* * *
The wind was whipping off the lake, turning every fly ball into a chaotic dance. By the eighth inning, the score was knotted at 1-1. The tension in the stadium was a physical weight, the Blue Sox fans screaming for a strikeout.
Ryan was on second, having hammered a double to start the inning. I stood in the batter’s box, my heart pounding a rhythm that matched the “thump-thump” of the bass over the speakers. I looked out at Ryan. He was leading off the bag, his body coiled like a spring. He caught my eye and gave a sharp, imperceptible nod.Bring me home, Oz.
The pitcher threw a 96-mph heater, inside and tight. I swung with everything I had.
The crack of the bat was like a gunshot. The ball soared over the shortstop’s head, dropping perfectly into left-center field. Ryan didn’t even hesitate. He rounded third like a freight train, his eyes locked on the plate. The left fielder scooped the ball and fired a rocket toward the catcher.
“Slide!” I screamed from the dirt, my lungs burning.
Ryan hit the dirt in a cloud of Chicago dust, his hand swiping the corner of the plate just a millisecond before the catcher’s tag.
“SAFE!”
The dugout erupted. I sprinted toward him, the adrenaline overriding every “Wingman Protocol” rule we’d written. Ryan stood up, slapping the dirt off his thighs, his face lit up with the raw, jagged joy of the lead.
As I reached him, he didn’t just give me a high-five. He grabbed my jersey with both hands, pulling me into a rough, brief shove of a celebration—a classic “baseball bro” move to anyone watching, but I felt the way his fingers lingered on my chest. I knew what that meant.
“That’s my good boy,” he growled under the roar of the crowd, his face inches from mine. He reached out and brusheda smudge of dirt off my cheek, his thumb grazing my skin for a fraction of a second too long.
My breath hitched. In the middle of the stadium, with 40,000 people watching, that tiny touch felt like a lightning strike.
“Get back to the bag, Ford,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, private register as he patted my shoulder and turned away. “We’ve still got an inning to close out.”
I was so screwed.
8
RYAN
The Chicago crowd was dead silent as our closer threw the final strike, but the Beavers’ dugout was a madhouse. Seeing those Blue Sox players slumped over their bats, practically crying in the dirt after we snatched that win from them? That’s the high I live for. We won 2-1. Goodnight Chicago.
But the real high was standing at the top of the dugout steps, watching Ozzie jog in from second base. He was glowing—sweaty, covered in dirt, and wearing a grin that could light up the entire South Side.
“Great game, Cap!” he yelled, dodging a celebratory towel from Miller.
“Back at you, kid,” I said, keeping my face stoic while my heart was doing ninety on a straightaway.
My good boy.
* * *
The locker room was a chaos of loud music and flying Gatorade. I caught sight of a TV monitor in the corner showing the post-game highlights. My stomach did a slow roll. There it was—the “clutch hit” replay. They played it in slow motion: Ozzie driving the ball, me sliding home, and then that moment.
The camera had zoomed right in on my face as I brushed the dirt off his cheek. On the screen, the look in my eyes wasn’t “teammate.” It was pure devotion.
CHICAGO SKY NEWS:Ryan Lindson and Ozzie Ford in love on the Blue Sox stadium field? We’ll give you all the latest tonight on Chicago Sky News.
Crap.I shouldn’t have done that.
“Hey, Lindson!” Miller shouted over the music, pointing at the screen. “Look at you being all motherly with the rookie. You gonna tuck him in tonight, too?”
The room erupted in whistles and chirps. I felt the heat rise in my neck. I looked at Ozzie; he was frozen by his locker, his back to the room, pretending to be very busy with his cleats.
“Shut it, Miller,” I barked, grabbing a towel. “Just trying to make sure he can see straight so he doesn’t miss the next cutoff man. Some of us actually care about the defensive stats.”
I walked toward the showers, my jaw tight. The “Wingman Protocol” was fraying at the edges. The more we won, the more the cameras stayed on us. And the more the cameras stayed on us, the more the world was going to see what I couldn’t seem to hide anymore.