Quite a collection. But if I were picking, I would pick you."

She managed to frown and smile at the same time. "Why? There's no comparison...."

"Bullshit. You friends with those other girls?"

"Yeah. Not well, but...."

"They're all actresses."

She looked at him. "How did you know?"

"They were looking at me to see how I thought they looked. You looked at me... to see how I looked."

"Oh."

"You want my advice, Miss Mohler?"

She laughed. "No, but you are going to give it to me anyway."

"That's right, and I can't believe I am turning into my father. Look, this is not the way to get noticed, if that's what you want. Isn't that what everybody in Hollywood wants?"

She shrugged. "You know how many PAs there are in this town? Olly told me I could make myself stand out by... networking."

"No disrespect to our host," Bryan said. "Wait. Actually, fuck him. He's a little boy with hero worship issues. He's using your body to curry favor from baseball players. It's not costing him a dime except for food and drink, and judging from your body you don't do much of either."

She laughed again. Bryan wanted to tell her jokes all night just to hear that laugh.

"So tell Olly to fuck off the next time he calls you. Find some man who will respect you for yourself and for your talents."

They looked at each other.

"Dad mode off," Bryan said.

She bit her lip. "Tell me about your wife."

He did. They talked and played pinball, then pool. There was even a skeeball machine in the corner of the pool hall on which she managed to defeat him two out of three and jumped around with her arms in the air shouting victory.

He gave her the key to the Monroe suite. She kissed him softly when he dropped her off at its door. In another life, another existence, Bryan thought.

He called a rideshare to the hotel and got in at two. The next morning he was dead tired, and the four guys who had stayed the night at Olly's palace were ashen and dragging.

Bryan, exhausted, went three for five with two RBIs, including the winner. After the game, he was spent. But he felt like a million bucks.

**********

Lauren hired a real estate agent who found them a house in a development south of Boston, in Rhode Island in fact. Bryan was initially hesitant to live in a whole different state, but when he saw the place he was hooked. The house was a two-story four bedroom with a three-car garage set in a gated community. There was a communal clubhouse with a big heated pool, hot tubs, tennis courts, soccer field, volleyball. It was the affordable version of Olly's Hollywood spread. And it turned out to be only 40 miles from Fenway. To Bryan, who had grown up with Texas-size spacing between towns, that was like being down the block.

The day they got the keys, Bryan carried his wife across the threshold, lowered her gently onto the living room carpet, and stretched out beside her. He took her in his arms... and she burst into tears.

"What is it, babe?" he asked gently.

"Oh, Bryan! You have given me everything I ever wanted. I love you so much."

Bryan wondered if it was kosher to take advantage of a sobbing woman. He rubbed her pussy through her tight slacks and she moaned and sobbed. Then moaned. He decided this was the Universe giving him the green light.

He rose to his knees and slipped off her top, then her slacks. Lauren was a commando today, so he spread her and began to issue orders into her hairy walkie talkie.

"It's a law in this state that you have to christen every room in a new house," he said, his voice somewhat muffled by her... muff.

"Whaaa? OOOOh!"

Nevermind, he thought. Torpedoes away!

They fucked like virgins in a new world on the unfamiliar floor under the unfamiliar ceiling. They fell asleep for a while, then Lauren poked him awake.

"Four bedrooms means three empty bedrooms," she said sleepily. "Each baby gets its own room. We really going to christen them all? How will we ever christen them all?"

"Just like this. One at a fucking time." She was slowly stroking his cock. He felt hard again. He glanced down. Yes.

He pulled her on top and spread her as his cock probed for the opening, then began to slide in to her as she gasped a slow low gasp.

"One at a fucking time."

**********

Adjustments. The key to baseball, Bryan knew, was adjustments. His first year with the Sox he had played well enough to get some media chatter as deserving at least a consideration for Rookie of the Year. He never took it seriously. He finished with a.311 batting average and a.983 fielding average and was a regular on ESPN with some flashy pickups and acrobatic twin killing turns, but he accepted that he did not hit enough home runs or play a glamor position. The swift centerfielder with 45 dingers would win, or the pitcher who won 16 games. But the people who knew -- and who paid his salary -- noticed.

Still, baseball history is well-populated with players who tore it up their first go round but could not keep up the pace. The dreaded sophomore slump was not without factual underpinning. By your second year in the league, the competition had a book on you that they did not have the first year. The batter who drove high fastballs into the seats started to see a pitch selection heavy on the low sinker, or the slider outside, or anything else but what he had proven he could belt out of the park. If he could not adjust, change his swing, his angle of attack, his mental expectation, then his output would go down. His confidence would suffer. It could become, despite the team psychologists and coaches and superstitious rituals, a self-sustaining condition. The end result was very often that the promising rookie never found that groove again and bounced around for the rest of his career between the home club and their minor league affiliates, traded, released, ignored.

Bryan had a natural advantage: he was never satisfied. He invested long hours hitting, not just pitches he knew he could drive, but pitches he knew he could not. And he experimented relentlessly with different approaches to being a better hitter.

It was a mindset that had also served him well in bed.

Megan Barlow. God rest her horny cooperative soul.

Bryan's father owned an old pickup truck fitted with a camper shell. It had a bench seat. Bryan liked to drive it when he took Megan out. They would go to the movies, then he would find a secluded spot deep in the wax myrtles by the river and they would talk. They did actually talk.

Years later, he woke up crying from a dream. He had been with Megan again, just sitting in the old truck, discussing the novels of Theodore Dreiser. They weren't kissing in the dream. They weren't even touching. But Bryan woke up with an almost painful erection.

It came to him then in the dark room, epiphanal. Her intellect had aroused him. He was hard because she was so goddamn smart.

He started to cry again, in that early morning helpless mood where a man is defenseless against his weaknesses. He wished to all the gods that ever promised man favors that he could talk to her again. Just one last time. Tell her goodbye.

In that beat up old Ford, she would slide on the worn slick seat right up to him. He would wrap his arm around her. On their first date he kissed her gently, exploring her lips. On their second date the kisses got more heated and she allowed him, hell encouraged him, to fondle her breasts. On the third date they got out of the cab and he, like some kind of knight from the olden times, helped her ascend the rear bumper and slip into the shell. He blew up the mattress with the pump while she giggled nervously. They stretched out next to each other and for the first time realized where this could go. It excited Bryan. It scared him. He could see in Megan's eyes that she felt exactly the same.

It was one of the reasons he loved her. She was so much like him.

They knew without exchanging a word that this could be the night they became one interconnected entity. They came close. They came as close as Bryan's throbbing cock rubbing up and down her slick wet panties as she whimpered with pleasure.

It took more control than Bryan thought he would ever possess again to pull away from her and geyser into the empty darkness instead of into Megan's willing cunt.

The next week when they again lay pressed together, they were just as excited but less afraid, having been tentatively down that path already. This time Bryan was prepared. He rummaged in his pants, found the pocket, and brought out a flat golden square.