Pitched by Ella Goode
Chapter Nine
Colt
“Party was a bust, huh?”Tuck asks when I slam into the house. He’s sitting in the living room about two feet from the television.
“You’re going to lose your eyesight before you graduate.” I jerk open the fridge and grab an energy drink, only to realize how stupid that would be and shove it back in. I don’t need extra energy tonight. I need a downer, something to pull me off the ledge that I’m careening across, but I don’t drink beer—not after seeing what it does to my mom. The only thing I allow myself to be addicted to is the game. That is all that matters.
“Don’t you ever get tired of parenting me? You’re three years older, not thirty.” Tuck switches off the TV and tosses the remote onto the sofa. “Happy now?”
“No. Not really.” I’m not happy that I’m always fighting with Tuck. I’m not happy my dick decided to wake up. I’m not happy my mom’s a drunk who has zero self-respect. I’m not happy that I can’t enjoy what normal guys my age enjoy because my dad took off years ago and only occasionally pops back in to screw my mom--both literally and figuratively.
Tuck must sense I’m on the verge of combustion because his sharp tone gentles. “Party was that bad, huh?”
I, too, try to get a grip on myself and not be so combative and judgmental. “Same as always. The football players acting like they got their heads knocked together one too many times at practice, the basketball team playing one v one in the living room with a soccer ball and a trashcan, and the baseball team scarfing down pizza and beer like it was our last meal.”
“No girls?”
“Tommy invited a bunch from South View, but I didn’t see any of them.” They could’ve been dancing naked in the living room. I only had eyes for one person. I push away from the fridge and go pour myself a glass of water.
Tuck watches me drink for a half second before asking, “What’re you going to do in college?”
I swipe the back of my hand across my mouth. “What do you mean?”
“Are you planning on ignoring girls there, too?”
“Probably.”
“And then in the minors?”
“Yes.” There are lots of scouts that tell you to be extra careful in the minors because the teams are in small cities, and it’s easy to get trapped there by a townie.
“And what happens when you get to the majors? You’re just going to rest easy then? Have a full family and go to Disney World.”
He’s serious so I respond in kind. “I don’t know. I guess I’d like to think I’ve gotten good enough at the craft that I’ll be able to handle it or maybe I’ll be able to do casual shit.” I scrub a hand through my hair. “I’m facing each phase like they’re a new batter, which means watching the tape, learning the cues, and then focusing on their weaknesses. I assume they’re doing the same to me so I’ve got to shore up any shaky spots, plug the leaks.”
“I guess.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but he also doesn’t seem as angry. “Mom’s still passed out, by the way.”
“I appreciate you babysitting her.”
He gives me a nod and starts up the stairs. Halfway up, he stops and turns back. “You know that’s fucked up, right? That I’m the teen and she’s my mom. It should be the other way around. I should be getting loaded and coming home bombed out of my mind and she should be sitting outside my door making sure I don’t sneak out again.”
“I know, Tuck. I know.”
“Yeah, I guess you do.” I wait for his door to shut before banging my head against the freezer compartment. Before escaping to my own room, I check on Mom. The water is gone and so are the pills. Her dress is on the floor, and a different blanket is draped over her frame. At some point she got up, took the aspirin, undressed, and returned to bed. Tuck didn’t notice because the television was probably too loud, but he was close to the door, and she didn’t leave, so I’m not mad.
This is all a good reminder that no matter how fast my heart beats at the sight of some girl or how hard my dick grows when she’s within touching distance, it’s not something I can do anything about. Like an ache in my shoulder in the seventh inning on my one hundredth pitch, I just need to ignore these physical sensations and power through.
Telling myself this and doing it are two different things because the second my head hits the pillow and my eyes are closed, GG appears, but she’s not in her dress and little sweater, but a G-string and pasties. She’s swinging her white-blond hair around and climbing onto my lap. Her hot pussy lands on my dick because somehow I’m not wearing clothes at this striptease. One of her breasts is level with my mouth, and I can’t stop myself from latching on. She tosses back her head, arching her tit deeper into my mouth. Her wet pussy slides over my shaft, rubbing back and forth, teasing the cockhead. Each time she makes a pass, my cock slips inside her tight hole. I bite down on my lip until I can taste the copper of my own blood. I’m dying.
I grip my meat and start to jerk, rough and hard, imagining that it’s her hand and not mine. I switch to her other tit and take long, deep draws. Her fingers dig into my shoulders. I lift her ass with both hands and slam her down on my dick until I’m coming, white threads of spunk streaming over my hand, hitting my belly. I gasp and sink down into the mattress, feeling almost zero satisfaction. I haven’t done this in a long time. Usually I can will these urges away. My self-control is what sets me apart, and now it seems like I have none.
I hate this.
