Chapter 1

1

The Thunderbolts had just won both games of their doubleheader. It was kind of a big deal as the Bolts were currently in last place, not only in their league but in all of major league baseball. They had just beaten the Yankees—the previous year’s World Series champions and the team with the best record overall—twice in the same day. From the way most of the players were acting, anyone would think they’d won the Series instead of just a couple of mid-season games.

Obadiah Benson, the Bolts catcher, made his way to the showers through the crowd of players and reporters in the locker room. His parents had chosen to name him Obadiah—which they’d always told him meant “Servant of God”—because they had insisted he would one day follow in his father’s footsteps and become a preacher. But Obadiah, as soon as he was old enough to protest, at about age three, had tossed out the moniker and hung the nickname of O.B. on himself, declaring he was going to be a baseball player and that no self-respecting ballplayer would be called Obadiah. O.B.’s parents had lamented over his choice of nickname and career. That is, until O.B.’s high-powered salary in the major leagues started providing lucrative supplements to his father’s meager income as a Southern Baptist minister. Suddenly God’s will for their son had been revealed: Baseball was his true calling. Even though his mother still refused to call him O.B.

None of the reporters paid much attention to O.B. as he walked by. The throng from the media was clamoring for interviews with the two pitchers who had played that day, as well as Jake Robinson and Neil Carter, the right fielder who’d hit back-to-back solo home runs in the ninth inning. Robinson and Carter had been pivotal in winning the second game, which had gone to the bottom of the ninth with the Bolts behind by a run with two outs on the board.

The physical and mental strain of being involved in every defensive play wore O.B. down over a long season. It had a negative effect on his offensive output as well. He knew he wasn’t a great hitter or a fast base runner; catchers rarely were. The power hitters and pitchers got most of the attention. That didn’t bother him. His low-profile position was just fine. He’d let the other guys grab all the publicity and glory. He didn’t want his name and face all over the news.

He dropped his towel on the bench outside the shower room, walked in, turned the knobs, and let hot water run over him. His legs ached. He was only twenty-six, but playing nine innings in that crouched position was hard for a man his size, and eighteen innings was pure torture. After his shower he’d head for the training room and the whirlpool. He was well aware that if he wanted a long career in the majors, he had to take care of his body. Maybe he’d ask one of the trainers for a massage—that was, if he could make sure it wasn’t Haskel. Haskel was just too hot.

The man had all the characteristics that pressed O.B.’s buttons: tall, blond, blue eyes, smooth muscled body, and only a hint of body hair. When Haskel worked on him, O.B. had to lie on the table an extra fifteen minutes before he could get up without embarrassing himself. And there’d been one time when he’d been so horny he’d actually cum on the fuckin’ massage bench while Haskel was working on him. No, he’d make sure it was Jenkins or Albertson. They did nothing for his overactive libido. He’d be safe with them. Unfortunately, his thoughts of the upcoming massage and Haskel had caused his cock to start to tingle and come to attention.

Fuck! You horny bastard. You gotta get yourself laid tonight!

As he exited the shower and grabbed his towel to cover his tumescence, O.B. noticed one of the media guys, a young reporter, smiling at him. He turned his back on the nosy prick and made his way to the training room.

Once there, he dropped the towel and stepped into the swirling waters of the hot tub. He sat, leaned back, and let out a huge sigh; the hot eddies caressed his tired muscles and helped him relax. However, he was still having trouble convincing his cock that this was neither the time nor place to get stiff and demand attention. Remembering the time he’d been in the training room alone and had stuck his dick into one of the tub’s jets, letting it get him off, didn’t help one bit. But it was like trying not to think of a white elephant on the coffee table once someone in the room said that there was one there.