Hot Jocks by J.M. Snyder

Author:J.M. Snyder [Snyder, J.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMS Books LLC
Published: 2017-09-26T04:00:00+00:00

THE END

Batter Up

The minor league baseball stadium in downtown Richmond known only as the Diamond seats 9,000 fans during a game, but on this cloudless July Sunday, Rob Ritchie is the only person in the stands. He sits on the lower level immediately behind home plate, where he can watch each player take a turn at the bat. This isn’t game day—it’s practice, and the team on the field is one he isn’t familiar with, the Wildwood Waves. Visiting from New Jersey, the Waves take on Richmond’s own Rebels in a week-long series beginning Tuesday.

Rob wears a Rebels polo shirt, the team’s signature R logo embroidered on a pocket above his left breast. Paired with his khaki shorts, the shirt makes him look like just another stadium employee, which is the impression he wants to give. So far no one from the visiting team has looked at him twice.

Good.

Sunglasses hide his eyes, so no one sees how closely he follows every swing of the bat. He holds a battered baseball glove idly in one hand, as if hoping for a foul ball to come his way. In his other hand is a cone-shaped cup full of shelled peanuts. Every time the player at bat swings and misses, Rob tips the cup into his mouth for a snack.

Most of the team has batted already. Rob’s made a mental note of each player’s number and what their swing is like. Number 12, left-handed, likes to bunt. Number 55 swings both ways, but tends to foul. Number 23, right-handed, chokes up on the bat.

The only players who haven’t been up yet are the pitcher, the umpire, and a man in a windbreaker and jeans leaning against the cage behind home plate. Rob can’t figure out who he might be. Too fit to be the coach—that position is held by the gum-chewing fat ass spitting over the railing in front of the dugout. Assistant coach, perhaps, but Rob suspects that fellow’s the bastard yelling obscenities beside third base. Glorified bat boy, perhaps? Too old, for starters, and two teenage kids already run after the foul balls and corral the bats in the warm-up area.

This guy’s on the team, no doubt about it—the jacket he wears sports the number 3—but why he doesn’t swing, Rob can’t quite figure out.

Number 10 is at bat. Swings, misses. Rob treats himself to another swig of peanuts. If the team plays this poorly in practice, he can’t wait to see how well they do in two days’ time. The Rebels are middle of their league at the moment; a few wins would boost them into position to maybe make it into their division’s Championship Series this year. He could hope, anyway. The Waves don’t look all that hot.

The pitcher runs through another couple players, then trades off with another for his own time at bat. Rob only half-watches—most of his attention is on the guy against the cage. All Rob sees is a profile, but it’s enough to suggest the man’s not hard on the eyes.

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