Instead, I dropped my towel on the bench and stepped into the stall right next to his.
Really Ford?Next tohim?There was no curtain in the stall, just a narrow marble partition that didn’t do much to hide anything.
“You following me, Ford?” Ryan’s voice was a low rumble, cutting through the steam. He didn’t move, but I could see his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the water slicking his dark brown hair back. And wetting his lips and jaws.
“So? It’s a free country, Lindson,” I said, my voice sounding braver than I felt. I turned the handle, and the water hit my skin, but it didn’t do anything to cool the heat in my chest. “And I don’t need a babysitter. Especially not one who thinks he can manhandle me in the locker room.”
Ryan finally turned. He wiped the water from his eyes and looked at me—really looked at me. Without the jersey and the padding, he was intimidatingly beautiful. Every muscle was defined, hardened by years of professional play. He stepped out from directly under his stream, moving toward the edge of the partition that separated us.
“Is that what you think I was doing?” he asked. He took a step closer, crossing the “invisible line” between our stalls. “Manhandling you?”
The space between us vanished. He was so much bigger than me, his shadow looming over my 5’8 frame in the mist. He reached out, his hand wet and heavy, and pressed his palm flat against the tiled wall behind my head, effectively pinning me in place.
The air in the room got ten degrees hotter. I could see the individual droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. “You’ve been looking at me all day, Oz,” he whispered, his voice vibrating in the small space. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’rescrappy, you’re a fast catcher, and you’ve got a mouth on you that’s going to get you in trouble one of these days.”
He leaned in, his chest nearly brushing against mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him. “Are you looking for a fight, or are you looking for something else? Because I can give you anything, Oz.”
The air between us was thick enough to choke on. Ryan’s eyes were dark, tracking the way my breath hitched as he leaned in. I could feel the heat of his body radiating through the damp air, and for a second, the roar of the water faded into the background, replaced by the frantic thudding of my heart against my ribs.
I opened my mouth to say something—to tell him to back off or to tell him to… what? Kiss me? I wasn’t even sure which—when the heavy heavy thud of the locker room door swinging open echoed through the tile.
“Yo, Lindy! You in here? Coach is looking for the spring lineup cards!”
It was Miller, the pitcher of the team.
The spell shattered instantly. Ryan didn’t jump, but the shift in his energy was violent. He pushed off the wall, stepping back into his own shower stream in one fluid, practiced motion. He didn’t even look hurried; he just looked like a man finishing a shower.
“Yeah, Miller! Be out in five!” Ryan shouted back, his voice perfectly steady and completely devoid of the low, gravelly rasp he’d just used on me.
I stayed frozen against the wall, the cold tiles biting into my back while the hot water continued to scald my front. My skin was still buzzing where he’d almost touched me.
Ryan turned his head slightly, just enough to catch my eye through the curtain of water. He didn’t smile. He reached out,grabbed his soap, and spoke just loud enough for only me to hear.
“Saved by the bell, Ford,” he murmured. “Don’t think this is over. We’ve got a long bus ride to the away game tomorrow. Plenty of time to finish our talk.”
He shut off his water, grabbed his towel, and vanished around the corner, leaving me standing alone in the steam. My hands were shaking as I finally reached out to turn off my own shower.
We’ll see about that, Ryan Lindson. We’ll fucking see about that.
2
RYAN
The stadium lights were so bright they made the grass look neon, cutting through the dusk of Rock Hills. Usually, this was my sanctuary. When I stepped onto that grass, the rest of the world—mortgages, stats, aging joints—faded into the background.
But tonight, the background was screaming.
I stood at the top of the dugout steps, leaning against the railing as the San Francisco Jaybirds took their warm-up swings. My eyes were supposed to be scouting their lead-off hitter’s rhythm. Instead, they were glued to the short, broad-shouldered figure on the grass. Looking to catch that ball.
OzziefuckingFord.
Ozzie was catching ground balls, his movements quick and explosive with his glove. He played the game like he had something to prove to the sun itself. I watched the way his pants caught on his thighs when he crouched, the way his tonguepoked out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Eye on that ball.
I wonder what his ass taste like…
Shit.Now I’m thinking about my teammate’s ass.
Get it together, Lindson, I told myself, gripping the cold metal railing until my knuckles turned white.