The following fictional story deals with sex among males. If you are offended by such material, are too young, or reside in a location where it is not allowed, please depart. Though not observed in this story, care enough about yourself and humankind to practice safe sex.
The author retains all rights. EvanBradley33@Yahoo.com
Chapter 14 Fractures
Jack's Sports Bar & Grill
Wes Stanfield and Rich Adams had joined the crew at Jack's after a game in which Wes had played exceptionally well. Standing at the bar, Wes and Rich were waiting to ferry beers back to the crew when three sports writers entered. Seeing Wes, they made a beeline for him, intending to gather some post-game color for their next day's columns. One young turk reporter, Jim Dockley, was aggressive in his questioning. "He always gives players a hard time - 'cause he never was and never will be a player," Wes had explained Dockley to the crew on an earlier outing after they had asked about the writer's hypercritical sports coverage. "Who's this gentleman?" Jim asked Wes, nodding his head toward Rich.
Wes replied with a charming smile, "A good friend. Meet Rich Adams. Rich, meet sportswriter Jim Dockley." The two shook hands.
Jim fixed them in a cool gaze. "Yeah, I see you two guys together A LOT," he emphasized. He paused, smiling archly. "Your friend really gets excited when you play."
"He loves baseball. Played it all four years in college. Also played in the leagues. You ever play college sports, Jim?" Wes asked.
Jim looked uncomfortable, coloring. Wes knew it would put an end to the interrogation. It did.
Reading the situation accurately moments before, Drew had grabbed Jamal's arm, indicating that he should follow him to the bar. On the way, Drew whispered to Jamal what he thought was transpiring for Wes and Rich. "Help me out by chiming in," Drew requested of Jamal - with a wink. They wedged their way into the group before Jim had a chance to reply to Wes's question. They immediately teased Wes and Rich about taking too long to get their beers. Jamal really put on an "injured" act to distract Dockley.
"We're interviewing him," Dockley said to Jamal and Drew - as though offended.
"Game's over," Drew smiled at Jim. "He's with his friends now," putting subtle emphasis on the word "friends." Seeing the opening created by Jamal and Drew, Wes smiled gratefully. "Sorry guys," to the writers. "Have to get back to our table." The two older writers bid Wes farewell cheerfully. Jim stared after them, frowning.
Back at the crew's table, Drew noticed how subdued Wes had become. At one point, Wes arose and walked up to a sexy young woman at the bar, offering to buy her a drink, and they visited for 30 minutes, growing friendlier all the time. Rich kept checking them out, growing quieter the longer he observed Wes and the young woman. Gradually, the young woman whispered in Wes's ear. Then he whispered in hers. Drew noticed that Wes surreptitiously checked out the table of sports writers. Then he put his arm around the woman's waist in a possessive manner as he escorted her past the writers' table and out of Jack's. Rich's face froze into lifelessness. He sat as though paralyzed for all of ten minutes, drawing covert, sympathetic glances from the crew. Finally, Rich stood, laying some bills on the table. Then he turned to go. "You aren't leaving, are you?" Hal asked. Drew kicked Hal gently under the table.
"Why not?" Rich replied. "Others have done it before." Drew's face immediately suffused with red, for he knew everyone would remember his leaving Jack's when he'd heard about Hal's bet about bedding him in less than two weeks. Rich frowned, sorry that he had inadvertently targeted Drew, especially after Drew had rescued Wes and him from Dockley. He'd have to apologize another time. At that moment, his humiliation over Wes's rejection, visible to all his friends, was too great for him to remain. Rich walked away.
By Thursday, the crew realized that Rich seemed incommunicado. Then a week and a half had passed. When Wes, who'd been on a road trip with the team, joined the crew at Murphy's Gym, he expected to see Rich, but Rich had been absent from the last several Murphy's gatherings. Wes asked Drew where Rich was keeping himself: "What with travel and some extra practices, I haven't been able to track him down. He never seems to be home when I stop by. And I can't catch him by phone."
"I haven't seen or talked to him, Wes. Have you checked with the other guys?"
As Wes filed through the group, he received the same answer - nobody knew where Rich was; nobody had seen or talked to him. Several glances were exchanged among members of the crew as Wes went to each fellow, asking the same question and receiving the same answer. Wes ended up back at Drew, whose ploy had worked. Wes wasn't going to "slide" on this one. Without ever having talked to Rich, Drew knew how much he was hurting. Wes was at least going to put himself to some effort, finally sensing the pain he'd inflicted. In response to Wes's second query about Rich's whereabouts, Drew offered the following: "Unless I miss my guess, Rich thinks there's no use coming around you because he's lost out to the beautiful woman you hooked up with at Jack's the last time you were there." Drew looked so pointedly at Wes that he felt like his eighth grade teacher had caught him with his hands down Doug Williams's jeans - where, in fact, they frequently had been in the eighth grade.
"You think he's hurt?" Wes asked.
Drew shot Wes a withering look appropriate for the village idiot, which made Wes shake his head as though he finally recognized that he'd asked an obvious question. "You know he's hurt," Drew replied, his words laced with a little vinegar. "And he didn't deserve it!"
"You talked to him?"
"No."
"How do you know then?"
"It's familiar country," Drew said, frowning at Wes, warning him with a glance, as only Drew could, about pursuing that line of questioning any more. "In addition, I understand the laws of probability." Wes felt chastened. If he couldn't get any further with Drew, then he knew he'd get no further with the other guys.
Wes decided that he had to see Rich. When he left Murphy's Gym, he drove to Rich's home, parking at the curb. The lights were on, illuminating a nice mid-sized, ranch-style brick home. 'He must be here.' Wes sat behind the wheel, wondering if he shouldn't just start the car and leave, experiencing a sinking sensation that what he had thought was going to be such an easy answer could turn out to be a colossal mistake. 'If you leave, you'll be right back here within two days,' he thought.
Realizing finally that he'd hurt Rich, Wes dreaded facing him. He'd done so to save his reputation. He'd been so worried about what Jim Dockley was thinking that he'd panicked, deciding he had to do something visible and observed right there that very minute in the bar, where the major sports writers were gathered. Surely Rich understood that? He sighed, rolling out the door and locking it. He stood at Rich's front door, staring at it as he tried to still his heart. 'Why is it so hard to admit that this guy's gotten under my skin, in my blood. In my heart and dick?' he asked himself. He wheeled about to return the way he came, stopped, let his head droop as though in defeat. Wes turned slowly, stepping up on the low, round concrete porch. He rang the doorbell. He looked up and down the street. Nothing happened, so he rang it again. Suddenly the door swung open.
There Rich stood, wearing only short, grey, jersey running shorts, barefooted, burning his hot image on Wes's memory banks. Wes noticed no initial reaction on the part of Rich.
"Hey, Rich! How are you?"
Rich stared at him.
"Everyone's missed you at the gym, the ball park, Jack's. Where are you keeping yourself?"
"Away from pain."
"You talking about me?"
Rich crossed his arms defensively against his chest.
Sensing a vulnerability in Rich, Wes adopted another approach: "You gonna make me stand out here all night?"
Rich stood still for a bit, then reluctantly backed out of the doorway he'd been blocking. Wes walked across the living room, flopping down on the sofa. Continuing to exploit Rich's vulnerability, Wes asked pointedly, "You got a beer?"
Rich turned and walked to the kitchen as Wes studied the play of muscles in his thighs and calves and the way his ass moved under the jersey shorts. He smiled, remembering the feel of his cock sliding into that tight, hot chute - long dicking, then short jabs - it was the best man cunt he'd ever had. He loved the feel of that beautiful, muscled back against his pecs and tight stomach, reaching around and under Rich to grasp that stiff dick and to caress those hairy balls, evoking moans from his baseball buddy. Though he'd never dared tell Rich, what he loved even more was the feeling that Rich belonged to him, loved him, needed him. 'Is this love?' Wes thought to himself while awaiting Rich's return from the kitchen. 'If it isn't, I don't know what love is then,' he mused. Rich returned, handing Wes a can. They both popped the tabs. Rich remained standing, taking a long draw on his beer. "Sit down," Wes patted the sofa cushion next to him. Rich went to the far end of the sofa - 'as far from me as he can get,' Wes thought. Rich sat Indian style, facing Wes, who immediately checked to see if he could see up the legs of his shorts. He couldn't, but he could groove on those lightly haired, muscled legs.
"Are we okay?" Wes asked.
"I'd say you're mighty okay," Rich replied.
"Then why aren't you 'mighty okay'?" he responded.
"I might be if I knew how to shut down a heart betrayed in love," Rich challenged Wes in a subdued voice. "You know how to do that?"
All of a sudden, Rich didn't seem so vulnerable to Wes. He turned his head to the side impatiently. "No. I'm not philosophical. I'm not a complicated man."
"I discovered recently that you are very complicated." Rich paused. "You are certainly making me rethink my life from way back."
Feeling as though he were painted into a corner, Wes burst out, "I had to do it. I had to boff that chick. Dockley was sitting right there. Even you had to see that he'd stopped just short of implying that we are lovers."
"Is this the first time in your career that a reporter has implied as much?" The red instantly spreading across Wes's face told Rich it wasn't. Without waiting for an answer, he charged on: "Did you enjoy her?"
"Are you kidding? You saw her! What's wrong with you!"
Rich shot up off the couch, walking over to look out into the darkness as though there were actually something he'd rather see there than in the lighted, comfortable living room.
"So you liked sex with her?"
"Of course!"
"Then what are you doing here? Why aren't you boffing her now? Why are you bothering me?"
"I bother you?"
"Of course."
"How do I bother you?"
Rich refused to answer, pacing around the perimeter of the living room.
"You want me to go?"
"Yes."
Wes had thought his natural charm would mellow Rich out of the funk he was in about the bimbo. He had not expected the discussion to move so far towards a break. He suddenly felt as desperate as he had at Jack's when he decided show Dockley that his suspicions were groundless. His original plan was to take her to another bar for a drink, then beg off for the evening. Then he realized that Dockley would certainly quiz her if he ever saw her again. He felt trapped all over again. Now Rich was making him feel trapped. Wes flew off the sofa at Rich, grabbing him and kissing him passionately. At first, Rich had returned the kiss with equal fervor, reassuring Wes. But he stopped, suddenly sinking to his knees on the carpet. Wes couldn't hold onto him. Rich sat on the floor, weeping. He'd gone from passionate lover to a basket case in the blink of an eye. 'Damn! Did I do that to this man?' Wes asked himself, disturbed at what was unfolding before his eyes.
Wes knelt beside Rich, trying to pull him into his arms. Rich pushed away, causing Wes to fall over on his butt. Wes tried to explain: "Okay - I gave her my dick, my cum, and for a short time my body. I never gave her my heart or my mind. You were always there. Those were yours."
"Bullshit!" Rich said softly.
"What's bullshit?"
"That you were thinking of me when you were fucking her."
"I WAS! I'm not kidding. It was you I wanted to be with, not her. With her I had to have sex. With you I WANT to make love, I want you in my heart and head."
"You never said so."
"I felt it, thought it, wanted it. So I'm a dumbass sometimes, thinking you'll realize the way I want to be with you, look at you, talk to you, make love to you. . . .That whole scene with the chick and the fallout from it made me want to announce my love, give you my heart, claim you."
Tears were streaming down Rich's face, but he couldn't will himself to move. In his heart of hearts, he knew Wes was rather frantically defending himself with empty words, empty because he'd never shatter the carefully constructed facade he'd drawn about himself, not that Rich wanted that. He knew Wes would never publicly reveal, let alone proclaim, his love for Rich. But that wasn't really the cause of his tears. Rich knew that every time Wes felt challenged by a Dockley, the scene in Jack's Bar - or some variation of it - would replay itself.
"Okay . . . I'll be honest," Wes uttered with a sigh. "I know I hurt you," Wes admitted, his eyes averted from Rich's. "But would you have wanted me if I'd become a pariah because Dockley outed me?"
"I'd have taken you any way I could get you," Rich said quietly, but with conviction. "I love you - completely, wholly."
"So you have me now."
"Too easy."
"What?"
"You don't love me completely or wholly. That's why it was so easy for you to betray me. I saw the way you looked when you walked out of Joe's with the bimbo. You didn't even glance at me. You spent your time looking at both the crew and especially at those reporters. You didn't care anything about me then, and we both know it. I counted for nothing. Suddenly I was expendable, worthless." Rich's words made the air seem dead. "You never gave a thought to what it would do to me. So don't tell me you were thinking of me when you were screwing her. You're flat out lying just to get what you want - or used to want," Rich burst in, speaking with anguish, the tears starting again.
Wes breathed out a long sigh in defeat. "Okay, you're right. I wasn't thinking about you. I couldn't. I couldn't look at you in Jack's. It would have been like I was rubbing her in your face. I wasn't thinking about her either. Despite what you know about me, I wasn't even thinking about getting my rocks off. I was thinking about saving my career. Without that, I'm nothing."
"So I'm nothing?"
"What?" Wes asked in consternation, his face registering his lack of understanding.
"I really didn't have a career in baseball after college, but I tried. God knows how hard I worked in the majors and minors. I was nearly ready to blow from trying so hard. But I wasn't good enough. By your measure, because I washed out, I'm nothing."
"You know better than that!" Wes snapped. Stumbling upon a defensive stratagem whereby he shifted the focus of the exchange, he stated, "If I weren't playing baseball, any attraction you felt for me would merely be a matter of having a boner. Once you cooled off, you wouldn't give me the time of day," Wes countered.
"I'll admit that I was attracted to you because you were playing, a link with my past and failed future that I could touch again through you - smell it, taste it, even feel it a little - BUT NEVER APART FROM YOU. You were central to it. Then you took me in your arms, kissed me, made love to me. I was a goner. IT WAS YOU, NOT BASEBALL. If you lost your career today, I'd still feel about you the way I do now. . . you'd still feel, smell, and taste the way you do now - not just to my body but to my soul! . . . I didn't toss YOU over. I didn't betray YOU. All it takes is a verbal jab from a young, smartass sports writer and you forget about me completely. . . . It isn't MY commitment that's nonexistent. . . .Wes and his wenches!" Rich muttered caustically. "That's what I am - just another wench to be used to fill in your free time, help you get your rocks off."
Wes had nothing to say, and he was squirming. He'd never engaged in an exchange this charged or stormy. He wanted to run away. To him, Rich was disclosing an overly dramatic side of his personality that Wes had never seen before. Maybe this was why Rich couldn't make it in baseball. He put too much of his energy into his attachments. Didn't stay focused on the essentials. Well, it wouldn't happen to him. He was going to make a place for himself in baseball. He arose. "I'm sorry you feel this way," Wes said, arising from the carpet. "I understand there's nothing I can say to you to make you feel better. It's clear that you don't understand. Since I'm not welcome, I'll leave." His face cast down at the carpet, Rich didn't utter a word or turn to look at him. Wes was surprised that Rich didn't plead with him to stay. It's what Wes's script would have read for Rich at that point.
Wes found the ride back to his apartment anything but comfortable. Something bad had happened. He hadn't counted on it, so he couldn't characterize it. Upon entering his room, he checked his voice mail. There was a message from Tommy Hanston, the big-league talent broker, telling him to report to another major league team the next day. A player was having to drop out for a week due to a death in the family, so they wanted him at the major league ballpark. He made it clear that when the player returned, Wes would return to the Renegades, but Tommy said that the coaching staff was happy with the reports they were getting from Randy Travers, the Renegades' head coach. Tommy didn't think it would be too much longer before Wes was back in major league play.
Wes knew this was the wrong way to do it. Maybe the coward's way - just slink off in the dark of the night, leaving Rich pretty much "on the floor." But he decided that's what he'd do, trying to convince himself that it was best for Rich and him. Rich could mellow out during his absence. Come to his senses. Realize how important Wes was to him. He stared at the wall. Could he ever get back to high ground again?
Winston Construction Company
As work was winding down on the Haynes home, Hal sent a crew to start working at the Thomas site. He placed Max in charge of this crew, comprised of Kenji, Tonio, and Levi, leaving Ted to head the crew at the Haynes site, where he led Jamal, Bobby, and Brett. The Thomases were delighted to see a crew working their site. Gwen Thomas even brought a big lunch basket over the second day, sat down on with the crew and kibitzed as though they were longtime friends. The crew was charmed by her beauty, presence and warm personality. Max noticed her eyes hungrily studying all their bodies. Tonio, too, picked up on Gwen's interest, so he played up to her. She loved it. Max didn't. Like Hal's earlier reaction to Gwen's predatory interest, Max knew how quickly it could develop into a problem with the crew.
Before the end of the second week, they guys were missing the members of the crew at the other site. The guys decided on their first visit to Murphy's Gym that they would have to meet there more often and attend more Renegades games so that they could still feel connected.
(To be continued.)