The Series

[dragonko]

Alright, so if you don't know who Mike Trout is, look him up! He's (imo) the absolute hottest professional athlete in the United States right now as a member of the Los Angeles Angels. So, I felt it appropriate to write a story about him. I claim no ownership of the LA Angels or its players.

He stood in his bathroom stark naked staring at himself in the mirror. His dick and balls hung limp and low between his legs in the post-shower steam, his perfectly muscled body beaded with water. But it was his face he was staring at, dark circles encompassed his eyes and his nose had transformed to an overly feminine shade of pink. Despite the shower he still could hardly breathe and his throat felt like it had been sanded for hours as he slept. Known for his general charm and boyish good looks, he knew that he wouldn’t impress anyone today, but that, of course, was the least of his worries. There were only six games left in the regular season and the only playoff spot taken so far was by the Baltimore Orioles in the east. Meanwhile, his Angles sat in second place in the west, only one game behind the A’s, but also only one game ahead of the Rangers with a three game series coming up in Arlington. Things were tight with the Yankees and Royals also within a game and all fighting for the remaining playoff spots. Thinking about all of that made his head hurt even more than it already did and his search for advil was fruitless. Shit.

“Hhe-iTCH” The sneeze caught him off guard and left his nose feeling even more stuffed up than it had been before and the pressure in his sinuses nearly unbearable. This is just fucking great, he thought to himself. He couldn’t sit out sick though; he knew that that would never fly with coach.

By the time he got to the stadium where they would catch a bus to LAX he was feeling worse than he could remember feeling in years, but tried to hide it as best he could knowing all too well that his nose was practically glowing bright red by that time. He planned to try and not talk to anyone until they got to Texas by sleeping, or at least feigning sleep for as much of the ride as he could manage. He stole the back seat on the bus and leaned against the window to fall asleep on the ride to the airport, but was quickly interrupted, “how ya doing today Trouty?”

He looked up to see Mark Trumbo standing over him smiling as he always was. “I’b fide,” he said quickly, noticing the thick congestion in his voice, “just a bit tired.” Mark gave him a puzzled look, but seemed to figure it’d be best to just let him rest for the ride as he walked back toward the front of the bus. Good, he thought, maybe that’ll be all I have to deal with for now. Then he felt it. Fuck, not now. The tickle crept up into the back of his nose, a slight burning at first that was masked somewhat by the congestion, but was enough to make him panic slightly. He moved his finger up under his nose to try and make it go away, but it seemed determined to stick around. When he pulled his finger away the burn intensified quickly, “he … hehe,” he really didn’t want to sneeze in front of all of his teammates right now. He swiftly ducked behind the seat in front of him and tried as hard as he could to stifle, “he-hitxxt, het-ngxxt, het-ingxt, ngxt, ngxt.” The last three forced their way out of his nose so fast that he was left with a massive headache, and he could still feel his nose burning, “ het-ngxt,” one more quick sneeze came out almost before he could stifle it, but the itch just wouldn’t go away. God damnit, he thought to himself as he geared up to sneeze again, “HET-ngxxt, HET-inxt,” the stifles were starting to hurt and he was starting to realize they weren’t going to help him. Thinking maybe if he let out one big one it would help ease the itch without drawing too much attention to him, so he tried to hold the itch back as long as possible before he’d let it go, “he … hehe … hah-he-het-ITCHOOO, ISHOO, HA-ISHH” the last two exploding out of his nose before he could do anything about it, causing a few of his fellow teammates to look back at him just as he sniffed wetly and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Trumbo, who apparently was sitting right in front of him now turned around and glanced at him, “ya sure you’re alright Mike?” he asked concerned, “that was at least 8 sneezes and you sound awful.” “Yeah, I’b fide,” he said with another wet sniff. Mark kept looking at him, obviously not buying it. “Seriously Mark, I’b fiiide,” but his congested nose kept giving him away even more. Mark just shrugged at him, “alright, fine, suit yourself. But you certainly don’t look or sound fine.” Damnit, of all the times to catch a cold, why now?

They arrived at LAX a little over an hour later, luckily his nose hadn’t caused any more problems, and after popping a pair of decongestants he was able to breathe again, but his head still hurt and he really wasn’t feeling any better. He made a point to lag behind getting off the bus and grabbing his stuff to head to the plane that was waiting for them on the tarmac. It was times like this that he kind of wished they could fly on a commercial airliner and that he’d be able to sit away from some of his teammates, but he knew hiding from them on the plane wouldn’t be as easy as it was on the bus. But at least he could breathe now and his voice probably wouldn’t sound so congested, so he could hopefully hide it from the team for a little bit longer.

For the first half of the plane ride they talked over game strategies and made sure that everyone was focused for the last six games of the season. It was do or die at this point, and everyone knew it. “You feeling any better Mike?” Trumbo said to him quietly. Mark had made a point to sit next to him on the plane. “Yeah, still a little tired, but I’m ready to go,” he lied. In reality he felt even worse than he had all morning, and for the last 20 minutes he could feel a small tickle building in the back of his nose that he knew was going to cause even more problems when it hit him. By this point his nose had to be glowing, and his eyes were puffy and watering. “Look, Mike, we all get sick, no one is going to fault you if you’re not up to your best game for it. But it’s better if you get yourself healthy,” Mark pleaded with him. “Look, I’m fine, I’m not going to miss the game,” he said back bluntly, “besides, I’m not sick.” At this point he wasn’t even sure why he was lying, he knew it was obvious, but what could he do about it, he had to play. By that time Josh Hamilton and Albert Pujols had also seemed to notice that something was up with him, but a quick glance from Mark kept their comments at bay.

“Het-ITCHOO, he-nxxgt, het-ngxxt,” he woke up sneezing, his eyes watering, his nose dripping and burning like crazy, and his throat was even more dry and soar. “Bless you,” Mark said from beside him. He opened his mouth to say thanks but was interrupted by more sneezing before he could say anything, “…het-ngxxt, het-cht, het-nxxt … ugh, thanks.” He was now catching concerned glances from the whole team and could only sink down into his seat to try and fall back asleep. By this time the team doctor was already standing over him though, to which he just grumbled and tried to turn away.

“Mike, what’s up with you today?” the doctor asked him, “and don’t try and lie to me to say you’re fine. You were snoring louder than I’ve ever heard someone snore a few minutes ago and woke yourself up sneezing. Your face is red, your eyes look about swollen shut, and your nose is fire engine red.” “It’s just a cold doc, nothing to be concerned about,” he finally conceded knowing that he was never going to win an argument at this point, “I just need to sleep some more and I’ll be fide by the tibe we land id Texas.” He could tell the congestion was coming back in his voice. “Here, take this, it should make the symptoms a little more bearable for you.” He took the pills and went right back to sleep.

By the time they arrived at the stadium in Arlington what the meds had taken away in congestion, they had added in sneezing which he had luckily been able to keep mostly stifled for the bus ride from the airport. But the constant itching was starting to drive him nuts, and he was already getting tired again from how much he was trying to hold them back. He was hoping at this point getting out on the field to warm up and moving around a bit would wake him up and make him feel a bit better. It did, and he made it through warm up and the national anthem without any more sneezes or congestion.

“Up next, batting for the Angels, Mike Trout,” he trotted up to the batter’s box, struck his batting stance and mentally imagined the pitch like he did every time. Pitch one went sailing past him … ball. He readied himself again, pitch two … “Strike one.” the crowd cheered a little, and he could hear his teammates encouraging him from the dugout. Just then it hit him, his nose was on fire again and he knew he didn’t have much time, he held up his left hand real quick and stepped out of the box, “het-ngxxt,” he stifled the first sneeze and then realized everyone could see him anyway, so he may as well just let them go and get it over with, “het-CHOO, HA-ISHOOO, Het-ISHOO, HET-CHOOO,” with each body doubling sneeze the burn in his nose intensified, there was nothing he could do, “CHOO, ISHOO, ISSHOOO, HET-SHOO, HET-CHOO, HASHOOO, he-hehehe-he-het-SHOO.” He sniffed wetly, shook his head and stepped back into the box. He couldn’t let that ruin his game. Pitch three was being wound up, and just as it was released, he bent forward with another double “HET-CHOO, CHOO” the ball just barely missed his head and sailed over the plate for strike two. Coach and the medic were running out to home plate to check on him, “Mike, what the hell are you doing out here in your condition?” screamed his coach. “I’b fide, I cad do this,” he protested, stepping back into the box to await the next pitch. He could feel his coach a few yards behind him, the wind up, and the pitch. He swung, tipping the ball foul behind him. Ugh, come on, I just want to get this over with. He made contact with pitch five, sending it over the head of the centerfielder rounding his way to second base. He slid in … “Safe.” He stopped, looking around as he could feel the dust trigger his nose again, “fuc… het-CHOO, het-ngxxt,” he stifled the second one between his fingers sending a pang through his head. At least he was safe on second, he just needed to not screw up from here. Pujols was up next, he had to be careful here. He didn’t lead as much as usual, knowing one inopportune sneeze could mean the end of the inning. On the first pitch Pujols launched it deep right, he began running just as another itch started in the back of his nose, shit, he looked over his shoulder just in time to see the ball sail over the fence, a homerun. He slowed to a jog, allowing himself to sneeze another four times between third and home.

He crawled down into the dugout scrounging for tissues to try and blow his nose and rid himself of the itch for a while, which was still persisting deep in the back of his sinuses. By now he couldn’t breathe through his nose at all and tears were streaming down his face.

“Trout, you’re done for the day,” coach said to him sternly. “Coach, I,” he began to protest, “het-CHOO, HA-CHOO, HA-ISHOO” he didn’t even try to argue more, he knew those sneezes did him in for the game. His coach just looked at him as he slumped down on the bench and put a towel over his head. Who was he kidding, he wasn’t in shape enough to play, even if he had just lucked into a hit, he would probably just screw things up if he kept trying to play. The rest of the game went with the other guys taking time to try and cheer him up and make him laugh, sometimes it working, but usually not. He preferred to just be allowed to sit there and watch the game in silence with exception of the occasional sneezing fit and nose blow. The game finally ended, they had won 4-1, at least he could be happy about that.

Let me know what you think! I can continue if you all like it

[SpookyScarySkeleton]

Trying to play with a cold lol c: . I played sports with allergies not Funn but ehh happens.