Anakin20
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Apr 30, 2001
- Posts
- 3,796
"God, my arm aches," he thought. No amount of ice could ease the dull throbbing after a hard game like that one. Nine innings, five hits, one run and seven Ks. He hated to lose the shutout in the eighth, but...
Now, the locker room was empty, no more reporters, alomst no teammates either. He began to slowly dress, slipping himself gingerly back into the pale olive Armani he had worn to the game. It hurt to comb his hair, so he left it kind of rakish. Besides, it kind of looked like his 10-year old son's.
"All set for a night out?" The question came from 'Hammy', the clubhouse attendant. Wilbur Hamstead had been with the club for 45 years. They were all 'his boys'.
"No, Hammy," he smiled. "You know I don't like the groupie scene. Especially since Lynda died. Home to my boy, actually. We might get in a round of golf tomorrow morning before the doubleheader."
"Have a good night, then."
It wasn't as easy as it seemed, being Connor MacNeill. The 6'4'' pitching sensation from just outside Atlanta had always been the best pitcher on some bad teams. He had married his high school sweetheart and had a son soon after, Brendan. Lynda had died a year later of cancer. MacNeill didn't do much except pitch and be both parents to his son. Now, at 37, he was finally on a serious contender and was still pitching well. If only he could find someone that wasn't after his 6.5 million dollars a year.
He was driving home in his SUV when he stopped in a convenience store to grab some ice cream for his son and Advil for himself.
Now, the locker room was empty, no more reporters, alomst no teammates either. He began to slowly dress, slipping himself gingerly back into the pale olive Armani he had worn to the game. It hurt to comb his hair, so he left it kind of rakish. Besides, it kind of looked like his 10-year old son's.
"All set for a night out?" The question came from 'Hammy', the clubhouse attendant. Wilbur Hamstead had been with the club for 45 years. They were all 'his boys'.
"No, Hammy," he smiled. "You know I don't like the groupie scene. Especially since Lynda died. Home to my boy, actually. We might get in a round of golf tomorrow morning before the doubleheader."
"Have a good night, then."
It wasn't as easy as it seemed, being Connor MacNeill. The 6'4'' pitching sensation from just outside Atlanta had always been the best pitcher on some bad teams. He had married his high school sweetheart and had a son soon after, Brendan. Lynda had died a year later of cancer. MacNeill didn't do much except pitch and be both parents to his son. Now, at 37, he was finally on a serious contender and was still pitching well. If only he could find someone that wasn't after his 6.5 million dollars a year.
He was driving home in his SUV when he stopped in a convenience store to grab some ice cream for his son and Advil for himself.