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The energy of a hard fought win was still thrumming in Bucky's veins as he collapsed into the press junket chair. His whole body hurt and he was irritated that it was a close game in the first place. They hadn't started strong and had only barely managed to claw their way back with a solid closer and a lucky series of errors to load up the bases before Steve got up to bat in the ninth.
This was going to be one of those days that the PR team regretted putting him in front of cameras. It was always a toss-up. He was either the most charming player the press could talk to or a walking storm cloud, complete with hail, lightning, and thunder. He was feeling particularly thunderous today.
Luckily, there was Barton to run interference. He was the kind of player the press loved because he could talk stats and numbers all day long. He was funny and a better actor than Bucky and he'd take the win at face value. No moping about a poor early performance.
Bucky half listened to Barton rattle off where Wilson's ERA was going to land after this game and how Steve's RBI numbers meant more than his base running and what kind of trades Fury would be looking for in the postseason. Bucky mumbled answers back about refocusing after the sixth and the momentum of a good inning and all the bullshit the papers always wanted to hear. And then...
"Is the feud between you and Wilson resolved?" a reporter for a magazine that was more lifestyle than sports asked.
Bucky's eyes narrowed warily. The feud everyone was so obsessed with was about as real as the conviction behind his answers this afternoon. Sure, it had been real at one point. All the gossip rags were right: Sam was the hot new upshot. He'd joined the team while Bucky was out on medical suspension with the TBI and shattered shoulder. Bucky didn't get to play his first two seasons, only saw him at practice and team events. Sam was everything Bucky had been–fun and smart and confident and good. God, he was a good player. Knew the game like his own face. And that was all exactly the kind of thing Bucky didn't want to see in his replacement.
He wasn't sure how it got out to the press that there was some friction. He tried not to talk about anyone else in interviews but surely he'd been asked one too many times about the new guy and snapped out a mean answer once or twice. To be fair, Sam gave as good as he got. There was one interview where he said something to the effect of 'I won't talk about an injured teammate negatively, but ask me again later and I'll tell you he's probably past his prime.'
Which, thinking back on it, that sentence was probably what led to the beginning of the end of the feud, since it directly led to a really fantastic champagne-drunken night in a fancy hotel after the team formal that year.
And once their relationship was on steadier ground and Bucky was in a better place mentally and physically and Sam was settled in with the team and the spotlight, it was fun to play with the rumors when he had the energy. Neither he nor Sam wanted to make the relationship public and they knew there was no real heat behind the occasional gentle ribbing in an interview. But Bucky didn't have any energy to spare right then. "All the good games he's had haven't ended it before. Why should this game change anything?"
"I wasn't referring to the game," she pressed. "Though you did seem to have a warm reaction when he got you guys out of the sixth. I was referring to the fact that you arrived today in his practice jersey."
Bucky looked down at his game jersey, as if it was the one he'd worn in for warmups. "I think you're mistaken," he said, even though there was a creeping dread that he probably had grabbed the wrong one while Sam was shoving him out of the door that morning. Bucky had done his laundry at Sam's and the jerseys all looked the same when he was in a rush.
The reporter turned her tablet around to show a very clear image of Bucky walking into the facility, head turned over his shoulder to show off his profile, with Sam's last name sprawled across his back just below his jaw. It was actually kind of an endearing photo. He liked how Sam's name looked on him.
"I guess it got confused with the team laundry after practice Monday," he said with a shrug. He could feel a traitorous blush climbing up his chest and neck and cheeks, all the way to his hairline. "I just grabbed the one nearest my bag. Don't you have something more interesting to write about?"
But judging by the way half the room's eyes were now lit up, he was assuming this was the most interesting thing to happen to them since the last season-ending injury they had to cover.
"Does that happen often? Getting jerseys mixed up like that?"
Bucky glowered and crossed his arms in a pouty, telling-on-himself kind of way. "I was tired on Monday."
"Which does happen," Barton cut in. "Frankly, I think it's a little disappointing that you're making a scandalous story out of a TBI survivor's brain fog."
Now Bucky turned to glare at his teammate. He did not have brain fog. Usually. Bucky wasn't sure if Barton had become privy to his and Sam's relationship. All three of them were individually close and Barton was probably the most perceptive person in the room at any given time, but Bucky had never told him in so many words. And Barton was always up for messing with reporters. It could go either way.
The reporter held up her hands with a placating smile. "Hoofbeats and horses-not-zebras," she suggested. "I just thought I'd ask."
The room chattered for a few seconds before someone else got them back on track with a question about the upcoming series and whether they thought their league standing would improve before their bye-week.
By the time Bucky got out of the junket, he felt like he needed ten aspirin. Three for his shoulder and seven for his head. Barton parted from him at the locker room door with a pat on his good shoulder and well wishes for the night. They got almost a full week break until the series started up next Friday and they said they didn't want to see each other until then.
Bucky waited for the door to shut behind Barton before he let himself into the locker room. He detoured to his locker, pulling off his game jersey as he went. He tossed it into his locker and dug out the practice jersey from the pile of sweaty clothes heaped in the bottom of it. Indeed, Sam's name greeted him. He ran his fingers over the screen printed letters and then brought the jersey up to his face to breathe in the remnants of the smell of Sam's detergent and apartment.
When the real thing surrounded him, along with arms around his waist and a strong body against his back, Bucky let the jersey fall away. He put his hands over Sam's forearm and leaned back into him.
"You could've mentioned I took the wrong one," he said.
He felt Sam shrug. "Too late now."
"You saw the interview?" Bucky surmised. As Sam shifted from his back, Bucky dropped his forehead against the locker in front of him. Sam sat on the bench beside him, shoulder resting against Bucky's hip.
"Don't worry about it, man. Shit happens. No one's gonna think twice about it. And if they do, Clint set you up a pretty solid excuse."
"No one is going to buy that." Mostly because it wasn't true. "And I'm not going to start some beef because you made me late."
"Oh, I made you late?" Sam asked with a teasing lilt to his voice. He shifted over in front of Bucky and dragged his eyes slowly down his body until they were level with Bucky's navel. His hands came up to Bucky's hips, strong and sure, tugged him forward just a little. "I remember you dragging me back into bed like this."
His nose brushed along Bucky's stomach and Bucky let himself enjoy it for a few seconds before he hooked a knuckle under Sam's jaw and lifted his face. "You kept me in the shower," he pointed out.
"You wash your hair wrong," Sam offered back with zero belief in his words. He rested his chin on Bucky’s belly and looked up at him with dark, glinting eyes. “Come on, lay down and let me rub out your shoulder so you can stop being so grumpy.”
“You could definitely rub something out, but I wouldn’t have picked my shoulder.”
Sam grinned and kissed just above Bucky’s belly button. “I bet I could. But we agreed: not in the locker room.”
“I remember the showers getting carved back out of that agreement.”
Sam pushed Bucky back from the lockers to the narrow bench that separated the two rows. “Lay down,” he ordered. “And relax.”
Bucky tossed a few things into his locker and grabbed his hoodie to pillow under his head. The bench was uncomfortable and cool, but Bucky really didn’t care when Sam swung a leg over his waist and settled back to sit just past Bucky’s ass on his thighs. It was an odd sensation; intimate in a way that was both erotic and unnerving. He couldn’t help but laugh and then bit the sleeve of his hoodie to keep quiet.
Sam pushed his hair off of his shoulders, making it a tangled mess against his head instead. He grabbed a small bottle of massage oil that Bucky kept in his locker and drizzled it over Bucky’s shoulders and then down his back. He always used too much, but Bucky couldn’t make himself care. Sam had magic hands–on and off the field. He’d take all the massages he could get without complaint.
He started under Bucky’s shoulder blades, knocking Bucky’s arms off of the bench so they hung limply over the sides instead. The oil warmed quickly under his touch and Bucky closed his eyes. His body instantly relaxed against Sam’s ministrations, but when he came to Bucky’s lower back, the tension was still holding on.
“What’re you so irritated about?” Sam asked, forgoing the stubborn area to trace over the surgery scar that ran the length of Bucky’s spine.
“I’m irritated we only have one starting pitcher. When Barton doesn’t pitch, you have to come in and work your ass off to maybe salvage the game.”
“Right, you’re this angry about today’s game only,” Sam reasoned sarcastically. He touched one finger along the circular scars on either side of Bucky’s spine, twelve total, and then ran his palm flat down his mid-back. Bucky shivered and settled into the new sensation.
“I’m just tired. It feels like we’re playing some of the best ball we have as a team and we’re still just eeking out wins.”
“I think you’re being a little dramatic,” Sam argued lightly. “I don’t think our games are as close as often as you’re making it out to be.”
“Sure, we have good runs. We set a series record for scoring drives this season. But, still. It just feels like the team isn’t complete yet.”
“And it’s your job to worry about that?” Sam asked. “You’re not the coach, not the manager, not the owner. You’re not even team captain.”
“Thanks,” Bucky said drily. “I just want people to know how good we are, how good we can be.”
Sam’s hands finally came up to Bucky’s shoulder, shifting from his half-focused, mostly petting massage style to something deeper and firmer. “When’s your next appointment?” he asked.
“I dunno. Sometime in the next two or three weeks. But I just saw Connors here for a whole afternoon PT session,” Bucky explained.
Sam’s fingers smoothed over Bucky’s neck and tangled with the soft downy hair there. “Not for your arm. When’s your next therapy appointment?”
Bucky groaned and pulled his hoodie over his face. “I only have to go to those around my neurology appointments and those are down to twice a year.”
“Going to therapy two, three, four times a year isn’t going to help, Buck,” Sam pointed out. “You wouldn’t expect PT to work if you only went that often.”
“Have you reminded me you were going to be a PhD student before you entered the draft portal recently?” Bucky asked. “I’m pretty sure it’s been a few days since you’ve mentioned it.”
He didn’t have to see Sam’s face to know he was rolling his eyes. The pinch to his shoulder would have been enough to get the point across, even if he didn’t know Sam well enough to know how he was reacting to the usual ribbing.
“Fine. Be miserable. See if I care,” Sam griped back. He worked out a knot on the inside of Bucky’s shoulder that made Bucky groan in relief and then moved on to loosening the whole thing again. He was methodical and thorough, always making another pass over an area when he’d had something he considered a breakthrough. Usually Bucky just rolled his shoulder against a door jamb until he felt better.
When the pressure on his back got to be more uncomfortable than helpful, he turned over and watched Sam’s face twist into something reprimanding. Bucky spoke before he could hear Sam scold him about getting oil on the bench. “You know what kind of therapy I haven’t tried?” he asked.
Sam’s eyes narrowed a little, though the sour twist of his mouth eased into something begrudgingly amused. “What kind of therapy is that? Dog therapy? Sleep therapy?”
Bucky pulled Sam up his body. “Sex therapy,” he suggested. “Magic hands, magic dick?”
Sam’s laugh turned into a guffaw of surprise and Bucky tamped down all the happy butterflies it produced in his stomach. “I don’t think anyone is good enough at sex to heal your shoulder.”
“Not my shoulder,” Bucky dismissed with a wave of his hand. “My soul, man. Real, uh…”
“Marvin Gaye,” Sam supplied.
“Real Marvin Gaye shit. I think good sex routinely would fix my brain.”
Sam laughed out loud again. His hands were on Bucky’s chest, still slick with oil, warm and aromatic. Bucky could feel his own easy heartbeat against Sam’s hands. “You get good sex routinely.”
“More often then,” Bucky suggested. He sat up, holding one hand against Sam’s so he wouldn’t pull them away. Sam still smelt like the field–orange dirt and fresh cut grass and sweat. Bucky wanted to stay right there, in that moment. He turned his nose against Sam’s jaw, taking in a deep breath. Sam shuddered against him.
“We said not in the locker room,” he reminded Bucky quietly. His breath ghosted over Bucky’s cheek and Bucky almost fell apart with the feeling.
“But, sweetheart, it’s already working,” he murmured back. “I feel so much better.”
Sam’s eyelashes fluttered as he rolled his eyes again. “Nuh-uh. We set up rules for a reason. And you can’t jump in the shower right now. Waste of good oil.”
Bucky whined and pressed himself closer to Sam. “I don’t wanna wait. Don’t wanna stop.”
“Why don’t you put my practice jersey back on and think about all the ways I could take it off when you get to my place,” Sam suggested. “It’s basically the same thing as not stopping.”
“It definitely is not,” Bucky argued. “Can we at least make out some. Before I have to go back to pretending to trip you in the street?”
“I prefer that plan to you taking out the windows in my car.”
“You threatened to demolish my bike. Besides, your nephews beat me to your windows.”
“Yeah, ‘cause you gave them gloves and bats for Christmas. They took out my window, half the branches on the tree in the front yard, and a porch post at the neighbor’s house.”
Bucky grinned and pulled Sam into an easy, light kiss. Sam opened up for him just like that. One hand went to Bucky’s waist. He pulled him closer instead of keeping distance between them and Bucky scooted forward on the bench. They traded lazy kisses and petted over each other’s bodies with no real drive behind any of it. Bucky could do this all day. Though, when he tried to lay Sam back against the bench, the pitcher didn’t budge.
“How come I can mess up all the oil with your jersey but not the shower?” he eventually asked when several of his attempts to get Sam looser were thwarted. If he had to get out of here to get any, he would. Reluctantly.
“Because it’ll stay on or near your back with my jersey and ‘cause I liked how you looked in it,” Sam explained with an easy grin. Bucky was pretty sure he’d do just about anything to see that grin directed at him for the rest of his life.
“We’ll have to do laundry again,” Bucky pointed out.
“Yeah, maybe this time you’ll be a little more careful about which one you grab.”
“Maybe I’ll just walk out of your building naked. Really give them something to talk about.”
Sam laughed and shook his head. “The headlines would probably be ‘Wilson-Barnes Spat Enters New Era–Clothes Burning.’”
“Surely someone would ask why I was in your apartment in the first place,” Bucky pointed out just because he liked how happy Sam looked.
“‘Barnes Defiles Wilson’s Bed with Mystery Woman,’” Sam suggested.
“Oh, that’s a good one, ‘cause it’s half true,” Bucky agreed. “I plan on doin’ it again in a little while.” He leaned in for another kiss and didn’t complain when Sam took the opportunity to rub his shoulder from a different angle.
Eventually, Sam pushed him away and grabbed the jersey from the locker. “Get dressed. I’ll see you back at mine,” he said and scooted away from Bucky before standing up.
Bucky clambered after him, throwing the jersey on but not buttoning it. “Come on, Wilson. One more for the road?” he tempted, reaching for Sam’s waist. He’d changed out of his game pants in favor of those five-inch inseam shorts that Bucky was kind of obsessed with, which didn’t leave belt-loops for Bucky to hook his finger in, but it did mean he could hook them in Sam’s waistband instead.
Sam got to hook his fingers in Bucky’s belt loops, though he used the position to curl his fingers into fists against Bucky’s hip and keep Bucky at least that far away. “You know, overexposure makes therapy useless as well,” he offered.
“There’s no winning with you,” Bucky complained lightly. “I don’t go often enough. I ask for too much. Make up your mind, Doctor.”
Sam grinned, preened a little in a way that Bucky used to hate and now found impossibly endearing, and leaned in to kiss Bucky gently. All closed mouth and proper. Definitely not the kind of kiss Bucky wanted, but one he was happy to get anyway. “I’ll see you at home,” he repeated.
Bucky was going to make a baseball joke but his brain was tripping over the casual use of the word home. He was helpless to say anything other than, “Yeah, alright,” and steal another chaste kiss.
It felt like a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth at the World Series. And when Sam kissed back, fitting his hand against the small of Bucky’s back, it felt even better than that.