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The night after Mike fucks Ginny for the first time, in his king bed on the second floor of the Hotel Monaco Pittsburgh while the boys play Minecraft next door, they get routed by the Pirates in a 9 to 2 slaughter and booed all the way the hell out of Pennsylvania. Ginny telegraphs every single one of her pitches, walks four guys, and ignores a third of Mike’s calls. Instead of trotting out to the mound to course correct, Mike signals to Al that it’s time to bring in the relief, and promptly feels so fucking ashamed of himself he wants to puke. All told, it’s exactly the clusterfuck he envisioned when he first reached for the tie of her athletic leggings.
Which is why he nearly jumps out of his skin when she sits next down to him on the bus.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
Ginny shrugs. “Not exactly like anybody else on this team is dying to sit next to me right now.”
Mike huffs out a breath. They’re coming around, the guys—Mike likes to think he was helping the process along before he started thinking with his dick—but they still blame her for every single loss. Fuck, they’d probably blame her even if she wasn’t on the field. “That's a fact.”
There’s a minute of strange, choked silence. A better man would probably apologize, or at least offer up some bullshit about how he still respects her as a ballplayer. Mike is not that man: he pushes his tongue up against the back of his teeth and says exactly nothing at all.
He can feel Ginny watching him. She smells like she always smells after away games, slightly sweaty. None of the other clubhouses have separate showers. “So,” she spits finally, jamming her backpack between her knees and slouching down in her seat. “Great game. Loved the connection between us, really felt like you had my back.”
“You didn’t respect my calls,” Mike growls, glancing over and immediately regretting it. Fuck, she is a literal child, close enough to her teens to still have acne along her hairline. But worse than that, much worse, she’s also the first female player in all of major league baseball. And Mike? Mike is the disgusting old man who screwed her instead of helping her pitch.
“Fuck you,” Ginny says succinctly, and jams her Beats headphones over her ears.
“Fuck me,” Mike agrees under his breath.
It’s a long, boring ride, the low flat plains of Western Pennsylvania, nothing to look at but the endless liquid dark outside. He can hear Blip sawing logs a couple rows back. Ginny’s got her arms crossed like a shield in front of her, eyes closed and head tipped back slightly so the long column of her neck is exposed. Mike glances over at her, then away again. Then back. It occurs to him to wonder what she listens to, if it’s Beyonce or One Direction or Buddhist fucking chanting. He knew a shortstop in Cincinnati who only listened to bird calls.
Screw it, Mike thinks. It could be fucking accordion hits of the 1970s, he doesn’t care. He pulls his hoodie over himself like a blanket, leans his head against the window, and tries to sleep.
When he wakes up they’re in Ohio, and Ginny’s hand is on his dick.
“Whoa, what the fuck,” he says, completely sideswiped. Ginny jerks away like she’s been burned.
“Sorry,” she says. “Um. Do you not want—”
Mike almost laughs. The bus is dark except for Shrek’s reading light way in the very back, country roads and nothing but pitch black pushing up against the window. “Jesus, Baker.” He trips over her last name a little, finding himself wanting to call her Ginny instead. There’s just something about a woman’s hand on your dick. “Thought you had decided my ass was grass.”
“Your ass is grass,” she says, but her palm is back on his knee. “No one’s looking at you,” she hisses when he glances around, like he’s full of himself for even worrying, like no one has ever had second thoughts about a public handy.
“I know that, thank you, I just—” Mike hesitates. It's one thing for her to be stupid or cocky enough to think they can get away with this: she's twenty-three years old, she's invincible, she's the queen of the major leagues and the whole country besides. Mike, though—Mike ought to know better. Mike does know better, just like he knew better when he opened the door of his hotel room last night and found her standing on the other side of it. But her short nails are zipping along the seam of his jeans now, teasing, and it's like the whole thing has been taken right out of his hands.
“Baker,” he says again, a low murmur into her temple.
“Baker what?” she asks, sounding annoyed.
Mike’s skull thunks back against the headrest, not willing to admit he’d been saying her name just to say it. “Baker nothing. Do your worst.” Only she’s scrabbling for his zipper now, her whole body turned toward him and obvious, and God, Mike has to be smarter than this. “Wait, wait, at least put something in my lap.”
“You’re such a girl,” Ginny says, but she’s finally smiling, a sharp slice of white in the dark. “I don’t even want to do this anymore, you killed my buzz.”
“I killed your what?” Mike asks, and is shocked when she buries her laugh against his neck, her headphones jammed hard and plastic up against his jaw.
“Stop talking,” she whispers, hot and breathless against his skin. Mike realizes abruptly that this is fun for her, this insane thing that’s going to ruin both their careers. She pulls away and hands him her backpack, the Nike swoosh shining softy in the dim. “Hold this.”
Mike takes it obediently, watching in shock as Ginny Baker pulls his dumb, unbelieving dick out of his jeans. She’s still grinning. He's only half-hard so far, the sleep and the surprise and the fact that there are twenty-six other dudes breathing the air all around him, but then she squeezes, not gently, and his dick jumps in her hand. Mike closes his eyes. She has the roughest palms of any woman he's ever been with, strong fingers and knobby knuckles. Her grip is tight enough to hurt.
“Easy,” he mutters, opening one eye to look at her in the darkness. Ginny’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh, sorry,” she tells him sweetly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Am I not respecting your calls?”
Mike laughs, unexpected and loud, and Ginny hisses frantically at him to shush. Just for a second Mike imagines guiding her head down into his lap, that wide beautiful mouth that’s got to be miles softer than her palm. He closes both eyes and tells himself he isn’t picturing it.
“Okay, wait,” he says after a minute, reaching down and wrapping his hand around her own. It feels like being jacked off by a dude and not one who’s done this before, a choke grip and too much friction. “Seriously, ease up.” She’s not good at this, he realizes. She's literally a pitcher who's not good with her hands.
Ginny rolls her eyes but she lets him guide her, short strokes and a quick twist of her wrist up around the head. It feels, perversely, not unlike guiding her through a pitch. The backpack is bouncing obviously now, ridiculous-looking; Mike reaches for it with his free hand and sets it back on the floor between his sneakers, balling up his sweatshirt and shoving it into his lap instead. When he glances back at Ginny’s face she’s chewing her lip in concentration, just like she does when she’s focusing on her screwball. It is the most fucked up, most erotic moment of Mike’s life.
“Jesus, Ginny,” he whispers, unable to stop himself. Ginny grins.
“Shh,” she says, reaching up with her free hand to cover his mouth. Mike licks her palm like a dog, hot and nasty, and Ginny’s eyes widen so he can see the whites all the way around. Then they narrow.
“One sec,” she says, and lets go of his cock to—fuck —spit in her hand. She spits like a ballplayer, loud in the quiet of the bus; when she gets her hand back on his dick that's loud too, thick and wet and obvious, and fuck fuck fuck.
“Gin,” he says, thrusting up into her grip. “Fuck, Gin.” If anyone is awake, if literally anyone is awake—
“They’re all asleep,” she promises quietly, like she’s reading his goddamn mind, like they're out on the field, and it’s that as much as anything else that’s got him coming all over himself, two sloppy thrusts into her fist. Mike barely manages not to groan. He bites his tongue instead, pain and pleasure exploding in tandem like the fireworks they set off over the park on the 4th of July.
“Mess,” Ginny chides when he’s finished, wiping her palm on his sweatshirt, but before he can ask her where she would have liked him to do it exactly she’s smiling at him again, all mischief. “You can be fun when you want to be, Lawson,” she whispers. Mike’s heart does a dangerous thing inside his chest.
"Let me,” he mutters without thinking about it, wiping his sticky hand on his jeans and reaching for her. He realizes belatedly that his fucking dick is still out, flopping uselessly against his thigh. Fuck, where the hell is his head?
“If you want I guess,” Ginny says, but then she slouches down in the seat and spreads her fucking legs, so. Mike grins.
“I do,” her tells her, shoving his dick back inside his jeans and reaching over. Ginny bites her lip.
It’s stupidly risky. Too risky, almost, Mike knows it the second his fingers touch the seam of her leggings. She’s with one sneakered foot kicked out into the aisle, sprawled and obvious, Mike’s fat hand practically glowing in the dark. They're begging to get caught.
He doesn't care. He wants to make her come. She was loud last night, theatrical enough that he wondered if she was faking it; she actually said “I’m coming,” announcing her orgasm like they had an audience. Mike thinks it would be easier to tell this time around, with just his fingers. He wants to make sure it's good.
He shoves the sweatshirt into her lap in one last, desperate bid for modesty, then slips his hand underneath. She’s burning hot between her legs, shifting in her seat; Mike rubs at her thigh for a second, feeling the hard pack of muscle underneath the Lycra, then sides his palm up and presses against her with the side of his hand until he hears her breathe in.
There’s a girl, he barely manages to keep himself from saying. Ginny’s looking at him like a dare. He hooks two fingers in the waistband of her leggings, knuckles brushing the warm, smooth skin of her stomach, but these pants are industrial grade spandex, not the stretchy hundred dollar Lulu Whatever pants Rachel used to wear to go to Pilates. There's barely any room for him to get his hand inside.
Ginny pulls a face as he fumbles. “Here,” she says, lifting her hips and rolling the waistband down one turn. Mike isn’t really sure how that’s supposed to help him, since it basically just means the leggings are sitting at her hip bones instead of her bellybutton, but he slides his hand back in obediently anyway. This time, his fingers touch skin. Still, it’s hard to open her up under the tight fabric—embarrassingly, the best Mike can do is find where he thinks her clit should be and press down.
Ginny squirms. “I’m really wet,” she says almost matter-of-factly, lifting her hips into his touch. Mike slides his fingers down an inch, surprised, and yeah, fuck, she really is.
“Team bus doing it for you?” he asks, trying to figure out how to get a finger inside her. The angle is completely wrong for this, his wrist twisted up and his palm pressed uncomfortably into her pubic bone. He’s honestly a little worried about hurting her.
“Shut up,” Ginny mutters, but then she gasps, something—thank fuck—hitting improbably well for her. “There,” she whispers, and that’s great, that's perfect, except for the part where Mike has no idea where there is or how to find it again in any meaningful way.
He keeps trying, though, rubbing with two clumsy fingers, giving it the old Padre try while Ginny wriggles anxiously against his touch. Normally Mike’s happy to take his time with a woman, in particular one as smooth and soft and clearly hard up for an orgasm as she is, but he'd be lying if he said this was the best sexual encounter of his life. Fuck, it's not even the best sexual encounter he’s had on club property, his aching wrist and her unfamiliar body and how certain he is they’re about to get caught. He can feel Ginny getting frustrated, the shift of her hips decidedly annoyed. “Well, show me then,” he hisses finally.
Ginny looks at him like he just told her to do his laundry. “What?” she says. “No. Figure it out for yourself.” She says it a little like fuck you, a little like I don’t date ballplayers, but then Mike realizes she’s already helping, rubbing herself against his hand in tight, demanding circles. He holds still, trying to learn the pattern. As soon as Ginny sees him looking the roll of her hips slows down, her ass coming up off the seat.
Christ. I already came, Mike wants to tell her. You don’t need to turn me on. Instead he leans over and whispers in her ear, giving her the compliment she so obviously wants:
“You're so fucking hot.”
He feels ridiculous saying it, but right away Ginny turns her head and kisses him, so he guesses it was the right call. Truth be told, she has a fucking excellent mouth. He wants to kiss her for hours suddenly, wants to lay her out on a bed in a house and do this properly. It’s a little bit alarming, honestly, all the things he suddenly wants to do.
Still: “We can’t,” he whispers, bumping his forehead against her damp one. He is not not not going to suck face with a girl rookie on this fucking bus. “Ginny. Not here.”
Well, that’s apparently the wrong thing to say to her. “Oh, that’s your line?” Ginny demands, shoving herself up straight in her seat. “Okay, Lawson, you know what?” She reaches under the sweatshirt and grabs his wrist, yanking it right out of her leggings and dropping it in his own lap like it’s a dead thing.
“Hey!” Mike sits up straighter too. This entire situation has gotten away from him, her wide vulnerable mouth and how she’s looking at him like he actually has the power to hurt her damn feelings. Mike has as much self confidence as the next guy, but he's thirty-six years old with an average sized dick and bad knees; no twenty-three-year-old in the world should be looking at him like that, and certainly not Ginny-fucking-Baker, America’s favorite fucking daughter.
You are way, way out of my league, he remembers telling her last night. She was naked and he wasn't and suddenly he was nervous about it, staring at her breasts and her ass and her beautiful young body.
Ginny had just shrugged. Sure, but I had your rookie card, she said, and reached for his belt.
“Ginny,” Mike says now, feeling like an asshole. Hey. “Let me make it up to you, okay?” He fumbles for her hand, rooting through the sweatshirt that's still covering her lap to find it. He feels old and ridiculous.
Ginny thinks he’s old and ridiculous too, clearly: “Make it up to me?” she says, staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and dark amusement and pure, unadulterated teenage disdain. “Don’t hurt yourself, buddy.”
“I might,” he retorts, aiming to get her to smile. Really wanting to get her to smile, and not wanting to think about why. “I’m a hundred and fucking fifty, Baker. Last night I thought I might break a hip.” He raises his eyebrows. “Not that I’m complaining. The opposite, more like.”
Ginny rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Lawson.”
And Mike—well. Mike does not want to fuck off. “Ginny,” he says softly, reaching for her hand again and missing. The tips of their fingers brush underneath the sweatshirt. “Come on.”
Ginny looks at him for another long moment. Finally she shakes her head and sighs. “Leonardo DiCaprio’s a better lay,” she tells him flatly.
Mike grins.