Kiss Cam
Title: Kiss Cam
Author: 2theletter
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brandon Beachy/Craig Kimbrel.
Synopsis: Brandon Beachy hated the ballpark's "kiss cam." But Kimbrel didn't know why.
Disclaimer: This story has been notarized as completely false. No intent to harm or defame those mentioned herein.
Author's note: This piece was written based on a request from the Baseball Kink Anon a couple of years back. For this version, I updated some of the personnel in a few places.
There were a few reasons San Francisco made Brandon Beachy uncomfortable. It was huge. The people were different. It felt like the world’s largest basement, always cold and damp.
And of course, it was a place that tested his resolve. Not just on the field. Somehow, the city always made his internal compass swing out of alignment. He wasn’t a rainbow flag kind of guy, and Prop 8 never really got his blood boiling. He worried that maybe he was defective, like the goons from the Gay Squad were going to bust down his door and revoke his membership card one day for not caring about that stuff enough.
He was relieved that tonight was the final in a three-game series against the Giants. Tomorrow night meant L.A. and that meant this odd city on the shimmering bay could be put out of Beachy’s mind for another year.
The Braves were getting pretty fairly schooled by Matt Cain and company, down more than nine runs by the seventh inning. Before the eighth cranked up, Craig Kimbrel left the bullpen and sauntered down the first-base line to the dugout. He walked down the bench, pausing along the way to chat with Freddie Freeman.
Beachy closed his eyes, hoping Kimbrel would go sit somewhere else, or lean against the railing. Anywhere but sitting next to him. He cautiously opened one eye and saw Kimbrel sitting next to him, mouth curved into a curious smile. His lips danced past one another as he smacked on a piece of gum.
“You okay, Beach?” he asked. His light Alabama twang drifted on the thick, cool breeze from the bay.
“Yeah,” Beachy replied. “Why do you ask?”
“You’ve barely said a word the whole night.” Kimbrel took a hand out of his jacket pocket and gestured to Beachy’s right leg. “You’re bouncin’ your leg like crazy, and you’re chewing on your thumbnail.”
Beachy pulled his thumb away from his mouth. He didn’t even know it had been there. He looked down at the jagged edge of his nail and shoved that hand under his thigh. He stilled his leg.
“I’m fine,” he said, though Kimbrel hadn’t asked for a reiteration. “They don’t need you down in the bullpen?”
Kimbrel blew a bright pink bubble and let it pop. His tongue scraped the remnants of the gum off his lower lip and he resumed chewing. “Nope. Fredi’s got no use for me tonight, not when we’re down by this much.”
“Oh.” Beachy stared off toward the field and his leg started bouncing up-and-down again. He couldn’t look at Kimbrel, not right now. His normally pink cheeks were reddened in the cold wind blowing in from right field. Beachy wanted to let his thumb slide across the freckles decorating Kimbrel’s cheekbones. Damn this city, he thought. Blaming the city accomplished nothing, but it made him feel better. He forced himself to think about something else.
“Cain’s been dealin’ tonight,” Kimbrel said. “Still can’t believe Posey hit that shot off Tommy.”
Beachy pictured Kimbrel’s ass in his mind, mentally scribing the curves. He wondered if there were exercises to build and mold that kind of ass, or if it was just one of those things you’re born with.
“Beach!” Kimbrel said, snapping his fingers in Beachy’s face. “Dude, you just zoned out on me.”
Beachy’s face turned red. “No, I didn’t.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
Brandon forced a smile. “Yeah, of course.”
A cheer rippling through the crowd got the pitchers’ attention. Craig’s grin broadened as he pointed to the massive video screen above center field. He nudged Beachy.
“They’re doin’ Kiss Cam!” he said. “Your favorite!”
Beachy hated Kiss Cam. It seemed silly, and Beachy felt ill at ease watching couples forced to perform for an audience. It was like being forced to take on a lion at the Colosseum, but without the mercy of death.
The crowd cheered as couples appeared on the big screen, each in turn giving the audience what it wanted, a chaste peck on the lips or a brief but genuine lip lock. A moment later, Beachy looked up to the screen in time to see his own face staring back, dumbfounded. Craig’s boyish face appeared next to his, shocked at first, but then lighting up. He fixed a cocky smile and nodded as the crowd went wild. Beachy wished he could melt right through the bench and slither into one of the drain grates in the dugout floor. The other Braves looked on with reactions ranging from amusement to consternation.
Kimbrel turned toward Beachy and took off his cap. “Let’s teach ‘em a lesson.”
Time seemed to lag into half-speed as Kimbrel leaned in. Beachy was hoping a teammate would throw himself between them like a Secret Service agent, but before he could complete the thought, he felt Kimbrel’s lips meet his own. Craig nudged his forehead under the bill of Beachy’s cap and lifted it above their heads. His nose brushed against Beachy’s as he parted his lips. Open mouth? Brandon’s brain screamed. He’s going open mouth?
In total, the kiss probably lasted all of four seconds, but it felt like it took a week of Beachy’s life. When Craig pulled away and put his cap back on, Beachy could see the stunned faces of his teammates all the way down the length of the dugout. He glanced to his left and saw the Giants on the field staring at the video screen. The thousands that filled AT&T Park fell into a momentary silence, a brief moment of reckoning where they wondered if they’d all just hallucinated the same sight. Then the sound of cheers, shouts and laughter rose to near-deafening levels. In the midst of the chaos, Craig sat back, arms across his chest, looking unimpressed. He looked almost bored, as if waiting for the game to resume after a rain delay.
Beachy got up and left, pushing past his bewildered teammates, down the dugout stairs into the tunnel that led to the visitors’ clubhouse. His face burned red with embarrassment as he retreated down the tunnel, wishing he could shut out the world.
*****
The bus disgorged its passengers at the hotel door. Los Angeles was home for the next three nights. Kimbrel grabbed his duffel bag from a luggage compartment and began to thread his way through the maze of players to find Beachy. He finally spotted him, standing near the glass doors of the lobby.
“Beach!” he called. “You ready to head up?”
Brandon spoke softly. “I’m rooming with Wood.”
Craig’s face displayed his confusion. “Dude, we’ve been rooming together the whole season. Why n-“
“It’s not supposed to be a big…y’know. I’m rooming with Alex now,” Beachy replied. He looked down at his shoes. “Sorry.”
Alex Wood walked by, smiling broadly and motioning for Beachy to follow. They disappeared inside, leaving Kimbrel standing alone in the portico, baffled.
Johnny Venters walked by, toting his own bags. “Problem, Craig?”
“Uh…no, I don’t think so. Actually, I don’t know. You got a roomie?”
“Nope.”
“You mind if I join you?”
Venters tilted his head slightly. “I thought you were rooming with Beachy.”
“Yeah,” Craig said, glancing back to the lobby doors. “I did, too.”
*****
Kimbrel saw him that night before the game, getting in a few tosses in the bullpen. He jogged over and signaled for Beachy’s attention. The righty sighed and held his hand up to Evan Gattis. “What is it,” he said, his tone both tired and wary.
“Listen, I want to…I want to apologize about-“ Kimbrel looked over at Gattis, who had taken off his mask but was still crouching, waiting for Beachy to resume his warmup. “Can I talk to you somewhere else?”
“I don’t have time, Craig. If you gotta talk, talk now.”
Kimbrel winced, but continued. "I wanted to apologize about the thing. Up in San Fran. I was talkin’ with Jonny, and if you’re gay, or y’know, whatever-"
Beachy’s face went stark white. His eyes widened in shock. In a flash, he was off the bullpen mound and had Craig’s uniform bunched up in his fist, dragging Kimbrel away from the bullpen as Craig stumbled to keep up. They walked through the big metal gates to a spot a dozen yards away, in the outfield. Beachy lifted his gloved hand to his face and ordered Kimbrel to do the same.
“What?” Kimbrel asked, thoroughly confused.
“Just do it!” Beachy half-whispered, half-shouted. Kimbrel complied.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” Beachy said. “You called me gay. In front of Gattis. In front of a teammate.”
“I was tryin’ to tell you I’m sorry,” Kimbrel said. “And you should be mad at Venters. We were talkin’ last night, and he was the one that said you might be gay.”
Brandon sighed. “Damn it, Craig. I am.”
Kimbrel blinked a few times. Craig’s face could be intimidating, or intense, or a blank inscrutable façade that stymied hitters. This was definitely the latter. It scared Beachy. He could deal with anger or joy or anything in between. But ambiguity made his stomach twist into knots.
“Please, Kimbrel,” he said, his whisper wavering a little. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
Kimbrel lowered his glove. “I didn’t know. Beach, you’re one of my closest friends, man. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Never. I won’t tell anyone. And I’m sorry about...you know.”
Beachy nodded. “Okay.”
Gattis shouted for Beachy’s return to the bullpen so they could finish warming up. Kimbrel swatted him on the butt with his glove and watched Beachy jog back to the mound.
Gattis pulled his mask down and got into a crouch. “You two finish up your lovers’ quarrel?”
Brandon nearly swallowed his own tongue. “What?”
Gattis raised his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Chill. Just a joke, Beach. You have got to calm down before you go on. You’ve been wound up all afternoon.”
Beachy lifted his cap and swept his forearm across beads of sweat. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I got this.”
Four innings, seven walks, two home runs, three wild pitches and a balk later, Fredi Gonzalez pulled the plug on him. He walked back to the dugout in a fog. He could see his teammates staring at him as though he were a different person. He hoped to God it was because of his bad night and not because Craig and Venters, goddamn Venters, got chatty.
The bullpen held it together as best they could, but the damage had already been done. The offense couldn’t outwit the Dodgers’ relievers, and the Braves went down in rapid fashion.
After the game, Beachy left the clubhouse early. He planned to hail a cab to get to the hotel; he didn’t want the uncomfortable bus ride back with his teammates. Their silence would speak more plainly than their words ever could. He exited the stadium, bag slung over his shoulder. He was halfway across the parking lot when he heard someone call his name.
“Beachy! Brandon! Wait, man!”
Beachy quickened his steps, ignoring Kimbrel. He heard the sound of jogging footfalls on the pavement.
“Come on, Beach!” Kimbrel ran up alongside Beachy. “I want to talk to you for a minute.”
Brandon didn’t make eye contact. “I don’t.”
Kimbrel huffed in frustration. “Well, you’re gonna.” He grabbed Beachy’s shoulders, forcing him to stop. “Listen, what happened out there?”
Beachy was growing more irritated. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, Kimbrel.”
“Was it because of me? What we talked about out there?”
“Craig, please let me go.”
“I’m sorry it broke your concentration. I shouldn’t have done that. I thought it would clear your mind up a little, you know, being honest about it. I swear, that kiss meant nothing.”
Beachy’s face felt hot. “It did to me.”
Craig’s grip loosened. “Wait, what?”
Beachy wanted to be angry, but all he could generate was resignation. “It meant something to me, Craig. It’s a problem. A big problem. But I like you. You can kick my ass or whatever, but can it wait until tomorrow? I just want to get some sleep.”
Kimbrel looked shellshocked. Just as Brandon figured. But he didn’t look pissed, so Beachy took the opportunity to get away. He shrugged out of Kimbrel’s grip and walked on, down the hill and to the corner where he could catch a cab. He glanced behind him and saw Kimbrel still standing there, silhouetted by the stadium’s lights.
*****
Beachy jolted awake. Someone was knocking on the hotel room door. The clock next to the bed read a little after four a.m.
“Fuck,” Beachy rasped. He was tempted not to answer the damn door, but the knocking persisted. It was probably Wood, drunk as shit. Probably lost his room key again. Beachy finally rolled himself out of the bed and shuffled toward the door. He looked through the peephole.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He opened the door a few inches. “What the hell do you want, Kimbrel?”
Craig looked nervous. “Can we talk?”
“It’s four o’clock in the goddamn morning.”
“Please, Beach. Please?”
Beachy unlatched the chain lock and opened the door. He walked back to the nightstand and switched on a lamp. He squinted against the light as Craig closed the door behind him and sat down on the unmade bed Beachy vacated. Beachy tossed some dirty clothes out of a nearby chair and sat down.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Kimbrel said. “Not after what you told me.”
Beachy sat back a little. His gut told him this was the moment where things would get ugly. Craig would beat his ass, then storm out and tell the team they had a faggot in their midst so they could beat his ass, too.
Instead, Kimbrel leaned forward, closing the gap between himself and Beachy. Brandon felt Craig’s breath on his lips, and then, in a déjà vu back to the dugout in San Francisco, he felt Craig’s lips meet his. He gently pulled Beachy forward out of his chair until the pitcher lay on top of him on the bed. Brandon lifted himself up, looking down at Kimbrel in confusion.
Craig smiled, his slate-blue eyes glimmering even in the dim light of the bedside lamp. “It’s okay.”
Brandon studied Kimbrel’s face, looking for a tell that the closer was joking. “You better not be fucking with me.”
“Swear to God, Beach.”
Beachy rolled off Kimbrel and laid next to him, staring up at the ceiling. “I thought it didn’t mean anything to you.”
“Maybe it didn’t at first,” Kimbrel replied. “But I thought about it a lot after that. I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that with any other guy. With you, it feels right.”
Craig ran his left hand up Beachy’s side. Goosebumps raised on the skin in its wake.
“I’m really sorry I upset you. You remember, I said I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you?”
Brandon nodded. “Yeah.”
Craig crawled over Beachy and straddled him. “I wanna prove it.”
Beachy gulped. This is what he wanted, wasn’t it? He worried that all this was happening too quickly. Maybe he would be so nervous he couldn’t get turned on. Then Craig’s hand found its way into Brandon’s boxers and that pretty much nailed the coffin shut on that. His dick surged to life, plumping and hardening in Kimbrel’s steady hand.
“You ever done this before?” Craig asked.
Beachy nodded. “Yeah, a little.”
“Well, I haven’t, so grade me on a curve.” He smiled nervously. “Can I, uh…?” He pulled at Beachy’s boxers.
“Oh…oh! Yeah. Let me, uh--“ Beachy wiggled underneath Craig and shimmied out of his boxers.
Craig again seized Beachy’s dick, making Brandon involuntarily grunt.
Kimbrel stopped. “Is that - are you okay?”
“Yeah, no. It’s fine. It feels good.” He cracked a smile. “You’re doing it right.”
Kimbrel blushed. “Oh, yeah. Okay.” His eyelids slid halfway down and he looked into Beachy’s eyes as he jacked him off. “Damn, you’re handsome, Beach. Fuckin’ sexy.”
He leaned, down, kissing Beachy’s neck. His lips and tongue passed over Beachy’s throat and up the side of his face. He straightened back up and took off his own T-shirt, tossing it over Beachy’s head and into a corner of the room. He loomed over Beachy, an obvious bulge curving in his jeans. Brandon reached for it, rubbing gently through the rough denim.
“It’s all yours, buddy,” Craig said.
Brandon sat up and gently pushed Kimbrel into standing up. He unbuckled Craig’s belt and unbuttoned his jeans. He slowly pulled the zipper down and slid the jeans down Kimbrel’s thighs. His erection pulsed beneath the cotton of his boxer-briefs. Beachy’s fingertips glanced down the outline of its length, and he heard Kimbrel’s breath catch.
Beachy pulled the waistband down and hooked it under Kimbrel’s balls. The faint odor of stale sweat greeted him. He went all in, taking Kimbrel’s heavy shaft into his mouth.
“Holy shit, Beach,” the closer gasped, closing his eyes.
Beachy pulled off. He slurped around the head of Kimbrel’s shaft, down to the base and the rust-red hair that gathered there. His right hand snaked around to Kimbrel’s ass, and he relished in squeezing the firm, sizeable muscle. His left hand gripped the pitcher’s thigh. Craig uttered a slow groan. Beachy’s tongue worked the underside of Kimbrel’s erection, sliding across the hot, veiny skin. He passed back up to the head, tasting the salty pre that oozed from the tip.
Beachy started in again, slowly, letting Kimbrel get used to it, until Craig urged him on. His voice carried a tone bordering on desperation - “Beach, please, man” - and Beachy was only too happy to oblige. He sucked and slurped, feeling Craig swell and ebb inside his mouth. He moved his left hand up Kimbrel’s nuts, pulling them and gently kneading the wrinkled skin encasing them. He felt the sack begin to tighten and thicken. Kimbrel’s breath became heavy.
“Ah, fuck, Beach. I’m gonna…”
Brandon redoubled his efforts, feeling beads of sweat break out on his reddened face.
“Ser-oof-seriously, man. You gotta pull off.”
Beachy ignored him. Kimbrel’s muscles tensed and his cock bulged. Brandon felt the thick, heavy flood of semen invade his mouth and swallowed rapidly. Several seconds later, the spasms ended and the flow tapered off. Beachy pulled off a final time and wiped his mouth on his forearm. He looked up to see Kimbrel stooping slightly and panting.
“Dude, you…you swallowed it?”
Beachy nodded nonchalantly. “It’s a bitch to get out of the sheets.”
Craig huffed out a laugh. “Fuck you.”
He sat down on the bed next to Beachy. “That was amazing. I really didn’t expect - hell, I don’t know what I expected. But it was great. I thought it might be weird or something, but no. It felt good.”
Brandon furrowed his brows. “It’s supposed to.”
“I know that. I mean, it felt good with you. Knowing that it was you.” Craig made a rolling motion in the air with his hand, as though that was elaboration enough. He yawned. “I’m so damn tired, Beach.”
“Bed’s big enough for two.” Beachy looked at the nightstand clock. 4:41 a.m. “And I’m not starting today.”
“Mmm. I like that.”
Kimbrel climbed under the covers and Beachy joined him. Kimbrel threw an arm across Brandon’s chest and snuggled in tightly next to him. Beachy smiled and turned off the lamp. He had almost nodded off when he heard Craig’s voice, his words slurred by his encroaching sleep.
“Hey. What’f Alex walks in?”
Beachy hadn’t thought about that. “Ask him to hop in?”
Craig chuckled. “You’re sum’in special, Beach.”
Kimbrel’s breath steadied and slowed. Beachy felt himself begin to go under. The last coherent thought he had was that Craig would still be there in the morning. He felt his mouth draw into a smile, and he drifted into slumber.
Author: 2theletter
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brandon Beachy/Craig Kimbrel.
Synopsis: Brandon Beachy hated the ballpark's "kiss cam." But Kimbrel didn't know why.
Disclaimer: This story has been notarized as completely false. No intent to harm or defame those mentioned herein.
Author's note: This piece was written based on a request from the Baseball Kink Anon a couple of years back. For this version, I updated some of the personnel in a few places.
There were a few reasons San Francisco made Brandon Beachy uncomfortable. It was huge. The people were different. It felt like the world’s largest basement, always cold and damp.
And of course, it was a place that tested his resolve. Not just on the field. Somehow, the city always made his internal compass swing out of alignment. He wasn’t a rainbow flag kind of guy, and Prop 8 never really got his blood boiling. He worried that maybe he was defective, like the goons from the Gay Squad were going to bust down his door and revoke his membership card one day for not caring about that stuff enough.
He was relieved that tonight was the final in a three-game series against the Giants. Tomorrow night meant L.A. and that meant this odd city on the shimmering bay could be put out of Beachy’s mind for another year.
The Braves were getting pretty fairly schooled by Matt Cain and company, down more than nine runs by the seventh inning. Before the eighth cranked up, Craig Kimbrel left the bullpen and sauntered down the first-base line to the dugout. He walked down the bench, pausing along the way to chat with Freddie Freeman.
Beachy closed his eyes, hoping Kimbrel would go sit somewhere else, or lean against the railing. Anywhere but sitting next to him. He cautiously opened one eye and saw Kimbrel sitting next to him, mouth curved into a curious smile. His lips danced past one another as he smacked on a piece of gum.
“You okay, Beach?” he asked. His light Alabama twang drifted on the thick, cool breeze from the bay.
“Yeah,” Beachy replied. “Why do you ask?”
“You’ve barely said a word the whole night.” Kimbrel took a hand out of his jacket pocket and gestured to Beachy’s right leg. “You’re bouncin’ your leg like crazy, and you’re chewing on your thumbnail.”
Beachy pulled his thumb away from his mouth. He didn’t even know it had been there. He looked down at the jagged edge of his nail and shoved that hand under his thigh. He stilled his leg.
“I’m fine,” he said, though Kimbrel hadn’t asked for a reiteration. “They don’t need you down in the bullpen?”
Kimbrel blew a bright pink bubble and let it pop. His tongue scraped the remnants of the gum off his lower lip and he resumed chewing. “Nope. Fredi’s got no use for me tonight, not when we’re down by this much.”
“Oh.” Beachy stared off toward the field and his leg started bouncing up-and-down again. He couldn’t look at Kimbrel, not right now. His normally pink cheeks were reddened in the cold wind blowing in from right field. Beachy wanted to let his thumb slide across the freckles decorating Kimbrel’s cheekbones. Damn this city, he thought. Blaming the city accomplished nothing, but it made him feel better. He forced himself to think about something else.
“Cain’s been dealin’ tonight,” Kimbrel said. “Still can’t believe Posey hit that shot off Tommy.”
Beachy pictured Kimbrel’s ass in his mind, mentally scribing the curves. He wondered if there were exercises to build and mold that kind of ass, or if it was just one of those things you’re born with.
“Beach!” Kimbrel said, snapping his fingers in Beachy’s face. “Dude, you just zoned out on me.”
Beachy’s face turned red. “No, I didn’t.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
Brandon forced a smile. “Yeah, of course.”
A cheer rippling through the crowd got the pitchers’ attention. Craig’s grin broadened as he pointed to the massive video screen above center field. He nudged Beachy.
“They’re doin’ Kiss Cam!” he said. “Your favorite!”
Beachy hated Kiss Cam. It seemed silly, and Beachy felt ill at ease watching couples forced to perform for an audience. It was like being forced to take on a lion at the Colosseum, but without the mercy of death.
The crowd cheered as couples appeared on the big screen, each in turn giving the audience what it wanted, a chaste peck on the lips or a brief but genuine lip lock. A moment later, Beachy looked up to the screen in time to see his own face staring back, dumbfounded. Craig’s boyish face appeared next to his, shocked at first, but then lighting up. He fixed a cocky smile and nodded as the crowd went wild. Beachy wished he could melt right through the bench and slither into one of the drain grates in the dugout floor. The other Braves looked on with reactions ranging from amusement to consternation.
Kimbrel turned toward Beachy and took off his cap. “Let’s teach ‘em a lesson.”
Time seemed to lag into half-speed as Kimbrel leaned in. Beachy was hoping a teammate would throw himself between them like a Secret Service agent, but before he could complete the thought, he felt Kimbrel’s lips meet his own. Craig nudged his forehead under the bill of Beachy’s cap and lifted it above their heads. His nose brushed against Beachy’s as he parted his lips. Open mouth? Brandon’s brain screamed. He’s going open mouth?
In total, the kiss probably lasted all of four seconds, but it felt like it took a week of Beachy’s life. When Craig pulled away and put his cap back on, Beachy could see the stunned faces of his teammates all the way down the length of the dugout. He glanced to his left and saw the Giants on the field staring at the video screen. The thousands that filled AT&T Park fell into a momentary silence, a brief moment of reckoning where they wondered if they’d all just hallucinated the same sight. Then the sound of cheers, shouts and laughter rose to near-deafening levels. In the midst of the chaos, Craig sat back, arms across his chest, looking unimpressed. He looked almost bored, as if waiting for the game to resume after a rain delay.
Beachy got up and left, pushing past his bewildered teammates, down the dugout stairs into the tunnel that led to the visitors’ clubhouse. His face burned red with embarrassment as he retreated down the tunnel, wishing he could shut out the world.
*****
The bus disgorged its passengers at the hotel door. Los Angeles was home for the next three nights. Kimbrel grabbed his duffel bag from a luggage compartment and began to thread his way through the maze of players to find Beachy. He finally spotted him, standing near the glass doors of the lobby.
“Beach!” he called. “You ready to head up?”
Brandon spoke softly. “I’m rooming with Wood.”
Craig’s face displayed his confusion. “Dude, we’ve been rooming together the whole season. Why n-“
“It’s not supposed to be a big…y’know. I’m rooming with Alex now,” Beachy replied. He looked down at his shoes. “Sorry.”
Alex Wood walked by, smiling broadly and motioning for Beachy to follow. They disappeared inside, leaving Kimbrel standing alone in the portico, baffled.
Johnny Venters walked by, toting his own bags. “Problem, Craig?”
“Uh…no, I don’t think so. Actually, I don’t know. You got a roomie?”
“Nope.”
“You mind if I join you?”
Venters tilted his head slightly. “I thought you were rooming with Beachy.”
“Yeah,” Craig said, glancing back to the lobby doors. “I did, too.”
*****
Kimbrel saw him that night before the game, getting in a few tosses in the bullpen. He jogged over and signaled for Beachy’s attention. The righty sighed and held his hand up to Evan Gattis. “What is it,” he said, his tone both tired and wary.
“Listen, I want to…I want to apologize about-“ Kimbrel looked over at Gattis, who had taken off his mask but was still crouching, waiting for Beachy to resume his warmup. “Can I talk to you somewhere else?”
“I don’t have time, Craig. If you gotta talk, talk now.”
Kimbrel winced, but continued. "I wanted to apologize about the thing. Up in San Fran. I was talkin’ with Jonny, and if you’re gay, or y’know, whatever-"
Beachy’s face went stark white. His eyes widened in shock. In a flash, he was off the bullpen mound and had Craig’s uniform bunched up in his fist, dragging Kimbrel away from the bullpen as Craig stumbled to keep up. They walked through the big metal gates to a spot a dozen yards away, in the outfield. Beachy lifted his gloved hand to his face and ordered Kimbrel to do the same.
“What?” Kimbrel asked, thoroughly confused.
“Just do it!” Beachy half-whispered, half-shouted. Kimbrel complied.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” Beachy said. “You called me gay. In front of Gattis. In front of a teammate.”
“I was tryin’ to tell you I’m sorry,” Kimbrel said. “And you should be mad at Venters. We were talkin’ last night, and he was the one that said you might be gay.”
Brandon sighed. “Damn it, Craig. I am.”
Kimbrel blinked a few times. Craig’s face could be intimidating, or intense, or a blank inscrutable façade that stymied hitters. This was definitely the latter. It scared Beachy. He could deal with anger or joy or anything in between. But ambiguity made his stomach twist into knots.
“Please, Kimbrel,” he said, his whisper wavering a little. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
Kimbrel lowered his glove. “I didn’t know. Beach, you’re one of my closest friends, man. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Never. I won’t tell anyone. And I’m sorry about...you know.”
Beachy nodded. “Okay.”
Gattis shouted for Beachy’s return to the bullpen so they could finish warming up. Kimbrel swatted him on the butt with his glove and watched Beachy jog back to the mound.
Gattis pulled his mask down and got into a crouch. “You two finish up your lovers’ quarrel?”
Brandon nearly swallowed his own tongue. “What?”
Gattis raised his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Chill. Just a joke, Beach. You have got to calm down before you go on. You’ve been wound up all afternoon.”
Beachy lifted his cap and swept his forearm across beads of sweat. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I got this.”
Four innings, seven walks, two home runs, three wild pitches and a balk later, Fredi Gonzalez pulled the plug on him. He walked back to the dugout in a fog. He could see his teammates staring at him as though he were a different person. He hoped to God it was because of his bad night and not because Craig and Venters, goddamn Venters, got chatty.
The bullpen held it together as best they could, but the damage had already been done. The offense couldn’t outwit the Dodgers’ relievers, and the Braves went down in rapid fashion.
After the game, Beachy left the clubhouse early. He planned to hail a cab to get to the hotel; he didn’t want the uncomfortable bus ride back with his teammates. Their silence would speak more plainly than their words ever could. He exited the stadium, bag slung over his shoulder. He was halfway across the parking lot when he heard someone call his name.
“Beachy! Brandon! Wait, man!”
Beachy quickened his steps, ignoring Kimbrel. He heard the sound of jogging footfalls on the pavement.
“Come on, Beach!” Kimbrel ran up alongside Beachy. “I want to talk to you for a minute.”
Brandon didn’t make eye contact. “I don’t.”
Kimbrel huffed in frustration. “Well, you’re gonna.” He grabbed Beachy’s shoulders, forcing him to stop. “Listen, what happened out there?”
Beachy was growing more irritated. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, Kimbrel.”
“Was it because of me? What we talked about out there?”
“Craig, please let me go.”
“I’m sorry it broke your concentration. I shouldn’t have done that. I thought it would clear your mind up a little, you know, being honest about it. I swear, that kiss meant nothing.”
Beachy’s face felt hot. “It did to me.”
Craig’s grip loosened. “Wait, what?”
Beachy wanted to be angry, but all he could generate was resignation. “It meant something to me, Craig. It’s a problem. A big problem. But I like you. You can kick my ass or whatever, but can it wait until tomorrow? I just want to get some sleep.”
Kimbrel looked shellshocked. Just as Brandon figured. But he didn’t look pissed, so Beachy took the opportunity to get away. He shrugged out of Kimbrel’s grip and walked on, down the hill and to the corner where he could catch a cab. He glanced behind him and saw Kimbrel still standing there, silhouetted by the stadium’s lights.
*****
Beachy jolted awake. Someone was knocking on the hotel room door. The clock next to the bed read a little after four a.m.
“Fuck,” Beachy rasped. He was tempted not to answer the damn door, but the knocking persisted. It was probably Wood, drunk as shit. Probably lost his room key again. Beachy finally rolled himself out of the bed and shuffled toward the door. He looked through the peephole.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He opened the door a few inches. “What the hell do you want, Kimbrel?”
Craig looked nervous. “Can we talk?”
“It’s four o’clock in the goddamn morning.”
“Please, Beach. Please?”
Beachy unlatched the chain lock and opened the door. He walked back to the nightstand and switched on a lamp. He squinted against the light as Craig closed the door behind him and sat down on the unmade bed Beachy vacated. Beachy tossed some dirty clothes out of a nearby chair and sat down.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Kimbrel said. “Not after what you told me.”
Beachy sat back a little. His gut told him this was the moment where things would get ugly. Craig would beat his ass, then storm out and tell the team they had a faggot in their midst so they could beat his ass, too.
Instead, Kimbrel leaned forward, closing the gap between himself and Beachy. Brandon felt Craig’s breath on his lips, and then, in a déjà vu back to the dugout in San Francisco, he felt Craig’s lips meet his. He gently pulled Beachy forward out of his chair until the pitcher lay on top of him on the bed. Brandon lifted himself up, looking down at Kimbrel in confusion.
Craig smiled, his slate-blue eyes glimmering even in the dim light of the bedside lamp. “It’s okay.”
Brandon studied Kimbrel’s face, looking for a tell that the closer was joking. “You better not be fucking with me.”
“Swear to God, Beach.”
Beachy rolled off Kimbrel and laid next to him, staring up at the ceiling. “I thought it didn’t mean anything to you.”
“Maybe it didn’t at first,” Kimbrel replied. “But I thought about it a lot after that. I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that with any other guy. With you, it feels right.”
Craig ran his left hand up Beachy’s side. Goosebumps raised on the skin in its wake.
“I’m really sorry I upset you. You remember, I said I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you?”
Brandon nodded. “Yeah.”
Craig crawled over Beachy and straddled him. “I wanna prove it.”
Beachy gulped. This is what he wanted, wasn’t it? He worried that all this was happening too quickly. Maybe he would be so nervous he couldn’t get turned on. Then Craig’s hand found its way into Brandon’s boxers and that pretty much nailed the coffin shut on that. His dick surged to life, plumping and hardening in Kimbrel’s steady hand.
“You ever done this before?” Craig asked.
Beachy nodded. “Yeah, a little.”
“Well, I haven’t, so grade me on a curve.” He smiled nervously. “Can I, uh…?” He pulled at Beachy’s boxers.
“Oh…oh! Yeah. Let me, uh--“ Beachy wiggled underneath Craig and shimmied out of his boxers.
Craig again seized Beachy’s dick, making Brandon involuntarily grunt.
Kimbrel stopped. “Is that - are you okay?”
“Yeah, no. It’s fine. It feels good.” He cracked a smile. “You’re doing it right.”
Kimbrel blushed. “Oh, yeah. Okay.” His eyelids slid halfway down and he looked into Beachy’s eyes as he jacked him off. “Damn, you’re handsome, Beach. Fuckin’ sexy.”
He leaned, down, kissing Beachy’s neck. His lips and tongue passed over Beachy’s throat and up the side of his face. He straightened back up and took off his own T-shirt, tossing it over Beachy’s head and into a corner of the room. He loomed over Beachy, an obvious bulge curving in his jeans. Brandon reached for it, rubbing gently through the rough denim.
“It’s all yours, buddy,” Craig said.
Brandon sat up and gently pushed Kimbrel into standing up. He unbuckled Craig’s belt and unbuttoned his jeans. He slowly pulled the zipper down and slid the jeans down Kimbrel’s thighs. His erection pulsed beneath the cotton of his boxer-briefs. Beachy’s fingertips glanced down the outline of its length, and he heard Kimbrel’s breath catch.
Beachy pulled the waistband down and hooked it under Kimbrel’s balls. The faint odor of stale sweat greeted him. He went all in, taking Kimbrel’s heavy shaft into his mouth.
“Holy shit, Beach,” the closer gasped, closing his eyes.
Beachy pulled off. He slurped around the head of Kimbrel’s shaft, down to the base and the rust-red hair that gathered there. His right hand snaked around to Kimbrel’s ass, and he relished in squeezing the firm, sizeable muscle. His left hand gripped the pitcher’s thigh. Craig uttered a slow groan. Beachy’s tongue worked the underside of Kimbrel’s erection, sliding across the hot, veiny skin. He passed back up to the head, tasting the salty pre that oozed from the tip.
Beachy started in again, slowly, letting Kimbrel get used to it, until Craig urged him on. His voice carried a tone bordering on desperation - “Beach, please, man” - and Beachy was only too happy to oblige. He sucked and slurped, feeling Craig swell and ebb inside his mouth. He moved his left hand up Kimbrel’s nuts, pulling them and gently kneading the wrinkled skin encasing them. He felt the sack begin to tighten and thicken. Kimbrel’s breath became heavy.
“Ah, fuck, Beach. I’m gonna…”
Brandon redoubled his efforts, feeling beads of sweat break out on his reddened face.
“Ser-oof-seriously, man. You gotta pull off.”
Beachy ignored him. Kimbrel’s muscles tensed and his cock bulged. Brandon felt the thick, heavy flood of semen invade his mouth and swallowed rapidly. Several seconds later, the spasms ended and the flow tapered off. Beachy pulled off a final time and wiped his mouth on his forearm. He looked up to see Kimbrel stooping slightly and panting.
“Dude, you…you swallowed it?”
Beachy nodded nonchalantly. “It’s a bitch to get out of the sheets.”
Craig huffed out a laugh. “Fuck you.”
He sat down on the bed next to Beachy. “That was amazing. I really didn’t expect - hell, I don’t know what I expected. But it was great. I thought it might be weird or something, but no. It felt good.”
Brandon furrowed his brows. “It’s supposed to.”
“I know that. I mean, it felt good with you. Knowing that it was you.” Craig made a rolling motion in the air with his hand, as though that was elaboration enough. He yawned. “I’m so damn tired, Beach.”
“Bed’s big enough for two.” Beachy looked at the nightstand clock. 4:41 a.m. “And I’m not starting today.”
“Mmm. I like that.”
Kimbrel climbed under the covers and Beachy joined him. Kimbrel threw an arm across Brandon’s chest and snuggled in tightly next to him. Beachy smiled and turned off the lamp. He had almost nodded off when he heard Craig’s voice, his words slurred by his encroaching sleep.
“Hey. What’f Alex walks in?”
Beachy hadn’t thought about that. “Ask him to hop in?”
Craig chuckled. “You’re sum’in special, Beach.”
Kimbrel’s breath steadied and slowed. Beachy felt himself begin to go under. The last coherent thought he had was that Craig would still be there in the morning. He felt his mouth draw into a smile, and he drifted into slumber.