What happened in the shower was a mistake. A lapse in veteran judgment. I was twenty-nine, a leader on this team, and he was a twenty-four-year-old kid with his whole career ahead of him. Cracking the tension in the locker room was one thing, but the way he’d looked at me—defiant and breathless—had stirred something up that I couldn’t just “walk off.”
I want him. I wanted him ever since he joined this team. Since my eyes heldhis.
“Lindy, you’re up third,” the hitting coach barked, clapping me on the shoulder.
“Got it,” I grunted.
I grabbed my bat and headed for the on-deck circle. As I passed Ozzie heading back to the dugout, our paths crossed. It was a tight fit. For a split second, the world narrowed down to the scent of his sunscreen and the dirt on his jersey.
He didn’t look at me. He kept his head down, but I saw the way his jaw tightened. He was feeling it, too. That magnetic pull that made the air feel thin whenever we were within five feet of each other.
I stepped into the batter’s box, the crowd’s roar becoming a dull hum. The Jaybirds’ pitcher was a lefty with a nasty curve, but I wasn’t worried about the pitch. I was worried about the fact that I could see Ozzie in my peripheral vision, sitting on the bench, watching me.
The first pitch came in high and tight—a brush-back. I stepped out of the box, shaking my head. Strike one.
Focus on the ball, Ryan. Not the kid.Then the pitcher threw the ball, and my eyes were like lasers on the rounded form.
I felt the vibration rattle up my arms before I even heard the crack—that perfect, wooden thwack that tells you you’ve found the sweet spot. It wasn’t a home run, but it was a sharp line drive right into the gap in right-center field.
I dropped the bat and took off.
At twenty-nine, I wasn’t the fastest guy on the team anymore, but I had the strides. My cleats tore into the dirt, my lungs burning with the sudden burst of adrenaline. As I rounded the corner and sprinted toward first base, my eyes instinctively flickered toward the dugout.
I wanted to seehim.Just a peek.
Ozzie was right there at the railing. He was leaning so far over it he looked like he might fall out, his hands gripped tight on the foam padding. For a split second, our eyes locked. He wasn’t just cheering; he looked transfixed.
I hit the bag hard, the coach waving me down as the right-fielder cut the ball off. I stayed at first, chest heaving, taking a lead-off as the pitcher tried to compose himself.
“Nice piece of hitting, Lindson,” the first baseman for the Jaybirds grumbled, but I barely heard him.Whatever, loser.
I was looking across the diamond. Ozzie was still watching. He wiped a hand across his forehead, and even from forty feet away, I could see the flush on his neck. I knew it wasn’t just from the heat of the game.
The next batter stepped up, and I focused on the pitcher’s delivery, but my mind was racing faster than my pulse. Being on the field usually kept me disciplined, but having Ozzie in my line of sight was like trying to play through a fever. Every time I moved, I felt his eyes on me.
By the time the inning ended and I had to jog back to the dugout to grab my glove, the tension was vibrating in my teeth.I stepped down into the shade of the dugout, and Ozzie was standing by the water cooler, holding a paper cup.
He didn’t move out of my way. Not that I wanted him too.
“Nice hit,” he said, his voice low enough that it didn’t carry over the chatter of the other guys. He took a slow sip of the water, his eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the cup.
Fuck. His pretty face.
“Just doing my job, Ford,” I replied, reaching past him for my glove. My arm brushed against his ribs—intentional, and we both knew it. I felt him catch his breath.
“Is that all this is?” he whispered. “Your job?”
I stopped. I didn’t grab the glove. Instead, I let my hand linger against the side of his jersey, right over the curve of his ribs. The dugout was a disaster of noise—spit, sunflower seeds, and guys shouting—but in the two inches of space between us, it was a graveyard quiet.
I stepped deeper into his personal space, using my bulk to shield him from the view of the hitting coach or anybody else. I leaned down, my mouth hovering just an inch from the shell of his ear. I could smell the salt on his skin and the sweet, artificial scent of the blue Gatorade he’d been drinking.
“If I were just doing my job,” I hissed, my voice a jagged, low vibration, “I wouldn’t be thinking about the way you looked in that shower light for every single pitch of that at-bat.”
I felt a shiver run through him—a physical tremor that started at his neck and disappeared under his jersey. I let my hand slide down from his ribs, my thumb hooking firmly into the waistband of his baseball pants for just a fraction of a second, pulling him a hair closer.
“And I definitely wouldn’t be wondering,” I added, my breath hitting the sensitive skin behind his ear, “if you taste like that water you’re sipping, or if you taste like the trouble you’re trying so hard to stir up. I like that kind of stuff, Ozzie Ford. Try me.”
I pulled back just enough to look at him.