I didn’t even wait for a reply. I just grabbed my room key and slipped into the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs. Every shadow in the corridor looked like a coach; every floorboard creak sounded like a camera shutter.
I reached Room 323 and knocked.
The door swung open almost instantly. Ryan looked like he hadn’t even started to relax from the game; he was wearing a white t-shirt and short gray pants, his hair damp from what looks like a shower he took. He saw the look on my face and immediately hauled me inside, locking the door behind me.
“Oz, baby. You’re white as a sheet. What happened?”
“My agent called,” I said, the words tumbling out in a rush. I started pacing the small carpeted area between the beds. “Someone saw us on the bus, Ryan. Or they saw enough to start guessing. Marcus says the front office at Beavers is already hearing whispers. He said… he said if this doesn’t stop, he’ll move me. He’ll trade me to some dumb baseball team that won’t win games and catch balls in gloves.”
Ryan’s face hardened. That “Captain” mask he wore on the field settled over his features, but I could see the flash of anger in his eyes. He stepped into my path, catching my shoulders to stop my pacing.
“Listen to me, Oz. He won’t fucking touch you,” he growled. “I won’t let him.”
“How Ryan?! You’re the star, I’m the rookie they can replace with a phone call.” I looked up at him, my eyes stinging. “I want this. I want us. But I’ve worked my whole life to get to this team. If I lose baseball…”
“You aren’t going to lose it. You aren’t going to lose…me,” Ryan said, his voice dropping to that steady, commanding tone that usually calmed the dugout during a bases-loaded jam. He slid his hands up to cup my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. “We just have to be smarter. No more bus bathrooms. No more lingering looks in the dugout or on the field. We play the game, we do the press, and we save this for behind closed doors. Only.”
I leaned into his touch, closing my eyes. “It’s going to be so hard to act like I don’t want to kiss you when you hit a walk-off. Or when you catch that ball.”
“Then we’ll just have to make it worth the wait,” he whispered, leaning down to press a firm, lingering kiss to my forehead. “Starting now.”
* * *
To anyone watching the next morning, the “Golden Boy” was back to his usual self.
Ryan spent the entire breakfast buffet sitting with Miller and the other veterans, laughing loudly at some inside joke about a blown call from three years ago. I sat two tables over with the other younger guys, staring into my oatmeal and pretending to be fascinated by the local sports page.
And it sucked.
It was the hardest and painful thing I’d ever had to do. Every time Ryan’s deep, booming laugh echoed through the hotel restaurant, my skin itched. I wanted to look up. I wanted to catch his eye and see that secret glint that told me he was thinking about the way I’d felt in his arms just hours ago.
But I didn’t. I kept my head down. “The Wingman Protocol” was officially in play. That’s what Ryan called it anyway.
* * *
By the time we got to the stadium for the game against the Las Vegas Owls, the atmosphere was different. Ryan was leaning against Miller’s locker, talking shop, acting like the ultimate “teammate’s teammate.”
I walked past them, my heart hammering. “Watch it, Ford,” Miller chirped, though there was no heat in it. “You’re walking like you forgot how to use your legs.”
“Late night in the cages, Miller,” I lied smoothly, not letting my gaze flicker to Ryan for even a second. “Unlike some of you vets, I actually have to practice to stay on the roster.”
“Kid’s got a mouth on him today,” Ryan remarked to Miller, his tone light and dismissive—the perfect mask. But as I passed, I felt the breeze of him shifting his weight, a silent acknowledgment that nearly made me trip over my own gear bag.
And I swore I saw him give me a wink when I took a quick look at him.
* * *
The game was a defensive struggle. 0-0 going into the seventh. I was stationed at second base, and Ryan was out in center field.
Suddenly, a high fly ball was hammered deep into the gap. It was “no man’s land”—between my territory and his. We both took off. I was sprinting backward, eyes on the sky, and I could hear the thundering footsteps of a 6’2 powerhouse coming toward me.
“I got it! I got it!” I yelled.
Usually, Ryan would take charge. But he stayed back just enough, letting me make the spectacular diving catch. I hit the grass hard, the wind knocked out of me, but the ball was squeezed tight in my glove.
Got it!
Ryan was the first one there. He reached down, and for a terrifying second, I thought he was going to pull me up and hug me. The crowd was cheering, the cameras were on us.