It was usually the rookies who succ
umbed to their temptation. Even Ty didn’t go for these girls.
But just looking at that amount of skin had me feeling tight as I rode up to my room, and it only got worse when I got in and checked my texts.
IAIN: Good sign. Paps are following her while she’s not even with you.
A link from some gossip site followed. I texted him back in a heat before even clicking.
ME: This just means she’s getting stalked by those fucking animals while she’s walking around by herself. How is that a good sign?
IAIN: If they’re taking individual interest in Evie that means you’ve piqued a very good amount of interest as a couple. Take comfort in the fact that these are NY paps. If this was LA it would be a different story.
ME: Fine
I left the conversation at that and clicked on the link.
And shortly after, I was on my bed, dick out of my sweats and jerking off to the pictures of Evie walking around Manhattan in a black V-neck T-shirt and ripped denim shorts.
There was a particularly scummy shot of her through the window of a store, innocently bending over in those shorts to pick up a shopping bag. It made my blood fucking boil and at the same goddamned time, I was jacking my cock even harder because just the slightest glimpse of her denim-covered pussy was enough to send me reeling back to that car. It brought me right back to my fingers rubbing over her clit. My cock twitching at all those sexy, breathy moans escaping her lips.
And I fucking hated myself for it.
Not because I was getting off to the sight of Evie, but because I was using paparazzi photos to do it.
Considering what cocksuckers they were to me, I hated supporting them in any way. For four straight years now, I’d avoided all sports and entertainment media. Instagram was the plague. Twitter was straight up ebola. I didn’t read headlines let alone articles about myself, and I never Googled my own name. I used to read the New York Times sports section every morning, but now I didn’t do even that.
I was staunchly against media consumption of any kind because all the lies and misconceptions I saw out there generally made me feel fucking homicidal. Though of course, I contributed to a ton of these mistruths. I didn’t clear up certain controversial aspects of my past because I didn’t even fucking want to touch it. I didn’t want to open up my personal life to even more scrutiny and questions, so I kept my mouth shut, let them write their bullshit and pretty much avoided the Internet.
I was on a four-year streak of that.
But I broke it in Tampa by Googling Evie’s name for the rest of the trip, just to see if new pictures came up. When none did, I Googled both her name and mine. I wasn’t sure if I was trying to see just how close the paparazzi dared to get to her, or if I just wanted more material to jerk to. I told myself it wasn’t the latter but it didn’t matter either way – this was a risky game for me, and it really wasn’t surprising when I eventually stumbled over the exact kind of headline I lived to avoid.
EVEN AFTER FALLOUT, LILLARDS STILL CHEER FOR THEIR HOMETOWN KID.
Fucking hell.
I didn’t have to click to know what that article was about.
Tim and his family still cheered for me. I knew that much. He decked his son out in Maddox gear just to watch the game at home. He’d dared to send me pictures once before I deleted my old email address and made a new one.
Long story short, I’d fucked myself for my start against Baltimore at home.
A day later, I was still thinking of the headline, and I was pissed at myself – at my lack of self-control during that Googling spree. I was focused more on how much I’d already fucked up than how I could fix it, and I had a feeling that was why I was paying so much attention to stupid shit like the sound of Watt’s teeth hitting his fork with every damned bite of his food, or the smell of Brewer’s stupid fucking chicken.
It reminded me of the Lillard house.
Specifically, it reminded me of the day Mom found out about Dad and the neighbor, Carly. Or Carrie. I remembered her perfume, but not her name. Mom found out, left the house, but didn’t tell me – she was just a no-show to pick me up from practice.
That particular day, I remembered staying awhile at the ballpark and talking to the older kid who worked the snack bar. He was nice, and I wanted to wait till after dinner to call the Lillards. The last time Mom didn’t pick me up, I called them and they drove back to get me in the middle of dinner. Up and left everything. I remembered going back to their house and watching Tim and his little sister bring an extra chair over while Pattie fixed me a plate of that amazing buttermilk fried chicken she was famous for – that Tim had been going on and on about even before the game.
It was his favorite and I felt like shit when I excitedly bit in and it was cold. It was a big day in the Lillard house when Pattie made the chicken. It wasn’t the same reheated, and I was the reason it went cold.
The worst part was how Tim and Pattie just smiled and talked about my great game while eating their cold chicken. They didn’t try to make me feel bad, and that made me feel worse.
So I waited till after dinner to call and when the Lillards brought me back to their house, Pattie reheated some leftovers while I played Nintendo with Tim in the den. Like she would so many more times in the future, she dragged the extra twin mattress up from the basement and made it up all nice with fresh sheets and a memory foam pillow from her own bed. “Don’t worry, I have two nice pillows and only one head!” she reassured me.
Neither she nor Tim ever acted like I was a pain or a burden, and it was such a stark difference from Dad, who never let me forget how much Little League fees were. I memorized all the lower range prices for bats, gloves and cleats by the time I was nine.