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It's not a coincidence that every profile that gets written about her describes Ginny Baker as intent or driven or hyper-focused. It's all part of the image that Amelia has helped her craft. A public persona that's close enough to the real her that it's not too hard to shift gears. It's not that strange. Amelia assures her that most celebrities cope with the attention in the same way. Besides, that girl, the one on the posters and on TV and selling out crowds isn't entirely removed from the real Ginny, anyway. It's more like a pivot into the media-friendly Ginny Baker™ from regular, every day Ginny.
(It is strange. Could be stranger, though.)
It's not that Ginny minds being seen as those things. Driven and intense and even hyper-focused. She does think it makes her come across as a little intimidating, but that has the added advantage of providing at least a little bubble between her and some of the public.
Still, it's something of a hassle. After all, there are so many ways she can describe her mindset on the mound to nosy reporters without sounding like she's memorized one soundbite. Or without giving away her secret.
Her mind, it wanders.
As far as secrets go, it's not that interesting. Because it's not true all the time, obviously, but often enough. Ginny's been playing baseball since she was big enough to wrap her hand around the ball. It's all basically muscle memory at this point. Which isn't to say she doesn't pay attention to the mental aspect of the game. She's made it to the show, of course she knows the importance of preparation.
That doesn't mean that she doesn't think about her grocery list in the bullpen or worry about what to get for her mom's birthday on the mound. It's called multitasking and Ginny is excellent at it.
Mostly excellent.
There's something about Mike Lawson that blows a lot of her competence in normal situations to smithereens.
She doesn't think it's the remnants of hero worship. (He blew that out of the water when he smacked her ass and then proceeded to call her a gimmick. Not that he knows she knows about that little speech.) It's really much worse than that.
It's a crush.
She'll admit to a certain level of... curiosity. Ginny knows all about his reputation even if she doesn't know about it. In the personal sense. Evelyn was right. Half of San Diego has seen Mike Lawson's, but she left out the important ending; the other half is talking about it.
The first time it's a concrete thought, though, she's too mad to really question it.
He's sprawled out on his front, going over scouting reports while a therapist kneads the knots out of his back. All he's got on are compression shorts and black stripes of KT tape. Ginny, leaning idly against the other massage table, wonders what it would be like to let her tongue follow along those paths. Which. What? How is that even a thing? she thinks in confused embarrassment. But then, he tells her not to think about beaning Theo Falcone and her mindset veers quickly from latent curiosity to marked annoyance.
It doesn't stop, though. Sometimes she'll catch sight of him in the clubhouse or from the dugout and find herself minutes later coming back to reality and struggling not to blush. Not even knowing that Amelia gets to know about Mike Lawson's abilities in the bedroom makes it stop. Ginny feels guilty as hell every time it happens, but those moments keep coming. They start infiltrating her dreams, too.
The first time she wakes up, panting and achingly wet from the image of Mike Lawson smirking above her, his dream hand busy between her legs, she tries to forget it ever happened and go back to sleep. After a while, though, when it becomes clear that the dreams won't stop and people are starting to notice how tense she is, Ginny gives in. Lying in the dark, she tries to recall the fragments of the dream and gets herself off embarrassingly quickly to the mere idea of his chuckle and smirk sharing the darkness with her.
She's not proud of it, but it does wonders for her outlook on life. Ginny avoids Mike for a few days, only stopping when he tracks her down and awkwardly asks if she's all right. After that, she compartmentalizes. Tells herself that it's a fairly harmless coping mechanism and that it's only natural Mike's face is the one her subconscious provides. She's known of him the longest out of anyone currently in her life and sees him practically every day.
It doesn't mean anything.
(Still, when she finds out that Amelia has broken things off with Mike, Ginny breathes a sigh of relief.)
She will admit that, maybe, she lets things get out of hand. During the rain delay, she catches sight of Mike icing his knee at his cubby. On its own, it's not much of a visual. The man's practically always icing his knees; if that were all it takes to get Ginny going, she'd be in deep shit.
For all intents and purposes, the hoodie and basketball shorts, combined with his bag of ice and water bottle, shouldn't work. But even across the clubhouse, Ginny can tell that the hoodie would be soft as sin beneath her fingers. And his legs are splayed just wide enough apart that she'd have no trouble sinking to her knees between them. She wonders if the heat from his thighs is warming the water bottle, dangling in the spread of his legs. From what she's heard, even the full size Nalgene wouldn't be enough to conceal whatever Mike Lawson's packing. Would seeing her on her knees for him be enough to stir his interest? Would she get to see his shorts tent and strain around that practically legendary bulge?
She's just imagined herself licking her lips and Mike's responding growl when Livan appears at her side and asks, "Coming, mami?"
Ginny clenches emptily at the word choice, but follows him anyway. The idea of getting on a bike to run hitters seems unbearable, but she's got a game to play.
It gets better and worse after that. Better in that Ginny starts to accept that this is maybe her life now, and worse because things with Mike shift.
She's not sure when the shift happens, but all of a sudden, she's standing on a curb, practically breathing the same air as him, mind gone hazy with his proximity. It's somehow more intoxicating than anything she imagined, and she's imagined a lot. If something doesn't happen, and soon, she might vibrate out of her skin just thinking about all the possibilities. There aren't many choices that end in anything like happiness, but all those day dreams (and regular dreams, too) feel so close to fruition. Closer than they've ever been.
So, she lets herself imagine pulling Mike into her waiting car and then her room and then her bed. She lets herself imagine him doing for her all the things she's already dreamed about, now supplemented by information she'd never had occasion to learn. How he smells, the rhythm of his breathing against her mouth, the intensity of the heat rolling off him as his arms circle her waist.
She lets herself imagine everything. Even the things that come after he's got her sated and warm in his bed. Things that have more to do with the way he makes her smile than the way he makes her moan.
Which is maybe why Ginny's so disappointed when Mike's phone buzzes and he tells her, "I'm not going anywhere. Trade fell through."
Still, they each take steps back. Ginny starts going out with Noah and Mike reconciles with Rachel. Between their new significant others and the injury that ends Ginny's first season, there are plenty of buffers between them. Not that buffers like being teammates or rookie and captain had been enough in the first place.
As they say, though, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
And the thing that stays the same? Ginny's idle fantasies about Mike Lawson.
They don't become disruptive. Not really. She does her physical therapy and then her training and then she's allowed off the DL and she gets her spot back as the San Diego Padres' number five starter. If, the whole time, a certain part of her attention is taking up wondering whether or not she could learn to love the beard on its own, and not just because of the man beneath it, that is her business. Especially considering her performance on the field.
There are no doubts about it. Ginny Baker is back and maybe better than ever.
Sometimes, she wonders if she'd do half as well if she weren't as on edge as she always is. There are plenty of athletes who insist that sexual frustration is the key to success, and she's starting to lend the idea some credence. Sure, there's Noah. For a while, it's nice to have someone to work off some of her frustrations with, but the longer they date, the more Ginny becomes aware that her frustration doesn't really go anywhere. It just comes back bigger and more insistent.
It's not why she cuts him loose, but it's definitely part of it. (What she'll barely admit to herself is that the other part of it has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with still wishing it wasn't Noah she was spending her time with. After all, while sexual fantasies about another man aren't great for the health of a relationship, domestic fantasies about him definitely spell doom.) While the break up makes her sad, it doesn't break her heart. That's how she knows she made the right choice.
So, she moves on with her life. Dedicates herself to baseball in a way she thinks would make her Pop proud. It certainly makes the Padres happy and Ginny contents herself with that.
If the tension between her and Mike pulls and strains every so often, Ginny tries not to think about it too much. Reality is complex. Daydreams aren't.
Which is why, when she steps out of her private shower and into her cubby room to find Mike Lawson lounging in one of her chairs, Ginny wonders if she's somehow transcended the laws of physics and walked straight into one of her daydreams.
He's got the sweatshirt and loose shorts that Ginny has learned is his pre-ice bath outfit of choice. It also happens to be her outfit of choice, ridiculous as that is. She's seen Mike in bespoke suits, in plaid shirts with rolled sleeves that show off his forearms to perfection, and, of course, his Padres uniform. An ancient sweatshirt shouldn't work so well for him. But, it is the outfit that first made her wonder what it would be like to drop to her knees and get to know Mike Lawson as intimately as possible. Ginny has a soft spot for it a mile wide.
That hardly matters at the moment, though. Comfortable (and delectable) as he looks lounging in the swivel chair, the line of his shoulders is tight and a frown pulls at his mouth.
That frown slackens when he catches sight of her. One of the perks of having an entirely private dressing area with attached bathroom is that Ginny has gotten very comfortable with her privacy. It's an unspoken rule in the Padres clubhouse that admittance into her cubby is by invitation only. (Of course Mike Lawson wouldn't think it applied to him.)
All of which is to say that Ginny considers herself entirely too lucky that she'd wrapped up in a towel before stepping into her changing room. If she hadn't, as she's done so many times before, Mike Lawson would have gotten an eyeful he hadn't necessarily asked for. Judging by the way his gaze drags from the water droplets clinging to her collarbone to the bottom edge of the towel riding high on her thigh, though, Ginny guesses he won't be complaining any time soon.
"Lawson," she greets, striding over to her cubby and pulling out her street clothes. She's not going to drop the towel in front of him, but she can do everything in her power to keep this tête-à-tête short and to the point. Before she does something stupid like drop her towel.
"Ginny," he responds, and she stops in her tracks.
She can count on one hand the number of times he's called her by her first name: that night outside the bar, when he'd rushed to her side her last game of her first season, and the first day she'd been cleared to play again.
And now, apparently.
Mike's staring at her and Ginny instinctively knows it has nothing to do with the fact that she's only covered by a towel. He looks grave and a little awed and like he's practically itching to crawl out of his skin, he's holding himself so perfectly still. A tingling feeling erupts in her stomach and shoots straight between her legs. It's a feeling she's now very familiar with and automatically links to the man staring at her. It takes a lot of self control not to rub her thighs together, but she manages. She's also deeply grateful for the thick weave of the clubhouse towels, since that's all that's keeping her tightening nipples from putting themselves on display.
"What is it?" she asks, sinking into the unoccupied chair and hoping she's coming across as unaffected by his proximity. The towel rides up her thighs, but Mike's gaze remains steady on her face.
"What're we doing to ourselves?" He doesn't seem to expect a response for all he's still staring at her. Ginny's mouth falls open, but Mike continues, "Do you know how exhausting it is pretending that I don't want to pull you into every dark corner I see and have my way with you? Press you up against a wall and make you come apart? I've never even kissed you, but it doesn't even matter. I want to go to bed with you and wake up with you spend every fucking minute of the rest of my life with you."
If Mike had seemed less in control, Ginny might have written him off. Thought that he was just frustrated and lonely and hoping for something easy. But his gaze never wavers from hers and his words sound like he's practiced them, gone over and over them in his head, weighed the pros and cons and decided to say them anyway.
He huffs. "And now, I'm going to have to go home, alone, and try to forget that this ever happened. Because if I let myself think about the way you look right now, I'm going to drive myself crazy." At that, he lets himself take her in and his attention is like a physical touch. Ginny practically arches into it. Mike's eyes darken and he draws a ragged breath. "Tell me I'm not alone in this, Gin," he begs.
That's when Ginny decides something. Daydreams? They only take her so far.
Action is where she excels.
Keeping her eyes steady on Mike, she slides out of her chair and slips to the floor between his spread knees. She rests her palms there and tantalizingly slowly skims them up his thighs, calluses catching on the smooth fabric of his shorts and dragging them up his legs. She tips her face up to his, tries not to shake at the intensity of his stare. Ginny licks her lips and is gratified by his responding groan. All those months ago, daydreaming, fantasizing, she'd been right.
"Do you know how many times I've thought about this?" she asks, her fingers finally sliding against the perfectly soft cotton of his sweatshirt. They venture further until they hit the bare skin of his chest and neck.
"Thought about what?" he urges, leaning down until their faces are inches apart. His breath ghosting against Ginny's lips and the heady scent of his cologne sends her back to that night last August. They've been this close since then, but never as willing to cross the line.
"This," she breathes and closes the distance between them.
Kissing Mike Lawson is something that everyone should experience at least once in their lifetime. Except Ginny has no intention of ever letting him kiss anyone else again now that she's had the pleasure. It's not at all how she'd imagined their first kiss, kneeling between his spread legs in a rapidly loosening towel as he hunches over her, but it still takes her breath away. He's firm and gentle and insanely talented. Even with the awkward angle.
She pulls away and has to grin at the dazed look on his face. Deciding to capitalize on his distraction, Ginny urges him to lean back in the chair. She closes the distance between them again, but rather than zero in on his lips, her lips close on the metal pull of his sweatshirt's zipper. Peering up at him through her lashes, Ginny tugs the zipper all the way down. This leaves her with her face practically in Mike's lap, which is not something that she is going to complain about.
Not when she's got the evidence of his interest right in front of her nose. Literally. Even covered by shorts, Ginny can tell that Mike Lawson's package is nothing to scoff at.
At some point, his fingers thread into her damp hair and she glances back up at him. Somehow, he looks both dazed and intense, as if he can't quite believe what is happening but is committing it to memory anyway.
Ginny works her fingers into his waistband, waiting for him to lift accommodatingly before confessing, "Thought about this a lot, too," and pulling his shorts down in one, swift motion.
Before he can question her, she licks one long stripe up the underside of his truly impressive cock. Ginny almost can't believe how long it takes to get from base to tip. He curses quietly when her tongue flutters just under the flushed head, one of her hands stroking the rest of his shaft. Her fist can close around him, but it's a near thing. She sets up a steady rhythm and closes her lips around his tip, bobbing down as far as she can. It's not particularly far, but Mike doesn't seem to mind. Not if the fingers tightening in her hair or his steady stream of filth is any indication.
"Fuck, do you know how perfect you are?" he pants as her tongue swirls in an experimental pattern. "Did you really think about this? Did you touch yourself and think about my cock in your mouth?" Mike doesn't even need her to answer. "Show me, Gin. Show me how you made yourself come thinking about blowing me."
Ginny's free hand wiggles under the towel, which has Mike growling in frustration. He reaches down and in one sharp tug, Ginny's damp skin is exposed to the air and Mike's gaze. His attention wins out and she feels herself warm all over.
Although, that may have more to do with the hard pace she had set on her clit. Good as it feels, especially combined with the weight of his dick on her tongue, Ginny wants more. She slides a finger inside her slick pussy and starts to grind her palm against her clit.
"There you go, beautiful," Mike groans. "Fuck yourself for me. Show me what you'd do if it were me inside you."
Spurred on by his voice, uncaring that they are in the clubhouse and anyone could find them, Ginny starts rocking her hips in tandem to her finger's thrusts. The idea that Mike Lawson's dick could be simulated by one finger is laughable, even in her slightly frantic state. So, she adds a second and then a third.
Mike curses and pulls her mouth off of him with a wet pop. He leans back down and kisses her again, hungry and demanding. Ginny whines into his mouth, petering on the edge of climax.
"Look at me," he commands, cutting through Ginny's near-orgasmic haze. "Fuck. I wanna see you come, Ginny. Come for me and then I want that pretty pussy of yours all over my cock. That sound good? Yeah? All you've gotta do is come and it's all yours."
The rough and steady rumble of Mike's voice, as much as the stretch of her fingers, flings Ginny off the precipice. She crashes into her orgasm with a silent scream, feels her jaw stretch and fall wide open, but knows no sound is coming out. Pleasure rolls out along her limbs in waves, cresting and flowing with fading intensity and eventually leaving her shivery.
Shivery and seated in Mike Lawson's lap. He must have pulled her up off the floor sometime during the most intense climax of her life. She just hopes the next one will be even better.
For his part, Mike seems perfectly content to run his lips across every bit of exposed flesh he can reach. Funnily enough, the slightly rough drag of his beard against skin that still feels like it's sparking sends Ginny's hips rocking insistently into his lap.
He chuckles darkly and nips at the tendon running from her neck to her shoulder. His hands slide from the middle of her back down to cup her ass cheeks. "Impatient, huh?"
"You would be, too, if you'd been thinking about this as long as I have," she retorts.
His eyes darken and Ginny shivers. If her nipples weren't already poking proudly into the air, they definitely would be now. "I think I've been waiting just as long as you, Baker," he growls, shifting his hips just enough to rub the length of his shaft against her dripping slit. "You wanna argue or you want me to fill up that gorgeous cunt of yours?"
"Fuck me," she practically pleads, feeling no twinge to her pride. Just that one brush against him had convinced Ginny that she didn't want to wait another minute to experience Mike Lawson.
In total agreement, Mike urges Ginny to stand and shepherds her back into her bathroom. He watches as she walks on trembling legs to the counter and boosts herself up without direction. He's about to shrug out of his unzipped sweatshirt when she stops him.
"Leave it?" she asks, biting her lip nervously. He raises an eyebrow, but complies and prowls towards her. Ginny's hands fist in the fabric and she tugs him in.
Just as he's lining himself up, he freezes. "Fuck. You don't have a condom in here, do you?"
Ginny raises her left arm and flexes a little. "I've got that implant." Sure enough, when he leans in, Mike can make out a little, oblong bump in her otherwise smooth skin. He presses a kiss there and Ginny giggles before tugging him up for a real kiss. Still, he seems to hesitate, keeping his hips separated from hers, no matter how much she wiggles towards him.
Ginny breaks away from his perfect lips just long enough to murmur, "It's not just you, Mike." He gives her a confused look and she presses her forehead against his. "You're not alone in this."
The smile that breaks across his face is worth the months of tension and uncertainty and even some of the heartache.
The press of his cock into her cunt makes up the difference.
If Ginny's first orgasm with Mike was fast and furious and desperate, then her second is probably it's opposite. It's slow and tender and, okay, still a little desperate. She can't get enough of him, running her hands down his back, underneath what is quickly becoming her favorite piece of clothing in the world. And, for all that they're fucking on a bathroom counter in probably the least advisable semi-public building in existence, Mike takes his time with Ginny. He memorizes her every reaction to his every move, cataloguing her sighs and moans and even her little bursts of laughter. It doesn't sting, and he finds himself laughing along, too.
For all that it's imperfect (see: bathroom in Petco Park), Ginny doesn't want to imagine it happening any other way.
Still, it has to come to an end at some point. When Mike's thrusts begin to lose their finesse, Ginny wraps an arm around his shoulders to murmur encouragement in his ear. And even on the edge of oblivion, Mike manages to wedge a broad hand between them and stroke her clit until her encouragement becomes babbled, breathless praise. A few last sloppy strokes and he spills inside her with a grunt, the spasms of her orgasm milking him dry.
He presses a kiss to her temple before disengaging, Ginny reluctantly unwinding herself from around him. In companionable quiet, they clean themselves up and head back to Ginny's cubby where her clothes and his shorts are waiting.
"We probably shouldn't do this again," she observes as she wriggles into leggings. It's not until she's also pulled on a sports bra and a loose top that she realizes Mike never replied. She turns to look at him.
He's stricken, the line of his shoulders tense again, but once he notices her attention, he nods. "Yeah, of course not." He turns to the door, "I'll just—"
Ginny stops him with a hand on his wrist. Gently, she tugs him around to look at her. He won't quite meet her eyes, so she just says, "I meant in the clubhouse. We shouldn't do this again in the clubhouse. Your place is fair game. Or mine."
His head jerks up so sharply, she's surprised he doesn't give himself a crick in his neck. He studies her intently, like she might be playing a trick on him, so she takes a little step into him, maintaining eye contact the whole time. "You didn't think you could get rid of me that easily, did you, old man?" she jokes gently, willing him to believe her. "No, no. I'm afraid you're stuck with me."
He huffs an exhausted laugh, but Ginny sees the relief in his eyes. "Well, if I'm stuck with you..." he trails off, checking in silently before leaning down to kiss her again. Ginny sighs into his mouth and kisses him back sweet and sure as she knows how.
When he pulls away, Ginny wants to follow, but she settles for smiling, giddy and bright. Tenderly, he smoothes her hair off her face and asks, "So, if your place and my place are fair game, should I assume I'm not going home alone tonight?"
Ginny confirms without telling him he can plan on nighttime company for the foreseeable future.
He's a smart man. He'll figure it out eventually.