
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/292067.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Baseball_RPF, Sports_RPF
  Relationship:
      Tim_Lincecum/Barry_Zito
  Character:
      Tim_Lincecum, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time
  Series:
      Part 32 of High_Heat
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-11 Words: 3388
****** 32: Playing the Field ******
by light_source
Summary
     Tim thinks back, remembering his first loves.
In the dark entryway of the apartment he&#x2019;s rented for spring training,
Tim gropes for the light-switch and comes up empty. Suddenly something clutches
at the toe of his shoe and sends him sprawling into the living room, smacking
him up against the back of the couch.
That thing he tripped over, soft and heavy as a dead body, turns out to be his
gym bag. Right. He&#x2019;d dropped it just inside the entryway before going up
to Zito&#x2019;s.
He flips himself easily over onto the bed of the sofa. It doesn't count as a
fall if you planned it, he reminds himself, so call it before you hit the
ground. &#xA0;He&#x2019;s relieved that his body, the only thing he entirely
trusts, is still keeping him whole.
As his heart settles down, he thinks back to what he&#x2019;d remembered coming
down the hill from Zito&#x2019;s, the driveway gate bloody in his taillights.
//
The first girl he&#x2019;d liked had been Jen Lefferts in eighth grade, Jen
with hair blonde on top from being out in the summer sun and a little darker
underneath, like her eyebrows. Jen who could beat anyone except him at
tetherball. In social-studies homeroom Tim&#x2019;d sent Jen a note asking her
to co-rec night on Friday, with boxes for &#x2018;yes&#x2019; or &#x2018;no.
&#x2018;
The note changed hands across the third row, from Sammer to Ryan and Chip and
then over to Evangeline, who&#x2019;d rolled her black-rimmed Goth eyes.
Then for a long time, the note&#x2019;d just sat there on Jen&#x2019;s desk,
still folded, everyone watching.
When Ms. Heilman-Wright turned to write on the board, Jen curled her thumb and
middle finger together and flicked Tim&#x2019;s unopened note onto the floor.
Like she was playing marbles.
Later, between classes, he&#x2019;d stopped at her locker and blurted out her
name, his voice cracking treble.
She&#x2019;d been flanked by her posse. All taller than him, these girls with
their smeary Courtney Love eyes and skinny sweaters with sleeves halfway down
their hands. They looked him up and down as though he were an outfit they
wouldn&#x2019;t be seen dead in.
So when Ben Sebast came dragging ass around the corner with Cowan and Haseley,
Tim had just pretended he&#x2019;d said &#x2018;Ben&#x2019; instead of 'Jen.'
&#xA0;Ben&#x2019;s hoodie was hanging off his arm and his bottom lip was fat
and bloody - probably got it from Freddy Espinosa again, out by the tennis
courts. Tim&#x2019;d faded back into his own posse, on their way to seventh-
period P.E. and then practice, seething with outrage and bootless threats of
revenge against Freddy.
Let the girls stand there looking stupid for a change.
//
One day in the kitchen, when his mom had been trying to explain sex without
actually saying the words, she&#x2019;d told him and his brother that
&#x2018;high school is a time when you should play the field.&#x2019;
The amazing thing about his mother was how she was almost always right, in
spite of being a mom and therefore clueless. And she was right about this: the
playing field, whether it was the greasy-wet grass of the gridiron or the sandy
muck of the infield, was where Tim came to life. Even when it wasn&#x2019;t
technically a field at all but the hoops court.
The thing about sports, Tim knew, was that even the unwritten rules could be
figured out if you kept your eyes open and your mouth shut.
Sean had scoffed. &#x2018;Playing the field&#x2019; didn&#x2019;t mean sports,
he'd said; it was just an expression for dating a lot of different girls.
But Tim knew better than to ask his mom about it. &#xA0;She&#x2019;d already
dragged them throughwhen a man and a woman love each other very much three
times, four if you count that time in the car. Asking was sure to bring another
version of the lecture back down on their heads, excruciating in so many ways,
not the least because he and Sean had already heard all the dirtier, more
interesting versions from their friends. If his mom knew what they knew,
he&#x2019;d figured, she&#x2019;d probably walk out and never come back.
//
Tim had been five feet nothing since sixth grade, and by the time high school
rolled around, even the girls were taller than he was, plus they could wear
heels. It was so wrong.
On the field, though, no one cared. His arm, his speed, and his moves entitled
him to play quarterback in football, point guard in basketball, and starting
pitcher in baseball; on the field he was equal. Fucking Edward Scissorhands
could've quarterbacked for the Liberty Patriots, Tim reflects, as long as
he&#x2019;d been able to scramble and throw long. And Tim&#x2019;s nickname,
&#x2018;Scum,&#x2019; suggested that he&#x2019;d managed to command a kind of
grudging respect. It meant he was good enough to be dirty, and for Tim dirty
was almost as good as dangerous.
Eventually, though, Tim&#x2019; s talent had raised the hackles of Les Haywood,
six-four and two-forty-five but too stupid even as a senior to play anything
but nose tackle. Haywood&#x2019;d started waiting for Lincecum by the schoolbus
service road, with three or four other guys from the line whose cheekbones were
already blunted from too many rough takedowns. They&#x2019;d hang around until
dusk, when everybody&#x2019;d gone home for the day and the only people around
were the janitors smoking in the break room. Then they&#x2019;d ambush Tim,
hauling on him by halves with the aim of dislocating his arm or at least
wrenching his shoulder.
The worst - his gut twinges just thinking about it - was the time Les and two
of his friends&#x2019;d held him down, grinding his head into the pavement,
telling him how they were gonna break his fingers one at a time. They&#x2019;d
backed off only when Mr. Eisenberg, the AP chemistry teacher, had emerged
suddenly from the pavilion door. At first Tim couldn&#x2019;t see what was
happening, but as soon as he&#x2019;d felt the weight lifting off his chest as
the guys swerved up and away from him, he&#x2019;d heard Mr. Eisenberg shouting
what the fuck do you think you&#x2019;re doing?
Les and them had scattered into the dark like rats, leaving Tim on the ground
spitting blood and saliva and knuckling his right eye where it was already
swelling up. Mr. Eisenberg had just stood there with his briefcase in one hand
and his KCTS tote bag in the other, his face contorted, staring at Tim like
he&#x2019;d been the one who'd started it.
At least he hadn&#x2019;t offered Tim a hand up.
Tim had been so amazed to hearfuck coming out of a teacher&#x2019;s mouth that
he&#x2019;d been speechless. Swabbing his nose and cheek with his sleeve,
he&#x2019;d just scrambled to his feet, grabbing his backpack from where
he&#x2019;d dropped it against the bent-pipe base of the bleachers, and gone
home.
There was an upside to all this, if you&#x2019;re crazy enough to think that
way. In sophomore year he&#x2019;d knocked almost two seconds off his hundred-
meter dash time, running from those guys. He&#x2019;d learned to combine a
running start with halfback-style 180s and feints and hurdle splits because
those make you slippery. It was like football - keep your chin down and your
elbows tucked.
For the worst days - like the afternoon Les got cut from varsity after he got
arrested for DUI - Tim had worked out an alternate route home from school
involving an eight-foot chain-link fence. After he&#x2019;d taught himself to
vault the fence in a flip worthy of David Hasselhoff, he loved how amazing it
felt, like looping the loop on the swings in elementary school.
That day he&#x2019;d finally had to use it, it was only when he&#x2019;d
finally lost the slow and clumsy Les back at the creekbed, screaming threats,
that he&#x2019;d looked down at his hands, cut raw and bloody by the burred
aluminum links.
//
When people play that gamewhat super power would you most like to have?, Tim
never says invisibility because he&#x2019;s been there already and has no
desire to go back. He&#x2019;s pretty sure no one would choose it if
they&#x2019;d ever experienced it. Like being a ghost at your own funeral, he
thinks, and wanting to grab people by their shoulders and shoutlook at me
I&#x2019;m still here. The worst invisibility had been with girls;
they&#x2019;d looked around him and over him and beyond him and everywhere but
at him. &#xA0;Except when they did, and then they giggled and looked crosswise
at their friends. Which was worse.
Junior year&#x2019;d been magic, though, like what happened to Alice in
Wonderland when she found the cake witheat me written on it in currants. Tim
had shot up eight inches, growing so fast that his dad had joked he could hear
Tim&#x2019;s clothes rustling as his bones stretched.
Nothing had changed on the inside - he was the same Tim - but at school it was
like he was finally there.
One evening in May, when was using nail scissors to snip the sewn-on size tags
off two pairs of 30/34 Levi&#x2019;s, Chris Ebner had called with major news:
both Amanda and Allison had said yes as long as they all went, all four of
them, all together. And Chris had the Explorer, his dad&#x2019;d said; the only
thing was they had to be back by midnight.
//
That first time with Allison was a little like starting swimming lessons when
he was eight. His mom had dropped him off, and he was sitting by himself with
his towel behind the yellow&#xA0;W A L K&#xA0; line of the pool deck at Henry
Moses. He was waiting, waiting for the guy in the red shorts to blow the
whistle like Sean said, but it never happened, and after that nothing turned
out the way it was supposed to.
//
He&#x2019;s amazed at how casually Allison takes the joint between her thumb
and finger and sucks down a long hit, not coughing, not even clearing her
throat. Then, her voice tight around the lungful of smoke, she giggles a little
and hands the jay to Chris, smiling without opening her lips.
It&#x2019;s quiet out here by the lake, by this rocky outcropping he and Chris
have been coming to since they were small. Their families used to picnic here
together, the grownups lounging around the picnic table, drinking Olys and
waving the hornets off the macaroni salad while the kids collected tadpoles in
mayonnaise jars.
Allison&#x2019;s got long shiny straight hair, kind of striped, Tim thinks,
although he&#x2019;s sure that&#x2019;s not how you&#x2019;re supposed to
describe it. She&#x2019;s wearing a sweater made out of some kind of filmy
stuff that lets pieces of her skin show through, boots that bag around her
ankles, and a scarf that looks like some wild animal&#x2019;s wet tail.
She&#x2019;s crunching on an Altoid and then tipping her head back to tincture
her eyes with Visine from her purse - &#x2018;dope eyes,&#x2019; she says
disparagingly - as the two of them settle back in the hollow of the big rock
looking out at the lake.
When Chris and Amanda saunter off towards the parking area in pursuit of the
bathrooms, it&#x2019;s Allison who finally turns to him, her face bright and
expectant in the moonlight. She tips her head a little so the edge of her
cheekbone grabs the light, and then she slides the fingers of one hand around
his neck, behind his ear.
When their mouths meet it feels formal, ceremonial; her lips are dry and cool
and only hint at what has to be beyond them, the empty mystery of her mouth.
It&#x2019;s almost the way it feels to kiss someone in your family, just
closer, thinks Tim, tilloh wait, it isn&#x2019;t. She&#x2019;s taken his upper
lip between hers and now both of their mouths are open, and he feels the tip of
her tongue on the corner of his, the taste of Altoids and dope smoke.
He hadn&#x2019;t expected her to be so close - her hair&#x2019;s amazing, as
slippery as the satin edging on a blanket, and her skin is warm and pink-
smelling, like baby powder. Her hands are bonier and weirdly more like claws
than he&#x2019;d expected, her charm bracelet winking next to his eye as she
forks her fingers through his hair, pulling him towards her. Then he hears a
sound in her throat, a sound that takes him by surprise because he&#x2019;s
still all what the fuck is this waiting for the wave that&#x2019;s supposed to
overtake him. When she takes his hand, big in her small one, and cups it around
her breast, it&#x2019;s so weird for something to be there, and that bony thing
around the bottom, he can&#x2019;t figure.
So he does what he knows works: he mirrors her moves, staying with her as she
twists against him, her rainbow-painted nails alarming his bare skin,
memorizing what someday he hopes he&#x2019;ll know by heart.
//
Later, as they gun back through the empty streets of Renton, chasing curfew,
Tim wonders how the evening&#x2019;s gone. Allison and Amanda are in the back
seat, talking behind their hands and curtains of hair, their voices blotted out
by the angry noise of &#x2018;Smells Like Teen Spirit&#x2019; on the radio.
Chris&#x2019;s face is split by a cocky grin as he speeds through the night-
time blinking yellows, his splayed fingers slapping time on the center console.
This is it, thinks Tim.
//
He should probably tell Brandon about it, Brandon who&#x2019;s known him the
longest. But the new Madden NFL&#x2019;s too complicated to talk during, and
Madden&#x2019;s all the two of them have time for these days. The new graphics
are much better - it&#x2019;s freaky good, Tim agrees, the guys have shadows
and everything and you can practically see their jerseys rippling. Even the
tails on the coin toss look so much like real life that, when they play, Tim
feels his legs twitching, wanting to move.
Brandon and Tim have been playing Madden since elementary school, but now that
they&#x2019;re in high school the gaming window has shrunk. Tim&#x2019;s after-
school hours are jammed with practices and weight-training and Brandon&#x2019;s
been caddying afternoons at Meridian Valley to pay for his lessons and greens
fees. &#xA0;
But still.&#xA0;The rainy afternoon Brandon texts him U MADN? Tim doesn't even
bother to text back; he's already there. At Brandon&#x2019;s, four houses down
from the Lincecums&#x2019;, the PlayStation&#x2019;s in the basement so they
can make as much noise as they want, and Sean isn&#x2019;t there to butt in.
Tim and Brandon still don&#x2019;t really get what&#x2019;s involved in
franchise mode - Sean does - but it&#x2019;s OK; Madden&#x2019;s plenty
complicated already. Tim&#x2019;s figured out how to maximize the running game,
playing Denver against Brandon&#x2019;s Green Bay, and he&#x2019;s gotten
pretty good at deflecting the up-the-middle passes that Brandon doesn&#x2019;t
seem to realize aren&#x2019;t working.
When one of Tim's defensive backs picks off a particularly lame Green Bay
screen pass and runs it all the way back to the Packers' twenty-three, Brandon
straight-arms Tim and Tim shoves back harder and then Tim reaches over and
slaps the gamepad right out of Brandon&#x2019;s hands.
As it clatters to the floor Brandon seizes Tim by the shoulders, flips him over
on his back and pins him to the couch, half-on, half-off, squirming.
In the background, Pat Summerall&#x2019;s voice calling the turnover and the
bark of Madden&#x2019;s voice praising the Denver defense are probably the
thing that pushes Brandon over the edge.
- Eat shit and die, Brandon, howls Tim, - you heard the man. That was fucking
brilliant. Fucking inspired.
- Motherfucker! Brandon screams, - you little motherfucker, I&#x2019;m gonna
kill you.
The fact that Tim&#x2019;s laughing just makes Brandon more furious, and he
slams Tim&#x2019;s shoulders a second time back against the cushions, exploding
the small bag of Fritos they&#x2019;d left there, salty dust puffing up around
Tim&#x2019;s shoulders as the chips crackle out of the bag and onto the floor.
Brandon&#x2019;s foot slaps his Pepsi over onto the carpet, where it leaks
brown fizz.
- OK, OK, says Tim, - get offa me.
Tears from laughing too hard have coursed down the side of Tim's face and are
dribbling into his ears. But Brandon&#x2019;s suddenly got this strange
expression on his face, and for a moment Tim thinks he&#x2019;s mad for real.
- You can&#x2019;t really be mad, B, says Tim. - It&#x2019;s just a
fuckin&#x2019; game.
- No, says Brandon, his face slack, his eyes unblinking, fixed on Tim&#x2019;s.
- No.
Brandon lowers himself slowly, as though he&#x2019;s doing a pushup, till his
face is right in front of Tim&#x2019;s, and then he turns a little, as though
he&#x2019;s looking over Tim&#x2019;s shoulder, and their lips are touching,
Brandon&#x2019;s breath warm on Tim&#x2019;s face. &#xA0;
Just touching, Tim thinks, - you couldn&#x2019;t call it kissing, it&#x2019;s
touching.
Tim&#x2019;s closed his eyes, feeling it, and he&#x2019;s afraid to open them,
because if they look at each other they&#x2019;ll have to stop.
They&#x2019;re so not supposed to be doing this.
But they are, and when Brandon lowers himself down, relaxing his weight onto
Tim, he pushes up a little on his elbows so he can smooth Tim&#x2019;s hair
back, one thumb on Tim&#x2019;s cheekbone next to his eye. This time
it&#x2019;s quite a bit more than touching when their mouths meet, and Tim
feels his own mouth opening as Brandon&#x2019;s tongue pushes into him, taking
him, warm and wet.
It feels so good that Tim can&#x2019;t believe they&#x2019;re just now doing
this - whatever it is - he can't believe they neverthoughtof this before.
Then his own tongue meets Brandon&#x2019;s and they&#x2019;re inside each
other's mouths, tasting, and Tim can't stay still, he's going crazy.
Brandon&#x2019;s grinding his crotch hard against his leg, right near the
stiffie that&#x2019;s already swelling hard in Tim&#x2019;s boxers.
Tim&#x2019;s trapped here, with Brandon&#x2019;s weight pressing him
breathless. &#xA0;But somehow it seems strangely right, Tim thinks dimly, his
own hips thrusting against Brandon&#x2019;s as he works one hand loose so that
he can slip it under the back of Brandon&#x2019;s jeans and down the crack of
his ass.
Tim&#x2019;s hand grabbing his ass cheek makes Brandon start and groan into
Tim&#x2019;s mouth and thrash sideways, and that's so hot that all Tim can
think about is doing it again. So he does, and he keeps doing it till
Brandon&#x2019;s dick finds the groove of his thigh, against his own hard-on,
and their hips start to move sideways and slantwise in rhythm as though this is
nothing and everything all mixed together perfect.
Tim doesn&#x2019;t know what&#x2019;s making him hotter - Brandon&#x2019;s
tongue in his mouth, licking into him like a language, or the sweet weight of
all of him and those hips moving against him, but when Tim comes, hot and hard
and messy in his shorts, he blanks out for a minute, his eyes still clamped
shut because he doesn&#x2019;t want to lose it.
It takes some resolve to open his eyes.
Brandon&#x2019;s got those big hazel eyes, kinda close-set, with dark straight
eyelashes. &#xA0;But he doesn't look at Tim; &#xA0;he eases himself into the
crease between the seat cushions and the couch back and focuses his eyes on the
console.
- The Ravens got Green Bay beat on defense, Brandon says in that voice that
still has a tinge of his childhood rasp, - but they got some good guys on
offense too, Heap and McGahee and maybe Clayton.
Tim looks up at him. His arms finally liberated, he reaches down to palm
Brandon&#x2019;s dick; it&#x2019;s still hard and heavy as a stick through his
jeans, and Tim loves the way Brandon gulps a little when he starts to stroke
it, his eyes closing and his mouth slackening. By the time Brandon comes,
gasping and thrashing, Tim&#x2019;s already half-hard again.
Then Brandon sighs like he's really tired and really happy, and he leans over
to kiss Tim again, soft this time, like a question. &#xA0;When their eyes
finally meet Tim can&#x2019;t believe he hasn&#x2019;t noticed it before, but
those eyes are the same as his eyes, just in a Brandon sort of way.
And suddenly it makes sense, Tim thinks, like when your dad lets go of the bike
seat and you realize you never really needed him at all.&#xA0;&#xA0;
Nobody needs directions to find their way home, he reflects, burying his face
in Brandon's warm boy-smelling neck, as long as they know it's still there.
&#xA0;
&#xA0;
&#xA0;
&#xA0;
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