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When Buster straightens himself out and sinks his head into one of the pillows, the clock’s red eye says 4:52. His whole body is buzzing in the sweet aftermath of his orgasm. Tim’s on his side, waiting, his long hair a curtain of black in the dim light. As Buster nestles into the sheets, Tim leans over, circles an arm around him and kisses the catcher softly and slowly on the mouth. Buster stirs under his touch, murmuring something Tim can’t quite hear.
They’re silent for awhile, just soaking it in.
Lincecum props his head on his elbow and raises his eyebrows at Posey, who’s staring at the ceiling.
- First time?
- With a guy, yeah, says Buster. He can’t believe he’s embarrassed to say this.
Lincecum sits up and stretches his arms above his head, yawning. His feral teeth are white in the darkness, and the sight of his broad bare shoulders, where Buster’s used to seeing his wife’s petite frame, is startling. In the half-light, Tim’s still smiling.
- Buster Fucking Posey, he says. - Where’d you learn to give head?
There’s a long pause while Buster considers how he wants to answer this question.
- Well, it’s not rocket science, says Buster. - A person can use their imagination.
Tim seizes Posey’s shoulders suddenly with both hands and rolls right over him, tumbling off the bed onto the carpet, laughing, the skin crinkling around his eyes. It’s not mean-spirited laughter, Buster knows, but he still doesn’t see what’s so funny.
After a while, Tim rubs his eyes, smooths back his messy hair, and rises easily to his feet. One hand on the doorframe, he looks back at Buster splayed out in the tangled sheets. And then he’s gone, so quietly that Buster doesn’t even hear the front door click.
//
When his alarm buzzes him awake at seven-thirty, Buster sits up and clutches his head in his hands, as effing hung over as if he’d been drunk. When a hot shower doesn’t clear his head, he does what he usually does when he’s in trouble: he falls back on discipline. He strips the bed, eats breakfast, drives to the ballpark, and suits up calmly as though nothing’s changed. Because, he tells himself, it hasn’t.
//
- You’re over at the minor-league park today, Tiger, says Wilson, swatting Tim on the ass as they finish dressing.
- Throwing BP. Teach those youngsters how to hit major-league heat.
- More like give the coaches reasons to weed ‘em out, says Tim. - I hate all those guys with clipboards. Guys aren’t statistics.
Lincecum sighs. He actually likes the minor-league complex, with its three connecting fields; it reminds him of college. It’s smack in the middle of a municipal park, so beyond the chain-link fences, there are tennis foursomes coming and going, old Italian guys playing bocce, and joggers mixing in with a few hardcore fans and the minor-league moms whose families host the youngsters at spring training.
Tim’s just gotten into his car in the players’ parking lot when Zito pulls in to the spot next to him and slides gracefully out the door, juggling a Starbucks latte, an iPod, and a gym bag. Lincecum rolls down his window and Zito comes over, puts down his stuff, and rests his elbows on the window ledge, eyes nearly level with Tim’s.
- Where’re you off to? asks Barry.
- Rags has me throwing BP over at the minor-league park, and then I’m there for the one o’clock game, says Tim. His hands are on the steering wheel.
- We’re on tonight with Pat and Nate and I think Nate’s girlfriend - eight-thirty or so, says Zito.
Tim says nothing, but squints up at Barry, whose sunglasses conceal his dark eyes.
- I missed you, you fuck, says the left-hander.
He strokes the side of Tim’s cheek with his index finger. Then he picks up his gym bag and walks toward the clubhouse.