Part 2: Tuesday

Chapter 6: Mike

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."

Chapter 7: Lily

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.

Chapter 8: Mike

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.