| Pose by destiny "Dammit!" Pitcher Lance Bass cried out in pain as the fast ball was returned, striking his wrist with a sickening crack. He fell to the soft mound of dirt, searching for the fucking ball, wondering where the hell it was so he could get that motherfucker out at first. He spied it to his left and pushed the pain back, grabbing it and lobbing it over the best he could. He rolled onto his stomach in agony and wrapped his left hand over his right wrist, catching a glimpse of the firstbaseman, Justin Timberlake, tagging the runner out. His eyes closed, and his hat fell off his head, the roar from the crowd drowning out the tortureous throb that cascaded through his body. In minutes, the trainer was on the field, and third baseman Joey Fatone was at the mound, along with Justin, and the catcher, Josh Chasez. Lance turned onto his back, slowly, each move excruciating. For a tiny bone such as a wrist, it was reeking havoc in his body. "Man, you all right?" Joey asked, kneeling down. Lance moaned, letting the trainer look at it. "It's broken," he said immediately, pulling the sprint from his bag and gently placing Lance's wrist in it. "Come on, help him up," he said to Justin and Joey. "He needs x-rays." The crowd cheered as Lance stumbled to his feet. He glanced at the scoreboard, pissed that he'd been having a no hitter, a fucking no hitter in the bottem of the eighth. Josh looked at him, shaking his head, knowing just what he was thinking. They'd played together in the minors and knew each other well. 'It's okay," he whispered, seeing the anguish in those lucid green eyes. "You'll get 'em next time." Lance scowled anyway, mostly because it made him feel better. He was supposed to start later in the week against the Yankees, a rematch he'd counted on. He himself wanted to nail Jeter, fucking crowned prince of the team, a batter everyone wanted a shot at. He shook his head as Justin and Joey helped him from the field. *************************************************************************************************************************** Lance sat in the darkness, nursing a vodka straight up. His wrist was cast, and he was depressed, the soft hum of the radio announcing the starting line up. He wasn't there, couldn't manage to drag his ass out of his apartment to join the team in NY. Josh had called, dozens of times, begging Lance to make the trip. Chris Kirkpatrick, the team's home run leader, had sent a stripper gram to cheer him, and Justin had visited numerous times, each time bringing a cheer up gift. Lance stared at the latest one, a Playstation sitting at the foot of his bed, unopened. Not that he didn't appreciate the thought, but he was loosing the season, quickly. The cast had to be on for at least four weeks, and then six weeks of therapy, and fuck, that was just about the end of the season. He heard the screams of the NY crowd as the Yanks took the field, and topped off his glass, feeling truly sorry for himself. His phone rang, and he ignored it, not wanting to hear anymore voices trying in desperation to cheer him up. He wanted to wallow, and dammit, he was going to. "Mr. Bass, this is Lindsay Fenner with Playgirl magazine. I was hoping to get a moment of your time. We'd like to talk with you about possibly posing for our magazine. If you could call me at your earliest convenience, I'd appreciate it. My number is...." Lance reached for the phone, curiously. "Hey, this is Lance," he said lowly. "Talk to me." He was in no mood for niceties, and not even his sticky sweet southern charm would escape his bitterness now. Playgirl? Fuck it. They wanted him, he'd let em have it. The deal was set, and Lance didn't think twice about it. He was drunk, and angry, and frustrated, and maybe if he was sober, he would have shrugged the offer up. The money was incredible, however, and so was the vodka, leaving him in a state of limbo for the time being. The papers were being faxed, his drunkeness was lulling him to sleep, and the game was tied at 2. He woke with a start, in the middle of the night, the radio now playing the musak version of Endless Love. He rolled out of bed, scratching his head, the blonde spikes flattened and an angry red fold graced his cheek, courtesy of his pillow seam. He headed for the bathroom, and avoided the mirror. He knew he looked like shit, he knew he was drinking way too much, he fucking knew it all. Vaguely, he recalled talking to some woman on the phone about a photo shoot, but his mind was muddled from the vodka, and the pieces wouldn't fit, not now in the midst of the night. He climbed back to bed, pulling the covers up tightly, wondering why God had decided to punish him. He really wanted to strike Jeter out, put the asshole down a couple notches. The sun showed no mercy as it tumbled into his bedroom, locking eyes with him, forcing him awake. Lance heard the knocking on his door, and squinted at the clock. "Christ," he hissed, seeing the red digits flash eleven. Kicking the covers off, he grabbed his robe, unwilling to let his intruding visitor see the morning hard on he had. "Coming!" he yelled, as the knocks grew louder. He disabled the alarm and peeked through the hole. Fucking Emery Express standing there, with some envelope. Lance pulled the door open. "Delivery for Bass," the guy said, handing him a pen. Lance scribbled his name and shut the door, heading back to bed. He sat cross legged in the middle, flipping on ESPN for the scores. He ripped at the envelope using his teeth and pulled the contracts out. "Fuck me," he whispered, looking them over, running his hand through his hair. Oh, he'd done it. Agreed to pose for Playgirl. The announcer on tv delivered even more bad news. "Jeter hit a homer in the ninth, giving the Yanks a 3-2 victory." Lance bit on his lip, deciding he was feeling pretty crappy. *************************************************************************************************************************** The cast been removed for the shoot, and Lance's stomach was knotted. He promised he'd do this, and when even more money was added to the pot, he knew he couldn't turn it down. The limo was ready, and he stood outside his building, wishing he smoked or something because his knees wanted to collapse and his head throbbed. He stepped into the limo and took the short ride to the minor league field the photographer wanted to use. A hot breeze envolped him as he stepped out, and he noticed a small crew of ten or so on the grass, setting up in the noon sun. He pulled his sunglasses down over his eyes and gulped, knowing this was it, his moment of truth. A tall woman came rushing over, a camera dangling from her neck. "Mr. Bass," she gushed, drinking him in. "I'm Jo. I'll be taking the photos today." "Please call me Lance," he replied, his deep voice cracking. The palms of his hands were slick with nervous sweat and he looked around. "Are they going to be watching?" he asked, striding along side her to the pitcher's mound. Jo smiled and touched his arm. "Only for here. The more seductive shots will be inside the dug out, and it'll just be us when you're unrobed." She noticed how he trembled slightly under her touch and couldn't help but grin at his uneasiness. "I've done this a million times," she said to him, shading her eyes from the sunlight. "It's quite professional, I assure you." Lance nodded, the only thing he could do. He really just wanted to bail, thinking about his grannie sitting home in Mississippi, and God forbide she get a hold of this. She'd skin him alive. Briefly, he thought about the kids, the fans who looked up to him, and what they would think. He held a place of honor on a box of Wheaties, and that was something big. Maybe he was making a huge fucking mistake. How to get out of it.... "So," Jo continued, leading him to the center of the field, "I thought we could start here, in your white pants. No team shirt though, it's not allowed." Lance nodded dumbly, again, not knowing what else to say or do. He grabbed her elbow and pulled her out of earshot. "Um, do you think we can avoid frontal nudity?" he asked, a deep blush creeping over his cheeks and ears. "Cuz, I don't think that I'll be able to do that and...." She frowned up at him. "It's in the contract." "Yeah, I understand, but I'm having second thoughts. I mean, I didn't really think it over and..." "Come with me," she hissed, grabbing his hand and leading him past the dugout, through the hallway, down to the locker room. It was deserted, and her hand was hot in his, the echo of her shoes loud on the marble floor. "In here," she said, pushing him through the swinging doors. Lance stumbled into the room, taken by surprise when she shoved him against the lockers and attacked his lips. "What are you doing?" he gapsed, pushing her back. Not that she wasn't attractive, but this sort of behavior was unexpected. "I'm putting you at ease," she replied, tugging at the buttons on his jeans. Lance stared down at her, and grabbed her head, squirming out of her reach. "Look, I just think it's best we forget this," he stammered, backing away. "I think you should find someone else." His mind swam, and he held his jeans closed, annoyed that the beginnings of an erection were starting. He wasn't some teenager who needed to get laid. He was a major league ball player, who had a woman waiting in every city. She crept closer, her blue eyes fixed on his face. "Lance, it's easier this way. I promise." She dove for him, yanking his hands away, pulling the jeans down to his ankles. Before he could say another word, she took him in her mouth and began the ritual, the one she'd performed so often to put male celebrities at ease. She imagined her female live in lover at home, and tried to operate with the same amount of gusto she put into giving head with her. Lance gasped, unsure if he should laugh hysterically or stop her, or what. His body responded properly, and he grabbed her head, begging her to get up. "This isn't.....ooh God...um...can you please....fuck..." He heard his voice, but it sounded millions of miles away, and when that familiar feeling crept up on him, he was defenseless, letting himself go inside her, his hands still entangled in her hair. His breath was short, and shallow, and he thought he may pass out from the unanticipated escapade. He collapsed onto the cold floor, staring at her, Jo, the professional photographer they promised to deliver. She stood up abruptly, straightened herself and sighed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Now, I think we're ready." Lance blinked hard. Was she completely out of her fucking mind? No way was he going to do this, not now, not with her having done that. "I'm not posing nude," he said breathlessly, struggling to stand back up. "I'll pose in my sports briefs or whatever, but no frontal nudity." Jo stared at him, hands firmly on her hips. She paused for a moment before smiling. "You'll be sued you know." "So, sue me," he gasped, tucking himself in. "Now, do you want me or what?" His head tilted to the side, and he took a deep breath to regain his composure. "I already had you," she retorted sourly. "But I'll snap the shots and leave it to you." Turning on her heels, she stormed out, pissed off at his attitude. No man had ever turned it down after that, not one. Lance shook his head and rubbed his sore wrist. "Fine," he called after her. "But no frontal nudity." That was that. |