I
The ball shot in high arc, zipped over the sunlit field, and double-tapped the trimmed grass. Swift as an acrobat, the left fielder snatched and threw the ball.
Ivan slid back onto first base.
Colt turned his face to golden-haired, gay Wesley and to khaki-haired, bi Kyle. "He slammed the ball toward left field," Colt said suggestively. "I guess he wants to score with you dudes."
"Our third baseman's not interested in their butts, like you are," Felipe said.
"Then, why did he almost tear that ball to tatters?" Colt challenged.
"What kind of a nutty question is that?" Felipe said, about to slug the spike-haired dark blond across the queers. "Ivan hit the ball because he wants our team to win."
"No!" Colt yipped, swinging a headshake. "Ivan wants to get enough of us on those bases so that Wesley can strike out and give Ivan and the rest of us an excuse to fuck Wesley."
Jason huffed and pushed his back away from the wall on the home plate side of the dugout. He zigged his fingers through his fine, short hair of honey-brown. Why, Jason wondered, couldn't his university allow a gay or bi baseball team? Then, fags like Wesley and Kyle would leave that league and stop inciting straight athletes like Colt and Felipe. Sure, the clubbings of the early 2020s had necessitated the banning of queer teams. But the hostility between straights and nonstraights had petered out considerably in the five years since then. Furthermore, several state universities had begun to re-implement bi sports leagues at the behest of proud, bisexual athletes. Why couldn't North Carolina do the same?
The
Bobcat
shortstop stepped safely onto first base.
"Whoo-hoo!" everyone but Jason yelled.
The husky coach with short, curly hair turned to Wesley from above the dugout. "You'll soon be next in line, Wes."
"Hit a home run, and my cock is yours," Colt said. He grasped his crotch to the delight of the capless players around him. "Strike out, and your ass is mine." He cuffed the blond's tight butt.
Wesley smiled humbly; his incisors showed with the whiteness of toothpaste; and he hopped the two steps to the field.
"By the way, we lose the game, and your ass is mine, too," Colt added, turning to Kyle, the pitcher. "What do you say, Felipe?"
Felipe was slouched on the wooden bench. "Count me in."
In righteous disgust, Jason scrunched his somewhat diamond face. "Why the
fuck
do you have to joke like that?"
"Don't worry," Colt said. "I'm sure Kyle will lend you a piece of his ass."
"Bastard!" Jason bawled, storming toward Colt.
Three athletes scrambled toward Jason. They bent under him in their taut, white pants with vertical, black stripes and restrained Jason's arms.
Jason struggled to shake himself free.
The fiftyish coach rushed below to pull apart the tight pack of guys. "What the hell is going on here?"
Jason grumped, "This jerk keeps playing sexual games here, instead of where they're meant to be played."
"Like in the locker room?" Colt said.
"I'll kill you!" Jason exploded, lunging at Colt.
The coach and the three collegians tried to hold Jason back.
The sophomore's resentment, however, had been building for weeks. Yowling like a caged leopard, Jason nudged two teammates to the ground—including Phil, his buddy.
Kyle yanked Colt away from the bench. At last, the coach was able to rein Jason's arms.
"Tell him to stay the
hell
away from me," Jason said.
"Come with me," Coach Wagner said. The man with salt-and-pepper hair gently took Jason by the arm. The coach towed Jason away from the other players and motioned for him to sit.
Jason sucked his teeth in a fret, and his duff rattled the wooden bench.
"Why does Colt's banter trouble you so much?" the coach said. "He's only doing what most athletes do at times like these."
Jason stared ahead in oblivion, and he slumped his legs off the bench.
A gust of wind blew upon Jason's face like a wad of feathers.
Something about the air's smell of grass and salt made Jason uneasy. The spring breeze—blended with the cavorting of the players—brought Jason to the verge of panic.
"Just look at the situation out there," Coach Wagner continued. "Full count. Two outs. Bases loaded. 9
th
inning." He raised Jason's mildly dimpled chin.
Was the coach queer, too? Jason wondered.
"Colt's just trying to calm his nerves," Coach Wagner said. "Not that I don't sympathize with where you're coming from, and I promise that after the game, I'll have a serious talk with Colt and the rest of the team."
Wesley hit the ball.
"Alright!" Felipe said.
The left fielder hustled to catch what had eluded the central fielder's reach.
"Run, Wesley! Run!" Felipe yelled.
The ball, however, landed on the left fielder's glove, ending the game at 6 to 10 in the opposing team's favor.
The rival league's 3,000 fans cheered from the bleachers. Except for Jason, the visiting athletes cussed. Defeated, the former batters walked back to the dugout.
Seldom had Wesley flunked such a crucial part of the game. Even with the odds against his team, he would joyfully slug the ball past the opposing players' reach—landing a hit, at least! Now, by contrast, Wesley lowered his round chin and tumescent nose and bounced into the dugout.
The team, Jason concluded, was falling apart.
II
The athletes stormed into the locker room and chucked their dark-blue baseball caps—save for Phil, who had a habit of keeping his on. The caps hit the floor and sounded like a swarm of wet Frisbees.
Colt flumped onto the bench that was staked between the two rows of lockers.
The aqua cushion ruffled softly.
"I can't believe we lost," Colt said.
"I can't believe we scored six runs!" Coach Wagner countered. Stern avuncularity emanated from his voice. His dark eyes of glass expressed disappointment. "I mean, half of you were making out in the dugout, while the other half was sweating blood trying to even the score in the last inning."
Seven athletes watched the coach with dismay. These included Wesley, Colt, and Felipe, who were sitting left-to-right on the bench. For some reason, however, Phil stared petulantly at the tall, green lockers of metal.
