Pairing: Oscar Arguella/Amelia Slater
Summary: If Mike had been a poorly thought-out flirtation, Oscar was a time bomb.
A/N: My first foray into the Pitch fandom! Enjoy, if anyone's still around on here and watches the show. :)
. . .
Oscar Arguella had a very sturdy desk. Amelia supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. He was the general manager of a major league baseball team and, stripped of his prior glory on the field, of course he needed something to prove he was still capable, still a force to be reckoned with. Men always needed something.
Sometimes, when she was in his office with others and it was strictly business, she found her eyes wandering to that desk, her mind wondering if he’d picked it out himself. It was the perfect height for what they did atop it every few nights or so. Had he thought about that when he’d gone shopping? Or had the desk simply been left here for him when he’d ascended to the position, its height and solidity nothing more than convenient perks?
Amelia’s mind often ran down that rabbit hole, thinking about that desk, thinking about him, thinking about all the things that they were doing together that, really, should be done in the privacy of one of their homes. Or at least a hotel room. But somehow, they always ended up in his office, with her on that desk and him between her legs.
Not that she complained. In fact, the words that came out of her mouth during those nights were so far from complaints it was as if time were suspended. Nothing bad was happening when they were alone in that room; there were no budget cuts, no losing streaks, no petty rivalries between members of a team that should be nothing, nothing, but united. There was just him and her and that desk and sometimes the sound of the custodial staff’s vacuums outside the locked door, cleaning the hall. They knew not to come in, not even to knock. Whether because they could hear—or guess—what was going on, or because they had grown accustomed over the years to not disturbing Mr. Arguella’s late nights at work, they stayed away.
Part of her was grateful; they were both able to get what they’d come for over quickly, and without interruption. The other part of her knew this ease wouldn’t last much longer. It couldn’t. Just like her relationship with Mike, like Ginny’s currently undying popularity (for now), this brief reprieve would eventually shatter to pieces. They’d be found out—fine; she was a grown woman and she didn’t care who knew who she spread her legs for—but the perception of the public would be brutal. Ginny’s place on the team would be questioned, her favors questioned, her role on the team questioned. Her entire career questioned. They only hired her because her agent fucked the GM. Amelia didn’t want that—not for herself, not for Oscar, not for Ginny. Especially not for Ginny. She didn’t deserve to have one single thing—let alone something this foolish—ruin the legacy she was creating for herself, and for women everywhere.
But still, Amelia kept coming back to Oscar’s office and that desk. The days were long and the work was crushing and the nights were lonely—same sob story as ever. At least Oscar had a good excuse to engage in self-destructive behavior: his family was falling apart right before his eyes. What excuse did she have? She liked his smile, liked that he had an athlete’s body under that suit, liked that he hadn’t hesitated that first night, not even for a second. What kind of rationale was that? If Mike had been a poorly thought-out flirtation, Oscar was a time bomb. And the seconds were ticking down.
They didn’t talk about it. It was obvious he was as aware of the adverse effects of their nightly meet-ups as she was—he had to be; he was nothing if not shrewd—but they never discussed them. They didn’t make a contingency plan for when the story finally broke. They didn’t discuss how high to go with hush money. She just unbuttoned his shirt and he pushed up her skirt and they didn’t talk for a while, save for her soft curses in English and his in Spanish.
At least the sex was good. That had to count for something, right? The sex was fantastic. Oscar was lean in a way Mike was not, but he still had that same physical power: she could feel the strength in his arms, his chest, his abdomen, and his back when she touched him. She could feel it when he bent over her, when he pushed inside. He did not rein in his strength, did not soften it for her, the way Mike had. And she liked that.
Oscar didn’t have the same luxuries as her ex, she knew. He didn’t have the diamond on which to prove himself anymore; he didn’t have crowds of adoring fans. Instead, he had budgets and trades and company morale to juggle. He had divas to stamp out and twenty-year-old boys to raise into men. He had a city riding on him—a world now, with Ginny in the spotlight—and he could not afford to make a single mistake, lest it cost him the whole game.
He had few outlets in the face of all this pressure, but those he did have, he exhausted himself into. He came to her unbridled, and she appreciated it. She liked the force he applied when they were together; sometimes she matched it, beat for beat, just to show him she could, and sometimes she just laid back and took it. She couldn’t tell which he preferred, and she liked that, too. There had been no mystery with Mike, who, despite being stolid on the field, had the worst poker face when it came to women. Let there be some mystery with Oscar, she thought, if only for the moment. They both knew how this was all was going to end, so why couldn’t she enjoy being surprised along the way?