Trust your stuff
Title: Trust your stuff
Characters: Clay Buchholz, Jon Lester, George Kottaras, Josh Beckett
Rating: NC-17
Time: July 2009
Summary: Buchholz gets called up for a spot start in Toronto.
Disclaimer: A fictional story, written only for entertainment purposes.
Clay didn't know why he was nervous when he showed up at Fenway Park Friday afternoon, ready to board the bus to the airport for the short flight to Toronto. His greeting was just what he expected -- shouts, smiles, a lot of backslaps and hugs, and one surreptitious ass grab (from Josh Beckett, of course). After the initial excitement, it was like he'd never left.
The only wrench in the works was George Kottaras. His smile at seeing Clay was as blinding as ever, and he seemed genuinely happy, but Clay could sense something was up. He knew George too well. The young catcher was uncharactaristically quiet during the trip to the airport, and Clay slid into the airplane seat beside him, determined to figure out what was up.
"You OK, George?" he asked, after the plane had climbed into the air and leveled off.
"Fine!" Kottaras jumped slightly and turned his gaze away from the window. He looked briefly into Clay's curious eyes and blushed, looking away. "It's just that..."
"What?" Buchholz asked.
"I didn't know you were being called up for this trip," Kottaras replied quietly, his face turning redder. "I already told my parents I'd stay with them tonight, and..."
"George, for crissakes," Clay said, relieved. "Don't worry about it."
George blew out air. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just bring me some of your mom's baklava, OK?"
Kottaras smiled. "I will."
"Geez, here I was thinking you were pissed at me or something."
George looked puzzled. "Why should I be pissed at you?"
"Dunno. Just the way my life's gone lately, I guess."
George squeezed Clay's arm briefly, but didn't reply.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later that evening, as the Red Sox worked out at the Rogers Center, Jacoby Ellsbury suddenly ran off the field at top speed, one hand clapped over his mouth. Uh-oh, Clay thought.
After the workout, he discovered that Jacoby had been sent back to the hotel, under quarantine, with what trainer Paul Lessard called a stomach virus and Beckett called "gakkin' his guts out."
Figures, Clay thought, wondering if the Rogers Center roof was planning to collapse sometime before his start the next night. He gathered up the Blue Jays scouting reports and retreated alone to his hotel room, deciding to concentrate on baseball and nothing but. After all, his career was on the line the next day.
Stop thinking like that.
OK, OK, so his career wasn't on the line. But he wanted to pitch well. He wanted to pitch so well he could almost taste it, to show John and Tito and Theo that he belonged, dammit, he was a good pitcher and not a head case, that he could contribute, that he deserved to be part of this team.
I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me.
Clay chuckled and climbed onto the bed, spread out the reports and started reading.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
An hour later, his head was buzzing and his eyes were sore; he wasn't used to reading that much in one sitting. He sighed, dropping his head back, and rubbed at the back of his neck, wondering if he should get up and take a walk or just try to sleep. A sudden sharp knock at the door startled him out of his ruminations.
"Yeah?" he called. Must be Jason Varitek, ready to go over the reports. "Is that you, Tek?"
"Fuck, no!" came an all-too-familar voice. Clay leaped off the bed and wrenched the door open. "Jonny!" he cried.
"You rather have Tek?" Jon Lester asked, his eyes twinkling.
"Get your ass in here." Buchholz grabbed Lester by the arm, hauled him through the door, shoved him up against the wall and kissed him, hard. Jon kissed back, his hands twining in Clay's hair.
"Now THAT'S a proper greeting," Lester said as Buchholz finally came up for air and dropped his forehead to Jon's shoulder.
"Jonny," he whispered, and shuddered.
"Hey," Lester said. He pushed Buchholz back slightly and studied his face as Clay blinked hard. "I just miss you too much, or you gettin' better looking?"
Clay chuckled. "You're just tryin' to make me laugh."
"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" Lester smiled, then glanced at the bed. "You been studying?"
"Yeah, feels like my brain's leaking out my ears," Buchholz replied, following Lester's gaze as he looked over the scattered reports.
"There's such a thing as too much knowledge," Lester said, going over to the bed and starting to gather the papers. "Eventually, you just gotta trust your stuff."
"I know," Clay didn't know whether to feel grateful or irritated. The former, he decided, eyeing Jon's denim-clad ass as he bent over the bed. His cock, which had started hardening at just the sight of Jon standing outside his door, leaped to full attention. An involuntary groan slipped out, and he bit at a fingernail, too late to stifle it.
Jon froze, then turned his head. "You got something on your mind besides pitching, Buchholz?"
Clay opened his mouth, ready to match Jon's teasing tone, but found all he could do was nod dumbly. He'd gone past joking about sex, or the lack thereof, around a month ago. He was aching for it, starving for it, desperate to feel Jon's soft lips on his, his hand sliding between his legs, his cock.... oh God... he wanted it so bad it fucking hurt.
"Jon," he said, and the aching, pleading want in his voice almost made him cringe. He hoped to God he didn't sound as needy as he felt. It was downright embarrassing. He was a grown man, 24 years old, not some horny teenager.
Lester cocked his head at the sound, and Clay felt himself turning red. He opened his mouth to apologize, explain, but then stopped as Jon dropped the reports with a thud and turned completely around to face him.
"Clay," he said, and wrapped his arms around his teammate, sliding his hands down over Clay's ass. He squeezed, hard, and grinned. Clay grinned back.
"You want...?" Jon ventured.
"Oh, FUCK yeah," Clay replied, pushing his hips against Jon's. "I want, Jonny. I want so fuckin' bad I can't fuckin' stand it."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Lester said, yanking at Buchholz's belt buckle. Clay reached down to help. "You sure?" he asked.
"If you are," Lester replied. "You're the one pitching, not me."
"It's a night game," Buchholz said, and they both broke into laughter and yanked frantically at each other's clothes.
"Hold still, dammit," Jon said, pulling at Clay's shirt. "YOU hold still," Clay replied, his hands tangled inside Jon's jeans. They fell onto the bed together, the last, lonely sheet of paper lofting into the air and drifting slowly down to join its mates as two pairs of long legs, finally freed, thrashed and tangled together.
"OW!" Jon cried as Clay yanked his boxers off, his fingernails scraping sensitive skin. "Sor--" Clay started to reply, but was choked off as Jon dove on him, catching his lips with his own. He's gotten bigger, Buchholz thought as Lester flattened him, driving his tongue into his mouth, capturing his wrists, pressing them back onto the bed. Stronger. Almost as big as Beckett. Forget Beckett. Jon....
"Jonny," Clay managed to gasp out as Jon slid his tongue along Clay's jawbone, along his neck, up under his ear. He released Clay's wrists, grabbing again at his hair, and Clay wrapped his arms around Jon's shoulders and his legs around his hips. Jon moved his pelvis forward, almost imperceptively, and their cocks rubbed together. Buchholz almost climaxed on the spot. He felt 16 again, ready to explode at just a touch. He bit his lip, hard, and tried to calm himself.
Lester wasn't helping. He dropped his head to Buchholz's chest, circled his nipples with his tongue, then sucked, hard. Before Clay could react, he moved down, trailing his tongue along Clay's ribcage, then over his protruding hipbones, then perilously close to...
"Don't!"
"Why not?" Lester lifted his head, raising an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Buchholz's chest was heaving. "It's just... I... "
"Ah." The light dawned in Jon's eyes. "You'd rather..."
"God yes," Clay replied. Jon smiled, and Clay was forever grateful that it wasn't a mocking smile, nor even a teasing one, but one of perfect understanding. Lester got up, looked around the room and spotted Clay's bag. "Got some in there?"
Buchholz nodded. Jon reached into the bag, pulled out a bottle of lube and turned back to the bed, tossing it to his partner. "Help me out?"
"Always," Buchholz said, pouring the oil into the palm of his hand and reaching for Lester's cock as the lefty knelt between Clay's legs. Jon closed his eyes and licked his lips. "Mmmmm..." he said. "You got great hands."
"So I've heard," Buchholz said, tossing the bottle aside and sliding his hands behind Lester's ass briefly before lying back and spreading his legs wide. Lester looked down at him, then leaned forward and kissed him gently before lining up his cock and easing himself inside, slowly but surely.
"Oh, yeah, that's it. Oh GOD yeah," Buchholz arched his back, giving Lester better access, and reached down to Jon's ass, pulling him closer as his cock slid home. It felt so fucking good he could hardly stand it. He bit at Jon's shoulder, his entire body shuddering, as Jon's hips met his.
Lester paused, then pulled back and shoved again, building into a hard rythmn. He started to reach for Clay's cock, but Buchholz pushed his hand away, knowing he'd come in about two seconds if he was touched. "Just... keep.... fuck... hard..." he moaned, and Lester nodded, increasing his pace, feeling his own orgasm building deep down inside.
There, oh, there ... just... perfect... oh yes... Clay's eyes rolled back in his head as his cock spurted violently, semen spraying across his chest. Jon's hips snapped forward in one final, violent thrust as his body shook and their cries mingled.
Lester collapsed, ignoring the sweat and semen smeared across Buchholz's prone body, and they lay together, panting, their racing hearts gradually slowing. Finally, Jon slid off, nestled next to Clay, and rested his chin on Clay's shoulder. Buchholz didn't know whether to laugh or break into tears at the hauntingly familiar gesture.
"Guess you needed that, huh?" Jon asked.
That did it. Clay exploded into laughter "You could say that," he managed, as Jon guffawed, burying his face in Clay's neck.
"You're gonna pitch great tomorrow," Lester finally said, wiping his eyes.
"I hope so."
"I know so. Fucking great. Trust yourself."
And so he did.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A final round of handshakes in the clubhouse as the Red Sox prepared to go back to their Toronto hotel and Buchholz prepared to go back to Pawtucket. A grin and a wink from George, a secret smile from Jon, and Josh was picking up his bag and slinging it over his own shoulder. "I'll walk you out to your car," he said.
Clay gave the clubhouse a quick, final scan and sighed, then resolutely turned away and followed Beckett through the bowels of the Rogers Center, where a chauffer waited to take him to the airport.
"Hell of a job," Josh said.
Clay shrugged. "Wish I coulda gotten that last out," he said.
"Somethin' to work on," Beckett replied as they approached the car. He opened the back door, tossed Clay's bag inside, and enveloped the young pitcher in his arms. "See you soon," he said in Clay's ear.
"I hope so," Clay replied.
"I know so," Josh said, leaning over to give Buchholz a final wink and then slam the door. Clay waved as the car pulled away, then rested his left hand on top of his bag and felt something hard.
He unzipped the bag and found a large, unfamiliar round tin. Curious, he pulled it out, onto his lap, and opened it.
Baklava. Enough to feed an entire team. Buchholz laughed and shook his head. "See you soon," he whispered, and he knew it.
Characters: Clay Buchholz, Jon Lester, George Kottaras, Josh Beckett
Rating: NC-17
Time: July 2009
Summary: Buchholz gets called up for a spot start in Toronto.
Disclaimer: A fictional story, written only for entertainment purposes.
Clay didn't know why he was nervous when he showed up at Fenway Park Friday afternoon, ready to board the bus to the airport for the short flight to Toronto. His greeting was just what he expected -- shouts, smiles, a lot of backslaps and hugs, and one surreptitious ass grab (from Josh Beckett, of course). After the initial excitement, it was like he'd never left.
The only wrench in the works was George Kottaras. His smile at seeing Clay was as blinding as ever, and he seemed genuinely happy, but Clay could sense something was up. He knew George too well. The young catcher was uncharactaristically quiet during the trip to the airport, and Clay slid into the airplane seat beside him, determined to figure out what was up.
"You OK, George?" he asked, after the plane had climbed into the air and leveled off.
"Fine!" Kottaras jumped slightly and turned his gaze away from the window. He looked briefly into Clay's curious eyes and blushed, looking away. "It's just that..."
"What?" Buchholz asked.
"I didn't know you were being called up for this trip," Kottaras replied quietly, his face turning redder. "I already told my parents I'd stay with them tonight, and..."
"George, for crissakes," Clay said, relieved. "Don't worry about it."
George blew out air. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just bring me some of your mom's baklava, OK?"
Kottaras smiled. "I will."
"Geez, here I was thinking you were pissed at me or something."
George looked puzzled. "Why should I be pissed at you?"
"Dunno. Just the way my life's gone lately, I guess."
George squeezed Clay's arm briefly, but didn't reply.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later that evening, as the Red Sox worked out at the Rogers Center, Jacoby Ellsbury suddenly ran off the field at top speed, one hand clapped over his mouth. Uh-oh, Clay thought.
After the workout, he discovered that Jacoby had been sent back to the hotel, under quarantine, with what trainer Paul Lessard called a stomach virus and Beckett called "gakkin' his guts out."
Figures, Clay thought, wondering if the Rogers Center roof was planning to collapse sometime before his start the next night. He gathered up the Blue Jays scouting reports and retreated alone to his hotel room, deciding to concentrate on baseball and nothing but. After all, his career was on the line the next day.
Stop thinking like that.
OK, OK, so his career wasn't on the line. But he wanted to pitch well. He wanted to pitch so well he could almost taste it, to show John and Tito and Theo that he belonged, dammit, he was a good pitcher and not a head case, that he could contribute, that he deserved to be part of this team.
I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me.
Clay chuckled and climbed onto the bed, spread out the reports and started reading.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
An hour later, his head was buzzing and his eyes were sore; he wasn't used to reading that much in one sitting. He sighed, dropping his head back, and rubbed at the back of his neck, wondering if he should get up and take a walk or just try to sleep. A sudden sharp knock at the door startled him out of his ruminations.
"Yeah?" he called. Must be Jason Varitek, ready to go over the reports. "Is that you, Tek?"
"Fuck, no!" came an all-too-familar voice. Clay leaped off the bed and wrenched the door open. "Jonny!" he cried.
"You rather have Tek?" Jon Lester asked, his eyes twinkling.
"Get your ass in here." Buchholz grabbed Lester by the arm, hauled him through the door, shoved him up against the wall and kissed him, hard. Jon kissed back, his hands twining in Clay's hair.
"Now THAT'S a proper greeting," Lester said as Buchholz finally came up for air and dropped his forehead to Jon's shoulder.
"Jonny," he whispered, and shuddered.
"Hey," Lester said. He pushed Buchholz back slightly and studied his face as Clay blinked hard. "I just miss you too much, or you gettin' better looking?"
Clay chuckled. "You're just tryin' to make me laugh."
"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" Lester smiled, then glanced at the bed. "You been studying?"
"Yeah, feels like my brain's leaking out my ears," Buchholz replied, following Lester's gaze as he looked over the scattered reports.
"There's such a thing as too much knowledge," Lester said, going over to the bed and starting to gather the papers. "Eventually, you just gotta trust your stuff."
"I know," Clay didn't know whether to feel grateful or irritated. The former, he decided, eyeing Jon's denim-clad ass as he bent over the bed. His cock, which had started hardening at just the sight of Jon standing outside his door, leaped to full attention. An involuntary groan slipped out, and he bit at a fingernail, too late to stifle it.
Jon froze, then turned his head. "You got something on your mind besides pitching, Buchholz?"
Clay opened his mouth, ready to match Jon's teasing tone, but found all he could do was nod dumbly. He'd gone past joking about sex, or the lack thereof, around a month ago. He was aching for it, starving for it, desperate to feel Jon's soft lips on his, his hand sliding between his legs, his cock.... oh God... he wanted it so bad it fucking hurt.
"Jon," he said, and the aching, pleading want in his voice almost made him cringe. He hoped to God he didn't sound as needy as he felt. It was downright embarrassing. He was a grown man, 24 years old, not some horny teenager.
Lester cocked his head at the sound, and Clay felt himself turning red. He opened his mouth to apologize, explain, but then stopped as Jon dropped the reports with a thud and turned completely around to face him.
"Clay," he said, and wrapped his arms around his teammate, sliding his hands down over Clay's ass. He squeezed, hard, and grinned. Clay grinned back.
"You want...?" Jon ventured.
"Oh, FUCK yeah," Clay replied, pushing his hips against Jon's. "I want, Jonny. I want so fuckin' bad I can't fuckin' stand it."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Lester said, yanking at Buchholz's belt buckle. Clay reached down to help. "You sure?" he asked.
"If you are," Lester replied. "You're the one pitching, not me."
"It's a night game," Buchholz said, and they both broke into laughter and yanked frantically at each other's clothes.
"Hold still, dammit," Jon said, pulling at Clay's shirt. "YOU hold still," Clay replied, his hands tangled inside Jon's jeans. They fell onto the bed together, the last, lonely sheet of paper lofting into the air and drifting slowly down to join its mates as two pairs of long legs, finally freed, thrashed and tangled together.
"OW!" Jon cried as Clay yanked his boxers off, his fingernails scraping sensitive skin. "Sor--" Clay started to reply, but was choked off as Jon dove on him, catching his lips with his own. He's gotten bigger, Buchholz thought as Lester flattened him, driving his tongue into his mouth, capturing his wrists, pressing them back onto the bed. Stronger. Almost as big as Beckett. Forget Beckett. Jon....
"Jonny," Clay managed to gasp out as Jon slid his tongue along Clay's jawbone, along his neck, up under his ear. He released Clay's wrists, grabbing again at his hair, and Clay wrapped his arms around Jon's shoulders and his legs around his hips. Jon moved his pelvis forward, almost imperceptively, and their cocks rubbed together. Buchholz almost climaxed on the spot. He felt 16 again, ready to explode at just a touch. He bit his lip, hard, and tried to calm himself.
Lester wasn't helping. He dropped his head to Buchholz's chest, circled his nipples with his tongue, then sucked, hard. Before Clay could react, he moved down, trailing his tongue along Clay's ribcage, then over his protruding hipbones, then perilously close to...
"Don't!"
"Why not?" Lester lifted his head, raising an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Buchholz's chest was heaving. "It's just... I... "
"Ah." The light dawned in Jon's eyes. "You'd rather..."
"God yes," Clay replied. Jon smiled, and Clay was forever grateful that it wasn't a mocking smile, nor even a teasing one, but one of perfect understanding. Lester got up, looked around the room and spotted Clay's bag. "Got some in there?"
Buchholz nodded. Jon reached into the bag, pulled out a bottle of lube and turned back to the bed, tossing it to his partner. "Help me out?"
"Always," Buchholz said, pouring the oil into the palm of his hand and reaching for Lester's cock as the lefty knelt between Clay's legs. Jon closed his eyes and licked his lips. "Mmmmm..." he said. "You got great hands."
"So I've heard," Buchholz said, tossing the bottle aside and sliding his hands behind Lester's ass briefly before lying back and spreading his legs wide. Lester looked down at him, then leaned forward and kissed him gently before lining up his cock and easing himself inside, slowly but surely.
"Oh, yeah, that's it. Oh GOD yeah," Buchholz arched his back, giving Lester better access, and reached down to Jon's ass, pulling him closer as his cock slid home. It felt so fucking good he could hardly stand it. He bit at Jon's shoulder, his entire body shuddering, as Jon's hips met his.
Lester paused, then pulled back and shoved again, building into a hard rythmn. He started to reach for Clay's cock, but Buchholz pushed his hand away, knowing he'd come in about two seconds if he was touched. "Just... keep.... fuck... hard..." he moaned, and Lester nodded, increasing his pace, feeling his own orgasm building deep down inside.
There, oh, there ... just... perfect... oh yes... Clay's eyes rolled back in his head as his cock spurted violently, semen spraying across his chest. Jon's hips snapped forward in one final, violent thrust as his body shook and their cries mingled.
Lester collapsed, ignoring the sweat and semen smeared across Buchholz's prone body, and they lay together, panting, their racing hearts gradually slowing. Finally, Jon slid off, nestled next to Clay, and rested his chin on Clay's shoulder. Buchholz didn't know whether to laugh or break into tears at the hauntingly familiar gesture.
"Guess you needed that, huh?" Jon asked.
That did it. Clay exploded into laughter "You could say that," he managed, as Jon guffawed, burying his face in Clay's neck.
"You're gonna pitch great tomorrow," Lester finally said, wiping his eyes.
"I hope so."
"I know so. Fucking great. Trust yourself."
And so he did.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A final round of handshakes in the clubhouse as the Red Sox prepared to go back to their Toronto hotel and Buchholz prepared to go back to Pawtucket. A grin and a wink from George, a secret smile from Jon, and Josh was picking up his bag and slinging it over his own shoulder. "I'll walk you out to your car," he said.
Clay gave the clubhouse a quick, final scan and sighed, then resolutely turned away and followed Beckett through the bowels of the Rogers Center, where a chauffer waited to take him to the airport.
"Hell of a job," Josh said.
Clay shrugged. "Wish I coulda gotten that last out," he said.
"Somethin' to work on," Beckett replied as they approached the car. He opened the back door, tossed Clay's bag inside, and enveloped the young pitcher in his arms. "See you soon," he said in Clay's ear.
"I hope so," Clay replied.
"I know so," Josh said, leaning over to give Buchholz a final wink and then slam the door. Clay waved as the car pulled away, then rested his left hand on top of his bag and felt something hard.
He unzipped the bag and found a large, unfamiliar round tin. Curious, he pulled it out, onto his lap, and opened it.
Baklava. Enough to feed an entire team. Buchholz laughed and shook his head. "See you soon," he whispered, and he knew it.