It wasn’t a “Dear John” letter. It was just ten digits scrawled in messy, hurried handwriting, and a small, hand-drawn sketch of a baseball with “Beavers” written across it. Underneath, in tiny letters, he’d written:
Here’s my cell number. Text me before the bus leaves. Don’t overthink it, Cap.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Don’t overthink it,” I muttered, shaking my head. Easier said than done when you’re 29 and falling for a 23-year-old catcher who catches ball like his life depends on it.
I picked up my phone and typed out a message.
To: [New Number]I’m thinking about it. But I’m mostly thinking about how you look in my shirt. Get some breakfast, kid. See you at the bus.
* * *
The bus was a hum of white noise—the engine’s low thrum, the air conditioning blowing through the vents, and the distant murmur of guys arguing over their fantasy football leagues. I was tucked into my usual seat in the back row, my long legs cramped, while Ozzie was four rows up, sitting by the window.
The agony of being away from him. I wanted to claim him again with my lips. I wanted a taste of his cock.
We were just two teammates focused on our pre-game rituals, but in secret, we were a love fuck. My phone was burning a hole in my palm as I texted Ozzie.
ME:You’re wearing that hoodie I like. The one that’s a little too big for you.
I watched the back of his head. He didn’t move for a second, then I saw his shoulders drop as he checked his screen. He leaned his forehead against the window, shielding his face from his seatmate.
OZZIE:Maybe I wore it because it smells like your hotel room. Focus on the scouting report, Ryan. You’re supposed to be the disciplined one.
I felt a surge of heat crawl up my neck. I adjusted my position, leaning back and typing with one hand.
ME:Disciplined? Last night you had that dirty fuckable mouth on me and you weren’t calling me ‘Cap.’ You were begging. Hard to stay disciplined when I can still feel your teeth on my shoulder. You like that, don’t you? Leaving marks on your Cap?
Across the bus, Ozzie shifted violently in his seat. He reached up, pulling his hood over his head to hide the fact that his ears were probably turning bright red. My heart hammered against myribs. I knew exactly what he was feeling—that desperate, electric tension that made it impossible to sit still. I’m getting to him all right.
OZZIE:Shut up, Lindson. Seriously. I’m sitting three feet away from the pitching coach. If you keep talking like that, I’m going to have to go lock myself in the bus bathroom until we hit the state line.
I looked at the back of his hooded head, imagining the look in his eyes—the way they got dark and hazy when he was flustered. I leaned forward, my thumbs flying over the screen.
ME:The bus bathroom has a lock, Oz. And it’s dark. If you get up in five minutes, I might just happen to need a stretch at the same time. We could see just how ‘aerodynamic’ you really are in a tight space.
I saw him freeze, like I challenged him. He didn’t text back immediately. He just sat there, perfectly still, while the miles blurred past the window.
Is he going to do it?
Then, slowly, he stood up, not looking back, and started making his way down the aisle toward the small restroom at the rear.
I waited exactly sixty seconds. My pulse was a frantic rhythm in my ears, louder than the roar of the highway under the tires. I stood up, stretching my arms over my head like a man who’d just caught a cramp, and moved toward the back.
I’m coming for you, Ozzie Ford.
I slipped into the tiny, cramped lavatory and clicked the lock just as the bus hit a pothole, sending me stumbling forward.
Ozzie was already there, backed against the tiny sink in the dim, blue-tinted light. The space was so small my knees wereliterally slotted between his, and the ceiling was so low I had to duck my head.
“You’re insane,” Ozzie breathed, his voice a frantic whisper against the hum of the engine. “If anyone hears—”
“They won’t,” I cut him off, my voice a jagged growl. I hooked my hands under his thighs and hoisted him up onto the small counter. He gasped, his legs immediately locking around my waist, pulling me into the cradle of his hips.
The vibration of the bus traveled through the floor, through the walls, and straight into our bones. I buried my face in his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin and that oversize hoodie.
“I told you I couldn’t fucking stop thinking about it,” I muttered, my hands sliding up under the sweatshirt to find the warm, bare skin of his waist. “Watching you walk down this aisle… knowing what you look like under this hoodie….fuck…”
Ozzie’s hands fumbled with my shirt, his fingers desperate and shaky. He found my mouth in the dark, and the kiss was frantic, messy, and tasted like the adrenaline of being caught. Every time the bus swayed, we were thrown harder against each other. I could feel every line of his body, every tensed muscle as he tried to keep his moans muffled against my lips.