Instead, he grabbed the bill of my cap and yanked it down over my eyes—a classic, brotherly “pro ball” move.
“Nice snag, rookie,” he shouted loud enough for the dirt-mic to catch it. “Now get up before you look like a lawn ornament.”
Yes, Cap.
He turned and jogged back to his spot. My heart was racing. It was the perfect cover. To the world, we were just teammates. To me, the heat of his hand on my cap felt like a brand.
He’s driving me fucking nuts not to touch him without being seen.
* * *
The game ended in a 1-0 win for the Beavers. We were back at the hotel, the “Wingman” act having worked perfectly. My agent had even texted me saying the “vibes” looked better. But I didn’t reply to it. When this season is over, I want to get another agent. Immediately.
It was now midnight. I was in my room, staring at the door, wondering if Ryan was actually going to stay away. Maybe he changed his mind and decided to quit our steamy relationship. Maybe I wasn’t for him.
Stop saying that, Oz. He has feelings towards you.
My thoughts were shattered when my phone buzzed against my thigh. I pulled it out, the screen’s glow blinding in the dark hotel room.
RYAN:Room 543. Now. Service stairs only. Don’t let anyone see you, rookie.
My heart did a triple-count. The “Wingman Protocol” had worked all day, but it had left a hollow ache in my chest that no win could fill. Acting like I didn’t care about him in front of Miller and the coaches was the hardest game I’d ever played.
I didn’t even grab my jacket or anything else. I slipped out of my room, my socks silent on the hallway carpet. I didn’t take the elevator; I pushed through the heavy fire door to the service stairs, my pulse echoing in the concrete stairwell. I climbed the flight to the fourth floor, peeking through the small wired-glass window to make sure the coast was clear before darting down the hall.
I didn’t even have to knock. The door to 543 cracked open before I reached it, and a large hand reached out, grabbing the front of my shirt and hauling me inside.
The door clicked shut, the lock sliding home with a finality that made my knees weak. Ryan didn’t say a word. He just backed me against the door, his weight pinning me there, his breathing heavy and ragged as if he’d been the one running the stairs.
“That was the longest fucking twelve hours of my life,” he rasped, his forehead dropping against mine.
“You were good though,” I whispered, my hands finding his waist, pulling him as close as the fabric of our clothes would allow. “You and Miller… you looked like best friends. I almost believed it myself.”
“We are best friends. But Jesus, I hated every second of it,” Ryan growled. He tilted his head, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a frantic shiver down my spine. “I hated watching you dive for that ball and not being able to pick you up and fucking kiss you right there on the grass. I hated the way you looked at the breakfast table and didn’t even smile at me.”
He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, his expression raw and hungry. “We have to be smart, Oz. I know that. But in this room? In this room, I’m not the Captain, and you’re not the rookie. In here, you’re just mine. Understand?”
“Yes-” He stopped me by crashing his lips onto mine, and it wasn’t the polished, controlled Ryan Lindson from the dugout. It was desperate. It was the sound of a man who had been starving all day and finally had a seat at the table.
6
RYAN
The “Wingman Protocol” had been a fucking torture. Every minute spent laughing with Miller was a minute I wasn’t looking at Ozzie; every professional nod on the field was a lie that tasted like ash. Now that the door was locked and the world was shut out, the dam finally broke.
“Get on the fucking bed, rookie. Now.” I growled against the sensitive skin of his jaw.
I didn’t stop kissing him. I trailed my lips down his neck, marking the spot just behind his ear where I knew he was most sensitive. Ozzie let out a shaky, broken sound—half-sob, half-moan—and stumbled back toward the mattress, his hands never leaving my arms.
The moment he hit the sheets, I was over him. I didn’t give him a second to breathe. I kissed his chest, his stomach, the heat of his skin radiating through the dim light of the room. I wanted to erase every inch of the “professional distance” we’dkept all day. I wanted to remind him—and myself—exactly who he belonged to when the stadium lights went dark. He wasmine.
“Ryan,” he gasped, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me back up to his face. “Please…”
“I’ve got you, baby,” I whispered, my voice thick with a hunger I couldn’t hide anymore. “Nobody’s watching. Just me.”
I captured his lips again, deeper this time, a slow and possessive burn. The rhythm of the city outside—the distant sirens and the hum of traffic—faded into nothing. There was only the sound of his heart thudding against my chest and the desperate way he arched into me. In this room, there were no scouts, no agents, and no trades. There was just the weight of him under me and the terrifying realization that I was falling for this kid faster than a line drive.
“Ryan…. fuck me… please..,” Ozzie moans on my mouth.