It happens by accident. Tim's coming into the clubhouse, head down, hoodie up, and there's Crawford standing in the hall, reading the bulletin board. Tim hadn't expected to see him so early--Brandon had to drive out to his parents' house for some family thing, his niece's eighth grade graduation or whatever--but he's glad. He's always glad to see Brandon these days.

He walks past, his hand snaking out and brushing across the ass of Brandon's jeans, squeezing firm but fast, just in case anyone's looking.

His hand is pulling away, back to his own pocket, when he realizes.

It's not Crawford.

It's a young guy, not that Brandon's not young, but this guy is even younger, and a little smaller than Crawford (at least his ass is, Tim thinks), with the square jaw of a high school jock and dark brown eyes.

"hey, um," Tim says and doesn't know how to finish the sentence. He could pretend that he's the kind of guy who harasses the rookies, that he grabbed this kid's ass just for kicks, but he's not that kind of guy and he doesn't think he can pretend that. He's already pretending a lot. "Sorry," he says. And then, when the kid just blinks at him, "I thought you were someone else."

"I'm Culberson," the kid says. "Um, Charlie. Culberson." He makes a move to hold out his hand, then stops, then starts again.

"Tim," Tim says, shaking Culberson's hand. It's a little sweaty, but he's got the calluses of a real player.

"I know," Culberson says, then flushes, embarrassed. If Tim were the type of player who fucked with rookies, he would smack the kid down. "I mean, um, it's--"

"It's cool," Tim says, smiling. This poor kid's going to get it from every side if he keeps apologizing all the time. Even Sandoval's going ride this one. "Nice to meet you."

"Who'd you think I was?" Culberson asks.

"What?" Tim freezes.

"You know. You kinda, um. Grabbed my ass."

"Uh huh," Tim says. He doesn't say anything else. It's something he learned a long time ago, dealing with his dad: when he doesn't know what to say, when he doesn't have an answer, he says nothing. It works a lot of the time.

But it doesn't work with Culberson.

"So." Culberson shifts his weight. "You thought I was someone else?"

"Uh huh," Tim says again. He folds his arms across his chest. He wishes that he were taller than Culberson, bigger, like Cain or Bumgarner, and could intimidate guys by leaning over them. He settles for narrowing his eyes. "Good to meet you," he says again and walks away.

"Uh...yeah," Culberson calls after him.

Crawford tips back on the mattress, his hands clapped over his mouth, laughing. "You what?"

"Shut the fuck up," Tim mutters.

Brandon draws his knees up to his chest, curling in on his own amusement. "You grabbed his ass?"

"It was an accident," Tim says.

"It was in the clubhouse," Brandon says. His eyes are wet with tears. His smile is too big for his hands to contain; it spreads across his face and cracks open, spilling out laughter. "You're an idiot."

Tim scowls. "What can I say? He had a nice ass," he says and Brandon stops laughing.

"You think he's got a nice ass?" Brandon asks, later, when his shirt is off and his pants are open and his dick is pressing insistently against Tim's own erection.

"Huh?" Tim says. Brandon's being painfully slow with his clothes and Tim had been wondering whether it would kill the mood to wriggle away and rip all of his own clothes off or if Brandon would find his desperation hot. He's hardly heard the words.

"Culberson," Brandon murmurs, leaning down, pressing in, his lips brushing Tim's ear, each syllable a torment. "Cul-ber-son." Tim groans. "You think he's got a nice ass?"

Tim gropes for the right words, the ones that will make Brandon relent and fuck him. "I, Brandon, not as good as yours?"

He feels Brandon smile against his throat. "That's right."

Crawford slouches into the clubhouse the way he always does, lazy and graceful, the same way he handles a line drive, casual and confident. Tim, taking a break before the dreaded cardio portion of his work out, rubs a towel over his hair and pretends not to watch as Crawford wanders over to Culberson's locker, where the rookie is standing, staring into it like it's a crystal ball. They exchange words, Crawford's smile friendly and open, Culberson's the same tentative expression Tim remembers from the other day. His jaw is squarer than Crawford's, as are his shoulders. In fact, all of Culberson looks like someone took Crawford and made him into an Eagle Scout, all upstanding and polished instead of comfortable and slouched.

Brandon catches him looking and his smile widens. After a minute, he claps Culberson on the shoulder and comes over, hands in his back pockets.

"sup," Tim says, draping his towel over the back of the chair.

"You going in to run?" Brandon asks.

"Out," Tim says. "Stairs."

Brandon makes a face. "Sorry, dude."

"Yeah, thanks." Tim grabs his iPod off the top shelf and hooks his headphones around his neck. "Okay." He no longer knows how to say goodbye to Brandon in public, now that they kiss goodbye in private. He always ends up feeling like an ass. "Later."

"Hey, Lincecum," Brandon says, as Tim steps away. Tim turns back, trying to keep his expression mild. Brandon grins at him. "You know you got a type, right?"

Tim feels himself flush and says nothing.