Cocky Batter

  COCKY BATTER

  Cocky Athlete: Book 1

  M/M Erotic Sports Romance

  Drake Rockford

  Published in United States

  by

  Risqué Books

  Copyright © 2019 Drake Rockford

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The content within is the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, real or fictional, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior express written permission by the author.

  www.drakerockford.com

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1: Cocky Rivalry

  Chapter 2: Locker Room Talk

  Chapter 3: No Strings Attached

  Chapter 4: Fraternizing With The Enemy

  Chapter 5: The Frat House

  Chapter 6: Pandora’s Box

  Chapter 7: A Curious Thing

  Chapter 8: Grab Him By The Balls

  Chapter 9: Foreplay

  Chapter 10: About Last Night

  Chapter 11: Heart to Heart

  Chapter 12: Date Night

  Chapter 13: The Performance

  Chapter 14: Taking One For The Team

  Chapter 15: The Morning After

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  Cocky Receiver

  Chapter 1: Cocky Rivalry

  Adrian Chambers was straight. Ramrod straight. He stood in the batter’s box so rigidly that the gruff reproof was inevitable. “Take that dildo out of your ass, Chambers. Loosen up!”

  It wasn’t his coach pestering him. Coach was over in the chalk box near first base, ready to guide his men home. He was probably also alternating between muttered prayers that Adrian wouldn’t screw up and curses against him if he did.

  No, the taunt had come from the rival catcher, trying with all his might to ruin Adrian’s concentration.

  Still, reflex made Adrian spread his legs and bend his knees as he planted his feet outside home plate. He thrust a hip to the side to perfect his batting profile, which had the unfortunate effect of pushing his ass into the air. It was an unusual stance, feet too wide and knees inflexible. Coach had admonished him for this choice many times, but this felt most comfortable. So long as he kept smacking home runs, Coach was satisfied.

  Of course, if Adrian lost them the game, he would get chewed out after and his stance would be blamed. Bases were loaded in the bottom of the ninth. His team waited in the precarious position of a two-run deficit for him to save the day. The silence in the bleachers was golden, a feeling he loved to bask in. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined being here, commanding such attention. Not long ago he had been a redshirt warming the bench. Though he’d been at the university for two years, he was a late bloomer to athletics. Now, he was in his junior year, a star player for the Temple Rams.

  He was a fucking natural. An unstoppable force preparing to deliver the final blow to his enemies with one, hard swing.

  And then nagging reality interrupted his dreams of glory.

  “Nice ass, Chambers. Been squatting on those dildos, I see.”

  “Shut up, Dale,” Adrian muttered loud enough for the catcher behind him to hear.

  Dale Smith had become his nemesis in one short season. He was a wise-cracking braggart whose macho attitude Adrian would usually chalk up to overcompensation for a lack of intelligence and skill. Or an undesirable appearance. The problem with that assessment was that it wasn’t true. Dale wasn’t dumb nor without athletic ability. He wasn’t even ugly. He’d had the luck to be born with stunning good looks. He was six-feet tall with crazy blue eyes, an angular face with high cheekbones, a narrow chin below full lips, cropped blond hair, and a chiseled physique that made girls swoon.

  He was annoying.

  For the past eight weeks, he had delighted in taunting Adrian, emasculating him by making not-so-ambiguous digs about his sexuality. Today he’d ramped it up tenfold. This was a deciding game and Dale seemed intent on stealing the win at any cost.

  Distracting the batter was not an unusual tactic for a catcher, but with Dale, it didn’t end on the field. Dale’s school was close enough that he would often drive three hours into the city to escape the boredom of his dinky college town. And every time, Dale sought Adrian out at the bar or at practice. On occasion, he even sneaked into the university athletic house to harangue him in the locker room.

  Whenever he saw Dale, Adrian groaned. But the animosity was an extended part of the game. Playing roles. Dale would catch his gaze from across a room and blow a kiss, and Adrian would respond by raising his middle finger. Dale would pantomime sucking it and laugh. Adrian would scowl. A few drinks later, they’d have the obligatory pissing contest—sometimes literally—in a display of athletic bravado.

  As much as he knew it was for show, something about Dale always got under Adrian’s skin. The irritation wasn’t restricted to his incessant babble on the diamond. Something else bothered him—maybe his cocky swagger whenever they bumped into each other, as if his balls hung low and swung heavy.

  “Chambers, your ass is fat! I can’t wait to split those cheeks and drive my Louie deep inside your five-hole.”

  “I’ll break your dick, Dale. Fuck off!”

  Dale doubled-down. “Bet you could, couldn’t you? All that muscle and adrenaline coursing through your veins. Even your ass is ripped! Probably snap my slugger in half with one clench.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “No worries. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Adrian cocked his head to the side. “What secret?” But he knew what was coming.

  “All that muscle, man. Guys packin’ on the inches like you’ve done are usually hiding some deep, dark secret. Juice, maybe?”

  Adrian rolled his eyes. This was a common presumption whenever someone bulked up to abnormal sizes like Stallone or Schwarzenegger. He’d heard it a hundred times.

  “Pure testosterone,” he drawled in exasperation. Joke or not, the accusation upset him still. “Pretty-boys like you don’t know much about that. Getting testosterone pumped up your nancy ass doesn’t count.”

  Dale snorted. “What are we, in high school? Sticks and stones!”

  “You started the shit,” Adrian shot back. Didn’t that fucker ever stop for breath? It felt like he’d been talking an eternity. But Adrian knew, in reality, Dale had been jabbering a mile-a-second, not minutes. The pitcher only had twenty or so seconds to throw the ball. Since the pitcher was still sizing him up, no more than fifteen seconds had passed, guessed Adrian.

  “Listen, I get it,” continued Dale. “You’re all natural. All that muscle, all that aggression. Bet nobody ever tries anything on you. Am I right or am I right?”

  “What the hell are you babbling about?” demanded Adrian in a controlled, low murmur. He refused to turn around, to take his eyes off the ball. It’d take only a second and that’s what Dale was aiming for. “Better yet, don’t tell me. Shut up.”

  Behind him, Adrian heard Dale scratching in the dirt. Likely signaling a play.

  “You’re all man, that’s for sure. What do the babes call you? Hulk, right?” Dale dropped the mocking tone and adopted one more amicable. “Think I overheard that a couple of times. Big-dicked Hulk. So,” he added casually, “What do the jocks call you when they got you bent over and banging you like a ten-cent whore? Bruce?”

  Adrian spun and lumbered a step toward Dale before he heard the ball swoosh and then saw it land in Dale’s mitt, scattering a tiny cloud
of dust.

  “Striiike!”

  Sonofabitch!

  The umpire motioned Adrian back to his spot and Dale raised his protective mask to flash his shit-eating grin.

  Adrian’s blood pressure spiked and his pulse jackhammered against his temple. That fucker had succeeded in distracting him. No more! Dale wouldn’t psyche him out. Not today. Not against this pitcher. The pitcher wasn’t some third division knob with poor strategy and weak follow-through. This was Speedy—the top pitcher in the Division II league. He’d led the Wolves to the World Series two years in a row and was betting on a third. No way was Adrian going to slump the bottom of the ninth because Dale disparaged him with that obnoxious talk about dildos and cocks invading his ass!

  Sliding his hands up the bat, Adrian adjusted his grip so he could rotate fast into the hitting zone. Choking up on the bat allowed him to prolong the stroke, giving him enough time to pinpoint where the ball would come and whether or not to swing. It also made it easier to guide the ball down the path he wanted.

  “I got a bat you can choke on,” whispered Dale. “But be careful. It spits.”

  “Keep talking and I’m gonna shove this bat up your ass,” growled Adrian. “No spit.”

  “Awe, poor Addy get angry,” teased Dale. “Whatya gonna do after you lose? Want me to come over and dry your tears? Make those big green eyes all happy again?”

  There! That was the shit that bugged him most. Worse than the crude innuendos and downright explicit barbs were the goo-goo-eye comments that dripped with unconcealed lust.

  Adrian almost fell for it again. He inhaled sharply and began to turn around to show Dale the level of disgust in his big green eyes. But he caught himself after the first involuntary twitch. With a deep breath he managed to keep focused on the pitcher. He flexed his batting arm and ground his heel into the dirt. His grip on the bat was firm, his muscles so taut that anyone close enough could see the strength in those arms ripple beneath his jersey. He rotated the bat a bit and moved into his loaded stance, anticipating the velocity and trajectory the baseball would likely follow.

  Speedy favored his fastball—with good reason. The power in his arm seemed enough to snap the bat in half if a batter was lucky enough to connect. Adrian still smarted from their last face-off where he had struck out on a curveball and slider combo. Now they were on the cusp of victory and all he had to do was bring his teammates home. A line drive to that goober in right field would score the win. But he was more concerned with building up enough force to knock the ball out of the park. To give his fans what they expected.

  More than the championship was on the line: Adrian’s bruised ego needed redemption.

  Speedy hadn’t played his best today, but his game was far from terrible. Not one player had been walked, not one homerun pitched. Both the Rams and the Wolves had waged a fierce battle, never letting the other team advance more than three points before halting the progress.

  Now Adrian found himself in this standoff with the championship weighing on his shoulders. His opponent still sized him up from the pitcher’s mound, his arm dangling deceptively at his side. Any moment now he would whip the ball at the plate, aiming for another strikeout.

  Adrian’s heart drummed against his rib cage and threatened to burst through. His breath came in the same short exhalations one made when rounding the finish of a marathon. Sweat trickled down and stung his eyes, partially blinding him.

  But he was ready.

  Speedy swung his hand in a winding motion as he raised one leg and hurled the ball toward home plate. It came fast and furious, catching Adrian off guard. He had expected a curve, and the arc of his swing went wide. Too wide.

  “Striiike two!” called the umpire.

  “Looks like you need some motivation,” goaded Dale. “How about we put your ass on the line? What say you to a little wager? Well, not so little in my case. But I bet you can handle it.”

  “Fuck. Off,” growled Adrian. But he didn’t break his concentration on the pitcher.

  Dale continued with nary a pause. “You look like a fairly hung dude, am I right? Big dick and all that jazz. Well, I happen to like big dicks. But I love a juicy ass more. So I tell you what: If I lose, you can go all beast-mode on me and smash me a new asshole. If you lose, I get to burst that sweet cherry of yours. Fair, yeah?”

  Adrian grunted but otherwise ignored him.

  Dale was undeterred. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Fuck it. Okay, Dale.”

  “Okay?” echoed Dale, unable to mask his surprise and confusion. “Okay, what?”

  “Bet,” said Adrian. “No dumb pretend wager to psyche me out. A real bet, with real stakes.”

  “Go on,” he replied with a skeptic tone. “I’m listening.”

  “Simple: loser gets the winning team plastered. All we can eat and drink, no cap.”

  Dale harrumphed but said nothing.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” demanded Adrian. “I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”

  “You’re on. But fair score: Loser chooses the bar.”

  Adrian grunted approval and got comfortable in his stance. “No gay bars, homo.”

  “No stank ass strip clubs, breeder.”

  “Got it,” agreed Adrian. “No homos, no hoes.”

  No turning back. This was gonna be a hell of an upset for one of them. The stakes were high for both teams. It was the final game of the season in more ways than one. Not only would it decide who would be regional champion and enter the College World Series; it would also be the final game Haverford University played against Temple as part of the NCAA. For the Temple Rams, a win now would end a depressing four-year slump. For the Wolves, it was their chance for one last hoorah; to go out in a blaze of glory. And it was the pitcher’s chance to go down as the only one to lead the Haverford Wolves to three consecutive World Series wins.

  Behind him, Adrian heard Dale scratching in the dirt again.

  “Pay up today, after the game,” Adrian barked. “Hope you brought Daddy’s cash with you.”

  “I’ve got plenty,” said Dale with a hint of smugness. “You’ll be the one breaking Ms. Piggy. Is six good for you?”

  Adrian glanced over his shoulder. “That all you got? Six measly inches? My hamster has a bigger dick than you.”

  Dale’s Colgate-white grin faltered and Adrian’s confidence soared. It was a low-blow, an unspoken rule that disparaging real emotions was off-limits, yet it did the job. He knew Dale meant six o’clock, but Dale had made the mistake of dropping the adversarial, sarcastic tone to inject sincerity into his voice. Sincerity was like kryptonite to an athlete.

  Sincerity and hope.

  Dale recovered in a split second, but the damage was done. His return barb was weak, and so was the cue he gave the pitcher.

  Adrian honed in on the ball as it left his opponent’s hand and flew toward him. Leveling his bat, he swung with all his might. The bat connected with a crack and the ball flew high and far, rushing toward the suddenly standing crowd. Time crawled. The outfielders dashed away in seemingly slow motion, trying to position themselves beneath the ball so that it landed in their worn mitts.

  But it kept going. Past the wall and into the bleachers filled with excited fans.

  Adrian had hit a grand slam!

  Joyous cries thundered in his ears as he began his trek around the diamond. He followed the unrushed gait of the runners ahead of him, basking in the shouted accolades from his compatriots. His teammates rushed him no sooner had he crossed home plate, jostling him from one congratulatory hug to another, mussing up his hair and smacking his butt hard enough to sting.

  The intoxicating thrill of victory made his skin tingle. While losing made him angry, winning always made him feel powerful, as if he could grasp the world in his fingertips and twirl it. He felt invincible. It was the same sensation he got after a particularly grueling workout. He felt like a new man. And that always made him horny.

  The applause continued
while the Wolves and Rams conferred goodwill upon each other before heading off to separate showers. But as the players trudged off the field he stayed behind, pumping his fist and swinging his bat, putting on a show for the fans and enjoying the pulsing sensation of his cock becoming engorged and thick and as stiff as the bat in his hand. He wanted to jerk off.

  Adrian basked so long that the spectators were shuffling out of the stands when he finally came down from the clouds. His cock still throbbed achingly inside his protective cup and threatened to burst through. So he waited for his arousal to wane. The last thing he wanted was to walk into the showers sporting a chubby. Or worse, for Dale to catch a glimpse of his bulging package.

  Dale’s teammates had completed the customary hand wrangling and begrudging praise and had left the field to lick their wounds. Yet Dale remained, laughing and glad-handing the opposition as if he had won the game. He seemed to have more friends on Adrian’s team than Adrian himself. Sometimes that irked him; but right now, watching him high five and slap his teammates’ asses, he felt a reluctant surge of admiration. Dale never let victory or loss define him. He was more concerned with sportsmanship than winning. Everyone liked him.

  Even me thought Adrian. And immediately wondered why that troubled him.

  Finally, his swollen bulge shrank and nestled itself in his cup once more. Adrian entered the dugout to find Dale waiting at the locker room entrance.

  “Congrats,” Dale greeted sheepishly. ”We lost.”

  Adrian clapped him on the back and grinned. “That aw-shucks shit won’t save your ass tonight, buddy. A deal’s a deal. I hope you’re ready because I’m raring to go long and hard! Is ten good for you?”

  This time Dale didn’t miss a beat. His comeback was like his same-old, self-assured, cocky self. “Twelve is better, but ten will do. And I do mean inches.”

  Adrian tried but couldn’t smother his laugh. The balls on this dude! If Dale wasn’t such a needy pissant always clamoring for the spotlight, Adrian might have considered him cool. He was better at sports than Adrian’s friends and he always seemed totally at ease outside his comfort zone. Plus, he was fearless being the only gay guy on the team of a conservative college. Even though his own teammates treated him like a leper, Dale never let it stop him from having a good time.