Daddies, page 12
COACH
Dale Chase
It’s almost not fair to meet your hero. Your world stops while everybody else’s keeps going, and you stand there with it spinning so fast it feels like liftoff, only your feet are in cement. So I’m like that until Jake Ronson slaps me on the ass and says “Goose it, Clay” and I trot out onto the field.
Never mind that it’s my first day as a pro, never mind that I’m at a stadium that makes my college field look like little league. All I can see is Nelson Davenport, infield coach, because I’ve been watching him most of my life and suddenly he’s up close and personal. Sure, he’s fifty-two now, silver-haired and long past his major league playing days, but he’s still lean and lithe like all us shortstops.
On the field I’m a wreck, staring at him way too much, and he finally nods and I blush, honest-to-god my face feels hot, and I know I’m beet red. I can’t look at him now and don’t know what to do because it’s like all my hero worship has rolled itself into this crush that’s trying to explode out of me, all because the object of my affection is about twenty feet away.
So we start running drills and calisthenics, warm up with some throwing. Other coaches are watching us too, offering pointers, and I am working as hard to keep to my game as I am working at the game itself. Not a bad thing, though. Just the opposite, because no matter what I do or who’s in charge at the moment, Nelson is there and I don’t care if it’s ten feet away or a hundred. We share the same field, which blows my mind.
So Nelson finally takes us onto the infield where we line up three and four deep at each position and he starts hitting us grounders. I manage not to blow my chance to impress him even though I’m totally distracted, trying to be the best because I want to be a standout. Other guys are probably trying just as hard, but I’ve got an edge because I’m way more motivated to shine. The day passes quickly and that night I go with some teammates for beers, enjoying their company while wondering where Nelson goes.
He and I have little contact beyond coach and rookie until the second week. We’re playing an intra-squad game, and a collision at second lays me out. Dazed, I sit up and he’s suddenly beside me, hand on my back, asking my name, what day is it? When I answer as I should, he squeezes my shoulder, helps me up. “Sit out for a while,” he says, and I look him straight on, closer than ever, and I see how blue his eyes are against his tan, how he’s got a truly chiseled look, more cowboy than ballplayer. He doesn’t turn away, and I finally nod and head for the bench. Sitting there, I watch him with the others but can’t get those eyes out of my mind.
That night I’m supposed to get to bed early because of the afternoon shake-up, but I’m restless so I hit the bar with the guys, have a couple beers. When coach comes in the door I freeze, feeling like a high school truant. He doesn’t embarrass me, though, doesn’t come over and scold me. He just takes a booth, has a beer by himself. I glance over a couple times. Once he’s looking at his beer; once he’s looking at me.
I hang with the others until they leave, then go over to him. “You caught me,” I say as I approach.
“Nope, just came in to unwind. Up to you if you follow what’s recommended.”
“I just couldn’t settle down yet, you know?”
He nods, sips his beer. In the boldest move of my life, I slide into the booth and sit across from him. “You know you’re my all-time favorite player,” I say, realizing too late it’s a total kid opening. “I mean, I watched you on the Dodgers when I was little.”
“Makes me about a hundred then,” he says, and I see I’ve fucked up so I go quiet.
“Hey, it’s all right,” he assures me. “Just kidding, but truthfully, I don’t think any athlete ever gets used to being past his prime.”
I’m lost now so I say nothing.
“You look good out there, Clay,” he tells me, and I am grateful for the change of subject while almost giddy that the great Nelson Davenport has said I look good. I mean, I’m little Clay Callahan, 62nd-round draft pick not supposed to go anywhere. Most guys would accept the compliment and move on. Me, I get a hard-on.
“A little anxious at times,” he goes on, “but that’s to be expected the first few weeks. Once you settle in, you’re gonna be a hell of a shortstop.”
“You think?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He takes a long drink and looks at me over the rim of his glass. I look away because I’m turned on and have no idea what he’s doing or what I am. Finally he says he’ll see me tomorrow, and I rush to the john where I jerk off in about three seconds.
In bed that night I think how Nelson Davenport has always been a bachelor. I remember reading how he said marriage to a ballplayer was a lousy life as they’re always on the road, which makes sense, more so when coupled with that look he’d given me. Holding my stiffy in the dark, I think about him doing the same.
After that I look at him as more than coach, expecting something I can’t define except to say it throws me into total confusion. There are no more long looks, just coach-rookie instruction stuff. I start wishing for another collision at second.
Nelson is great with the infielders, and we learn far more than in college. All that finesse I thought I had is nothing compared to what he shows is possible. He moves like he’s played short from birth and will until death. I quietly keep on adoring him.
Our first road trip becomes an adventure when the bus breaks down and we end up at a motel in Visalia when we should be in Bakersfield. The guys are loose and rowdy, eager to play and no game. We get take-out pizza and watch porn on a catcher’s laptop until I’ve finally had enough. I head for the room I share with a third baseman from Milwaukee, then see Nelson come out of the manager’s office.
“Calling it a night?” he asks as he approaches.
“I guess. Not really sleepy though.”
“Come on then,” he says, and I fall in beside him as he walks toward the highway.
“Warm night like this, I don’t like to be indoors,” he offers. We’re near the outskirts of town, and there’s nothing more out this way but farms and fields, everything pungent, like hay mixed with something else, cow shit maybe. A full moon lets us see the way, and as we walk the roadside, Nelson asks if I have a girlfriend.
“Nope.”
“Boyfriend?”
A loaded question if there ever was one, and I know better than to answer but I do because of who’s asking. “Not now.” I reply. “Did in college for a while.”
“What happened?”
“I fell for him more than he did for me, so he was screwing around and it didn’t work.”
“Guess not.”
This is the time to ask him because it seems like an opening, almost an invitation, but I hold back because you can’t ever assume about a guy. So we keep walking, and then he starts to talk some more.
“Baseball is not conducive to a love life,” he begins, echoing the familiar line. “On the road too damn much, so it ends up a quick, ships-in-the-night thing, which finally wears on you.”
“So do you don’t have a girlfriend then?”
“Nope.”
I draw a breath and then plunge ahead. “Boyfriend?”
He doesn’t even break stride, which is a huge relief, that and the fact that he doesn’t take a swing at me. Then he tells it. “Third baseman and me in the minors, hot and heavy till he got called up and I didn’t. Never saw him again.”
“And when you were with the Dodgers? Or the Cards?”
“Hell, no. I’d hook up with guys on the road but not teammates. Had to be careful.”
“Still do?” I venture.
He stops and turns to me. “Not so much now,” he says and I let him walk me into a clump of trees that borders a field. Here he pulls me to him, runs a hand onto my ass.
“Ever since you got here I’ve been holding back,” he says.
“Me too.”
“I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”
I raise a hand to his shoulder as he puts his mouth on mine, and there we are, rookie and coach, kissing and humping until we can’t stand it and move deeper into the field. We fall to our knees still locked together, and then part long enough to drop our pants.
He has a rubber on in seconds, puts me onto all fours, and goes in, unleashing a moan while I’m more gasp because he has a big dick. His hands are rough on my hips, and for an old guy he’s incredibly powerful because he puts it to me hard and fast but not like some kid who can’t hold back. No, this is a dick with purpose, and he drives it like a piston while mine stands ready. I want to get a hand on it but no way I can manage to, what with the rear assault. All I can do is take Nelson Davenport’s cock.
His staying power is amazing, but maybe that’s what an athletic body gives you. Just like he could still play a mean shortstop, he could fuck like an all-star. Then it flashes through my mind that my all-time baseball hero is gonna get off in me. Disbelief races through me, never mind what’s reaming my ass, and then he hits his stride.
“Comin’ home,” he growls before he starts a rhythmic grunt, pounding me now, drilling every inch of that big honker, and when he suddenly goes silent I know he’s shooting his load. Nelson Davenport doing it in the ass of a little 62nd-round nobody.
I guess he stops breathing while he comes because he starts gasping when he’s finished, sucking air like he’s been underwater. For a second I worry he’s having a heart attack, but then he quiets. And pulls out.
I feel warm night air on my wet rim, and when I roll onto my back, he’s sitting there, looking at my stiff prick. He draws a long breath and then leans over and sucks me off.
His silver hair shines in the moonlight as he bobs on my cock. He licks and sucks and diddles my knob till I cry out I’m gonna come, so he takes the whole shaft and I put a huge load down his throat.
Finally, both of us done, we pull up our pants and sit leaning against a tree.
“I didn’t plan on this,” he says after a while.
“Me neither.” I reply, “but I have to tell you I’ve been turned on by you from day one. You know, growing up, if I was by myself when you were on TV I’d jerk off watching.”
“Well then.” He pauses. “Look, Clay, I’ve never gotten involved with a player before, not as a coach I mean, because it’s seen as taking advantage. So I’m not sure what’s going on here, only that since I first saw you I didn’t care about any rules, and when a man has that kind of feeling come over him, I don’t think he should turn away.”
“Neither do I.”
I slide a hand onto his thigh and squeeze. “It was great.” “Likewise, but you have to remember I’m not a twenty-year-old.”
“I think we can manage.”
“Not gonna be easy, the team and all, roommates, buses.”
“We did okay tonight.” I lean in, nuzzle his neck, and he gives me a long kiss.
“We sure as hell did.”
ABSOLUTION
Ethan Thomas
I’ve been good—very good, in fact—for weeks now. I’ve polished his boots daily, hung his belt just so on the hook by the bed. And just when I think I’m about to go absolutely mad from all this being good, he shifts gears without looking up from his tea, extends the newspaper over the breakfast table, and says, “A movie. You choose.”
Nearly twenty minutes later, I push the paper back with a smudged finger. “This one.”
Daddy raises a brow, dark as always despite the silver beginning to work its way through his long hair. “A horror movie.”
“You said I could choose.”
“You will squeal like a girl.”
“Sometimes you like when I squeal like a girl.”
That eyebrow arches higher still, his only response.
“You could put your arm around me.” The corner of my mouth quivers.
Daddy notices the twitch and frowns. “You know the rules. I am a private man.”
I sigh. I may know the rules, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy them. “I understand, Daddy.”
His eyes hold mine a moment longer before they return to the paper. He opens another section, the matter seemingly dropped. I stare for some time, my cheek resting on one hand, but he does not look up from the stock listings.
Out of sight, I bring my cereal bowl to my lips and drink straight from the rim, hiding my grin behind porcelain twice my age.
The movie is awful. The plot is insipid, the acting inane, and the effects especially bad. I do not want to watch. I suspect, from the way he mutters a “hurrah” when the heroine is eaten, that neither does Daddy.
Good.
I lean to the left, far too close for polite company, and Daddy’s head turns a fraction toward mine. The deep green scent of Genmaicha tea fills his whisper. “I believe some of that armrest is mine.”
“Sorry,” I murmur, straightening.
A few moments later, I slide sideways again. This time Daddy’s look is pointed and knowing. He lifts the armrest, removing the barrier between us, but his lips are thin beneath the shadow of his beard.
I graze my hand up his leg. A hiss escapes his teeth the instant my fingers brush his groin, but I press to his side. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been beaten.”
“Stop this foolishness right now, or that may change.”
In the back of my mind, I know our dialogue is as clichéd as the movie’s. Even so, I squeeze him through his dress slacks and, fuck, he’s hard. He does not move or speak as I fumble with his zipper, does nothing to draw attention. I glance over my shoulder. The faces of couples in the rows behind ours are set in stark relief. Should any of them look our way, the view would be perfect.
With a deep breath, I lower my face to Daddy’s lap. The angle is wrong—I can’t properly get my lips around him. I lick the crown instead, tongue dancing. I curl my hand round his shaft, but his hips remain motionless. He makes only the slightest sound, something that might be a grunt, or maybe just a man’s cough, a trifle loud in the dark theatre. I arch my back and twist my neck and force him deeper, sucking as hard as I can, and pump him against my tongue. Like his breath, his skin carries the musk of Genmaicha, the tang of his sweat laced with arousal. I am so stiff I ache inside the tightness of my jeans.
