CHAPTER SIX

I got up the next morning, ready for another day in The Program.

And ready for tryouts.

Got my stuff together, walked to school, and went to the entrance where we had to disrobe. Lily was there, flashed me a big grin. We took our stuff off, to the cheers of the crowd, did a little show for them. Then we went in.

"Hey, meet me at lunch?" She asked.

"Sure. That’d be great."

We headed off, in different directions. I was quickly caught up to by my best friend, Eddie Bauer. We’ve been best friends since first grade. We’ve also been teammates since then. Eddie plays third—he and I were the only sophomores who cracked the starting lineup in the varsity right from the beginning of the year last year.

"So, Mike," he grinned. "Program week?"

"Yep. You’ll get yours, sooner or later."

"Hey, it wouldn’t be that bad," he said. "Maybe they’d buddy me up with my own version of Amanda."

I laughed. Amanda Frazier was a friend of ours. When she got stuck in The Program, the beginning of the year, they buddied her up with a guy named Jared Wicklow. They’d been going out ever since. It was really cool—Jared hung around with the group of us now, and everybody liked them—and those two were over-the-moon in love. "Jared and Amanda is a fairy tale," I told him. "Don’t hold your breath."

"I truly believe there’s somebody for everybody," Eddie intoned.

"If there is—well, your soulmate is, no doubt, in Latvia and you’ll never meet her," I teased.

"Latvia?"

"Latvia. Milking goats."

"Do they milk goats in Latvia?"

 "I don’t know. But, your soulmate, that’s where she is. Milking goats. In Latvia."

"Well, then, I guess I’m just going to have to apply to the University of Latvia and major in goat-milking. So, what about yours? Your partner, I mean. The new kid, eh?"

"Yep," I confirmed. "Lily Woodard. Good kid."

"Nice tits."

"There is that. Spent all evening with her last night," I told him. I got a look I should’ve expected. "No, you sex maniac, not that. I was helping her out. She’s trying out, and didn’t know if she could throw naked. Turns out she can’t, but we found a solution for that."

"Trying out for what?"

"The team."

"What team?"

"Our team."

"The baseball team?"

"What other team are we both on?" I grinned at him.

"The chick plays baseball?"

"’The chick’ is a pitcher. ‘The chick’, by the way, throws ninety."

"No way!"

"Believe it. Hey, I found out the hard way. I figured the same thing, before I saw her throw. So I went out there with the Frankie Gutierrez mitt. She damn near broke my hand." He grinned—he knew that mitt. "Trust me, she throws ninety—and, once we got her boobs taped up and out of the way, she throws ninety with movement and command. Oh, and her changeup is Pedro Martinez-esque. Oh, and her slider will buckle your knees."

"You’re lying to me. You’re lying to me, and I’m waiting for the punchline," he maintained.

"No lie. I know it was only one workout, but she’s the best pitcher I’ve ever caught."

Ed was incredulous. "She’s a girl!"

"Don’t matter. Best I’ve ever caught."

"But you caught Freddie Millhouse last year!"

"Don’t matter."

"But he got drafted! By the Dodgers!"

"Don’t matter. She’s better."

Eddie sighed. "You’re serious. This I gotta see."

I grinned at him. "Tryouts are at two-fifteen. I know you aren’t required to be there, but come on down. Prepare to get blown away."

As I made my way through school that morning, I suppose I wasn’t paying much attention in class. I wasn’t even paying much attention to being naked, and being groped, and all that. Nope, I was thinking about two things. First was the tryouts. I had expected to be thinking about them. I had been expecting to be preoccupied by them. That was fine.

What I hadn’t been expecting to be thinking about was Mike Kirkland.

But I was. A lot.

By the time I got to lunch, my brain was just fried. By tryouts. By him. And, as I walked from the lunchline with my food, there he was, waving at me.

I took a good look. I hadn’t done that—I’d looked, of course, but I was so preoccupied by my misery yesterday that I hadn’t really looked, so I did, as I walked toward him. He was squat and compact. Of course he was, he was a catcher. But he was also built—muscular legs, muscular torso and arms. Nothing overwrought, you understand, but he was in fine shape. He was hairy, decently so for a guy his age, on his legs especially—but I didn’t mind hairy guys.

And, OK, yes, I certainly noticed the other muscle. And that looked pretty damn fine, too.

But what really got me—and what I had noticed, though somewhat foggily, yesterday—was his face. He had black hair, fairly long, a bit shaggy, just perfect for running fingers through. His smile was slightly crooked and totally endearing. And, the piece de resistance—his eyes. They were easily the most gorgeous eyes I had ever seen on a guy. They were like liquid pools of iridescent sapphire.

Oh, Jesus. When I start waxing poetic, you know I’ve got it bad.

I didn’t get it. I’d known this guy a day. But, OK, yeah, I did get it. I’m not one to dawdle on things. Look, he was sweet, kind, funny. He was solicitous. Smart—the tape job was brilliant. He even had the class to admit when he was wrong—like the mitt incident yesterday. He didn’t just admit he was wrong, he berated himself over it. I can’t possibly tell you how attractive I find that. And, just as a kicker, we had the same Number One Overriding Interest.

And that was the problem.

Guys do not go out with girls who can strike them out on three straight pitches. I’d never dated a fellow baseball player. I knew better. As long as the ‘girl with the cannon arm’ was one of the guys, a teammate, everything was fine. Anything past that? Never. Raging male ego, here we come.

Maybe Mike would be different.

Yeah, and if wishes were pigs, then I’d have some bacon.

But, dammit, I couldn’t help it. He was so damn cute. And I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on my boobs.

Shit, if I let my thoughts go down that path any farther, I’d be asking for relief. Which I didn’t figure was a good idea four hours before tryouts.

Anyhow, I sat down with him, and we started chatting.

"Ready, Pedro?" he asked.

"Ready as I’ll ever be," I said with a chuckle. "I just hope that tape job holds."

"It will. You realize you’re going to shock people, right?"

"I’m kinda counting on it. Hey, I can pitch. I know it. Pretty soon, they’re all gonna know it. Damn the prejudices."

"Did you get a lot of this back in Boston?" he asked.

"Actually, no, but I played with the same guys, mostly, right from Little League. They all knew what I could do. But there are other problems. I didn’t have a long list of guys lining up for dates." Yeah, I laid down a hint, I admit it.

"Guys. So, you are straight, then."

"Yes. Why, did you assume I wasn’t?" I said indignantly.

"Didn’t assume anything. Didn’t know either way," he said mildly. "When you grow up the heterosexual son of a bisexual mother and her lesbian partner, you learn not to assume a damn thing."

"You’re right," I smiled. "I’m sorry for snapping. I just get that ‘you must be a lesbian’ thing a lot. I had a nice talk with your mother about it, actually, when you were upstairs getting your gear. Anyhow, it gets tiring." I smiled. "And guys tend to get intimidated by a girl who throws ninety."

"Aah. Well, the only time you intimidated me is when I had the wrong mitt on."

I laughed. Fine, let’s see where we stand. "I could strike you out on three straight pitches," I challenged. "And you’re not intimidated?"

"I hit .390 last year. I also led the team in RBI. I don’t crank too many dingers—but I’d take that heater of yours and drive a double in the gap."

"Sure you would."

"If you make it through the cut today—which you will," he told me, "tomorrow, they’ll ask you to face live hitting. I can get up and take some cuts if I want to."

"You’re on!" I took a bite of my sandwich. "You really don’t think a girl who throws ninety is a freak."

" Any high school kid who throws ninety is a freak," he said. "But I’m a baseball player. A girl who throws ninety is my kind of freak." I had to laugh at that. "Though, I must admit, I think that a girl who throws ninety is much more rare."

"Try pretty much unheard of," I said. "It’s a physical thing. Girls don’t have the build for this. Girls have weaker arms. Also, a girl’s pelvic structure isn’t designed for it. I don’t have the biggest hips around, but I do have hips. It makes it harder to get any torque from your lower body. I have great technique, damn near perfect mechanics, which helps—I work damn hard at my mechanics, I have to. I also overcompensate by lifting weights like a madwoman."

"I noticed that your ass and thighs are like rocks. Your throwing arm, too." he commented. I looked at him. "Well, you are nude. Awfully hard not to notice."

"Yep," I admitted, "and that’s another way to get guys to not line up at your door. Have an ass and thighs that look like a guy’s."

"Ah, I said they were muscular, I didn’t say they looked like a guy," he told me. "You’ve got a girl’s ass. It’s just not a particularly squishy girl’s ass." He blushed a little. "Well, as far as I can tell by looking, anyway." Then I noticed the eyes, doing the whole slide-down-to-the-boobs-and-jerk-back-up thing. "Trust me, nobody with functioning eyes would ever mistake you for a guy."

Damn, he was cute!

And, I admit it. I’m shameless. I moved so my boobs jiggled. Noticeably.

THUNK! Down went the eyes. THWIP! Up they came back up again. I could’ve made him sprain his eyeball if I had kept it up. He really was adorable.

And he seemed accepting. Reasonable. Open-minded. And maybe, just maybe, even a little bit attracted to me. Dare I hope?

Well, anyway—I had to put that on the back burner. I had to get through tryouts first.

Damn. I really have to stop staring at her boobs.

It’s difficult. It’s particularly difficult when the boobs are naked. It’s especially difficult when said naked boobs are particularly fine, and attached to a completely lovely rest-of-the-body.

Muscles? I liked girls with a bit of muscle. Didn’t have a problem with it at all. And the rest of her was just fine. What particularly grabbed me were her eyes. They always seemed to have a glimmer in them.

As for her personality—she was delightful. I was just getting to know her, mind you, but I liked what I saw. She was sweet, smart, funny—and fiery. Deliciously fiery. I am not attracted to doormats. The one ‘demure’ girl I ever dated was the shortest relationship I’ve ever been in—and I’m the one that ended it. I couldn’t stand it. Yeah, I’m sure most guys wouldn’t consider "I can strike you out on three straight pitches" to be a come-on. I am not most guys.

And it seemed like she was dropping hints. I don’t know. I am absolutely shitty when it comes to reading that stuff. You think I’d be able to read girls better, with the way I grew up. Not so. I don’t know if the lesbian mating dance is different than the male-female mating dance, or what. But I never learned to read females. Well, at least I’ve never been able to read hetero females that I was interested in.

And I swear she caught me looking at her boobs—and jiggled them!

Damn. I think I needed relief.

Anyhow, I was trying to read her—and failing. Meanwhile, I am liking this girl more and more every second.

We finished our lunch, said goodbye, and headed off to afternoon classes. And I thought about her all afternoon. I wish I could read her better. I wish I knew what she was thinking. Because I was in a special situation here—and I couldn’t even hint at anything, or ask her out, or whatever, until I absolutely, positively knew that she wouldn’t be offended or hurt or anything.

No, I’m not usually that cautious. Hey, since I’m bad at reading girls, I usually just pick out what I like and take a chance. Sometimes I get a yes, sometimes I get a no, and that’s fine. But we had a special situation here. I’m her catcher.

You have to understand. Catchers have myriad responsibilities. Throwing’s important. Handling the mitt behind the plate is important. Hitting’s less important—lots of teams will put up with a catcher with no stick if he handles the defense well—but it’s a nice bonus. But, to me, the absolute most important part of a catcher’s job description is his relationship with his pitchers.

You have to guide them, support them. Sometimes you have to baby them. Sometimes you have to kick them in the ass. You have to know what they throw, how they throw it, and when to call it. You have to absolutely get in their heads. It’s a symbiotic relationship. And there has to be absolute trust on both sides. You have a pitcher that doesn’t trust his catcher, you have a problem.

As for myself, I can throw, and I can handle the mitt. The hitting was a bonus—when I made varsity, no one knew I could hit that well, except for me—but it was a good bonus. But the absolute first number one reason why I made varsity, and started, as a sophomore was my relationship with my pitchers. The pitching staff wanted to throw to me. That’s why I made it.

Now, here I was—with this girl that I was increasing attracted to—but I had to catch her. If she made the team—and she was going to make the team—I was going to be her catcher, all year long. And my relationship with her—in the baseball sense—was new in itself. We’d need time to develop the bond. And I was terrified that if I acted on my attraction prematurely, I’d shatter that pitcher-catcher bond. Which means she’d resent me, not pitch as well as she was capable of, and we’d lose a whole lot of games.

Damn, damn, damn. Why on earth couldn’t she have been a shortstop?!?!?

Ah, well. I resigned myself. I wasn’t happy about it, but I resigned myself. I was her catcher. That was all.

Damn, I was nervous. Really nervous.

I didn’t hang around right at the field. I hung around on the periphery. I spend a lot of time in a clutch of trees off the third base line. Mike came up and helped me with the tape job. I was almost too nervous to get turned on.

Almost.

Anyhow, I put that out of my head. He went down to the field, to take his turn at catching, and I waited my turn. I hadn’t put my full name down on the tryout sheet, so, when they called my name, the manager just bellowed out "L. Woodard!" I took a deep breath, and strolled out of the trees and onto the field, and walked towards the pitcher’s mound.

The murmuring started immediately. And the manager—who was standing behind the pitcher’s mound, so he could watch for break and movement and that—bellowed, "Hey, there’s a naked chick on my baseball field!"

"Excuse my attire, I’m in the program this week." I held out my glove for the ball, which he was holding.

"What are you doing on my field, honey?" No ball was presented to me.

"It’s my turn. I’m L. Woodard. Lily, actually." I tapped my glove.

He laughed. " You are trying out for my team?" No ball.

"No." I grinned at him. It wasn’t a pleasant grin. "I’m not trying out for your team. I’m making your team. Now gimme the ball." I think I stunned him, because he finally gave me the ball.

"Hold it!" came a bellow from the stands. It was my biggest "fan", our beloved principal, Mr. Tilling. "Lily, you’re in the program. You’re covered up. That’s a violation."

"No it’s not." It was Mike, rushing out of the dugout. "It’s legit. That’s not clothes, it’s taping for stability. That’s allowed." He walked over to Mr. Tilling with a program brochure in his hand. "It’s right here." He pointed out the section and handed the brochure over to Mr. Tilling. Mr. Tilling read the thing three times and had to admit, grudgingly, that we were right. Very grudgingly.

Mike, bless him, walked over to the plate, and told the guy who was behind it, "Hey, Brady, take a break. I’m going to catch her." Brady shrugged and gave way. Mike grinned at me and bellowed to the pitching coach, over at the third base line, "Hey, Muggsy, you got that radar gun ready?" Then he looked at me and bellowed, "All right, Pedro, show ‘em what you got. Let’s see the number one." I grinned and nodded, he slipped his mask back on and got in his crouch, I wound up, and threw the fastball.

WHAP!

"HOLY SHIT!!" Muggsy, the pitching coach, was staring at the radar gun. "That pitch was 87!"

"The gun must be on the fritz," the manager said.

"Was workin’ fine a minute ago."

"Eighty-seven?" Mike yelled out to me. "That one was a little off, Lily. Let’s really reach back and get one."

"’A little off?’" the manager moaned from behind me.

I stifled a giggle, reared back, and threw. Thwap!

"HOLY SHIT!" Muggsy. "That was ninety-one!"

"That’s more like it," Mike yelled.

"You bet your ass," I yelled back. I threw a few more fastballs, all hovering around 90, while Muggsy looked at his radar gun like it was possessed by demons.

"All right, Lily, let’s show ‘em the changeup," Mike yelled. I nodded, kicked, and threw. Very nice.

"That was a fastball. That had to be a fastball, right?" the manager babbled from behind me. "That was no changeup."

"Uh, Skipper?" Muggsy said. "That was a changeup." He held up the radar gun. It said 68.

"HOLY SHIT!" the skipper yelled. "That looked just like the heater!"

"Well, Pedro Martinez is my idol," I giggled at him. I threw a few more of those—while listening to the Skipper muttering incredulities from behind me—and then Mikey called for the slider. In it went, and out and down it broke, right off the table, right like it’s supposed to.

The skipper was just staring down at the plate. Then he said, tentatively, "Muggsy. What’s the gun say?"

"Eighty-four."

"She throws an 84 mph slider and it breaks like that?!?!?!?!?"

"Well, honestly, it’s usually closer to 81 or 82. Adrenaline rush, and all that," I told him.

"Oh my fucking Christ."

I threw a few more of those, showed them the curveball and the cross-seam tailing fastball, and then the Skipper said, "OK, Woodard. I’ve seen enough."

I flipped him the ball, and strode off the mound, with every eye staring at me. And it was not the same stare I had gotten when I walked on the field. Hey, I’ve been in The Program for two days now. I didn’t mind the program, I liked my body, and I liked being a girl. I did not at all mind having my pussy and boobs stared at. But not here. Not on the field. When I’m on that baseball field, you’d best not be staring at my pussy—you’d better be staring at my arm.

When I walked off that field, they were staring at my arm. A few of the less-charitable ones, I am sure, were hoping it’d fall off—but they were staring at it.

Damn, it felt good. If I hadn’t been trying to be cool, calm, and collected, I would’ve done the Happy Dance up and down the third base line. But I kept cool.

I hung around until the end of the tryout, got called back to pitch and hit the next day—of course—and then started getting my stuff together. Mike came over. We walked up behind the third base stands.

"You showed ‘em, Pedro. That was something else. They’re still muttering."

"Damn, that felt good," I told him.

"I’ll bet," he grinned.

"Thanks for the support. You’re a great catcher," I told him.

"Yes, I am." We both laughed.

I looked at him. With the pressure of the tryouts done, all those other feelings came rushing back. And how. I looked at him, smiled—I was shooting for ‘coyly’ but don’t know if I got it—and said, "Can you help me with my tape?"

"Sure thing." He unwrapped the ace bandage, and then went for the scraps taped over my nipples. He was very careful. Took his time. Oh Jesus.

I reacted. I know I reacted. I wasn’t trying to make it too obvious, but I know I reacted. And, suddenly, the fabric was off, and he stepped back and proclaimed, "All done!"

All done? All done? NO! No, you are not ALL DONE! GET BACK OVER HERE! YOU ARE NOT ALL DONE!

I didn’t say it. My mind screamed it. But something must have been in my eyes, because he said, "Are you OK?"

NO! I’M NOT OK! GET THOSE HANDS BACK OVER HERE AND MAKE IT OK! As my mind kept screaming, I looked at him. Oblivious. Completely oblivious. I thought he had more of a clue than that.

Unless he wasn’t oblivious. Unless, instead, he was completely disinterested. Which I should be used to by now.

Damn, damn, damn. When the fuck am I going to learn? When? He looked at me and saw a right arm. When has it ever been any different?

I’m such a fucking idiot.

Out. I had to get out of there.

"Lily, are you OK?" he asked again.

"Fine. Great. Thanks. See you tomorrow," I blurted, and not at all nicely. And I got out of there.

Ran to my car. Got in. And almost broke my hand punching the steering wheel.

Finally, I drove home.

"Mike, is that you?" I heard Mom call from the kitchen when I walked in.

"Yup."

"Want a coke?"

"Love one, thanks." She came out of the kitchen with one, and we sat on the couch. She kissed me on the cheek. She always does that. Embarrasses some guys, I know, but not me.

"So, how was your day? How’d tryouts go?"

"Great, and great."

"How was Lily?"

"Mom, you should’ve seen her!" I told her. "She was fantastic. Incredible. Blew everybody away. I was behind the plate, catching her, and couldn’t stop grinning. I think Muggsy almost ate his radar gun."

"That’s great," Mom said. "She must have been thrilled."

"Well, she was," I told her with a frown. "Until the very end."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we hung around until the end of tryouts, right? She was fine. She was excited. So, she asked me to help her take her tape and stuff off. I did, and then she got all weird or something. She was like, staring into space. And when I asked her if she was OK, she snapped at me, and then stormed off. I don’t get it."

Mom stared at me. For a good long minute. With an expression on her face that looked like I had just told her the sky was purple.

"Mom?" I asked.

"Michael," she began. "You are my son, and I love you dearly. But you, my dear son, are a ninny."

"Huh?"

"A ninny. A complete ninny. Look. Why did you help her take her tape off?"

"She asked."

"Why did she ask?"

"Because she needed help?" I didn’t know where Mom was going with this.

"Why did she need help? Mikey, it’s an ace bandage and two pieces of bra. It’s all within reach. She certainly could’ve gotten it off herself. She didn’t need any help from you." She stared at me. "She didn’t want ‘help’, she wanted your hands on her boobs! You were turning her on! You ninny."

I sank back into the couch. "Oh, shit. I am a ninny."

"Yes, you are," Mom agreed with an affectionate smile. "Now, it’s one thing if you’re not attracted to her…."

"Shit," I cut her off. "She’s sweet, smart, funny, absolutely gorgeous, sexy as hell, cocky, fiery, and she throws ninety. What’s not to be attracted to?"

"Many guys wouldn’t be attracted to the cocky, fiery, and throws ninety part."

"She’s actually said as much," I told her. "I’m not most guys. At lunch today she challenged me and told me she could strike me out on three straight pitches. I’m sure that’d turn off most guys. It made me want to grab a stick, get up in the box against her, take my hacks—and then fuck her brains out in the middle of the infield." Yeah, I can talk that way to my mother. Always have been able to.

"That’s pretty amazing," she said.

I grinned at her. "Growing up as your son did not predispose me to be attracted to shrinking violets."

She cracked up laughing. And then she just smiled. "I get the impression you’ve been attracted to her right along."

"Yeah."

"So, you’ve been attracted to her. And she is giving out blatant signals. And you didn’t pick up on them?"

"I’m not good with signals," I admitted. "Unless it’s one for a fastball, two for a curve. Any other signals are complete Greek to me." I sighed. "Plus—and I know this was part of it—I was trying to ignore my attraction to her."

"Why?" Mom asked.

"I’m her catcher."

"Ah." Mom understood. "But you can be her catcher, and something else, too."

"I suppose," I admitted, "but you know how I feel about the catcher-pitcher bond, and how important it is. I mean, cut me some slack here—I haven’t had a female teammate since I was nine. And I’ve never had a female teammate I was attracted to. And I have to deal with that and still be her catcher."

"I understand that," she said, "but what happened today happened off the field. After the tryout."

"Yeah, to a point, but I was still being her catcher. I was helping my pitcher with her equipment. Yes, if I were better at picking up signs from girls I might not have seen it that way. But I was still in catcher mode."

"And I know how your tunnel vision gets."

"Yeah," I said. "Hey, she’s got tunnel vision, too. I’ve seen it. I just think she might know when to drop it better than I do." I sighed. "OK, and I’m willing to entertain the possibility that I was subconsciously keeping myself in the tunnel. So my hands wouldn’t shake while I was taking the tape off. If I had let ‘Oh, God, I’m touching her boobs’ cross my mind, I would’ve been tearing off skin because of hormone-addled clumsiness."

"Ah," she laughed.

"Anyhow, Mom, thanks a lot." I got up and kissed her on the cheek. "You were a big help. As usual." I got up to head upstairs to do some homework before supper.

"So, what are you going to do?" she asked me.

"Stop being a ninny." We both laughed, and I headed upstairs.

--End of part two—