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context.”
    Right.
    JP Trudeau bumped into him as Paulson strode toward the batter’s box. “Hey, man.”
    The kid looked happier than he’d ever seen him. More relaxed too. Funny how regular sex could do that to a guy. “Things are going well with you and Sonny I take it.”
    The shortstop plopped down on the bench next to him, looking mildly surprised. “Yeah, it’s great. Why do you ask?”
    On the far side of the bench, Mark Cutter leaned forward in his catcher’s gear and said, “Cuz lately you’ve been smiling like a dog with two dicks.”
    JP laughed and rolled his shoulders. “What can I say, man? It’s good.”
    Peter slapped the young player’s shoulder. “Why don’t you give up the deets? This dry spell I’ve been on has turned into one long-ass drought.”
    “Would you stop yapping? We’ve got a game on, you knuckleheads,” barked the team manager, Arthur McMurtry. “Sorry, coach,” Peter mumbled.
    “Since we’re up by five and it’s the ninth inning, I want you to rest your arm, Kowalskin. That’s why I waved you over here. Caldera’s filling in for you. You’re done.”
    Those last few words rung in his ears. The echo lasted for just a moment, but it was enough. It left him feeling hollow, like a foreshadowing of things to come. Which it was, and that scared him. It was hard as shit knowing this was his last season.
    Shaking it off, Peter slumped onto the bench and cast a quick glance down the row at his teammates. It was a blast and a privilege playing with them. Of his thirty-four years, he’d spent the last fourteen with the Denver Rush. The players had become his family.
    What was he going to do without them?
    Feeling his morale dropping, Peter turned his gaze to the game just as Paulson connected with a pitch and sent it flying over the outfield wall into the stands. Crap. Looked like he had himself a date later.
    The veteran jogged around the bases, taking his sweet time while Rush fans cheered his home run. When he passed in front of the dugout, he pointed at Peter and hollered, “I want fancy, sissy boy!”
    JP turned to him. “You realize taking him out for something fancy is only asking for trouble, right?”
    Yeah. The last time Paulson wanted highbrow, he’d wound up tanked on Dom Perignon and screwing their server in the coatroom, making her miss the last hour of her shift. There’d been a lot of ticked-off customers wondering what had happened to their checks.
    Peter nodded. “I’m steering him clear of the bar.”
    Sometimes Drake was like having a toddler around. You took your eyes off him at your own risk.
    And that was exactly why Peter loved him.
    He owed the veteran and Mark for some really memorable times. The most infamous being the night Peter lost a ten-dollar bet and wound up hungover on cheap beer with a tattoo on his dong.
    To this day he didn’t know how he’d managed to go through with it. But he knew he must be some epic kind of jackass to have stamped a tattoo on his dick for all eternity.
    Alas, such was the story of his life.
    Drake entered the dugout, out of breath and sweaty, then plopped down with a humph next to Peter. “Where we going, brother?”
    “Hell if I know,” Peter shrugged. “You’re not gonna get all picky on me are you?”
    Mark smirked from down the bench. “The guy’s got expectations, Pete.”
    Grinning at that, he pulled off his hat and raked a hand through his damp hair. “Don’t I know it.”
    Paulson took offense. “Just because I have standards, don’t make me high maintenance, man.”
    Something occurred to him as he looked at the first baseman. “How come you aren’t hitting the town with some tight-bodied little thing later? It’s not like you to be in short supply for company.”
    Drake leaned his head against the dugout wall and scratched his unshaven chin. “I’m taking a breather.”
    “Did all those spring chicks finally wear you out, old man?” jabbed JP.
    “Look who’s suddenly getting big