Bunt in the Baking Tent

1. Diaz

Diaz

Ihad never given much credibility to conspiracy theories . . . or conspiracy theorists, for that matter.

Lately, though, I had begun reconsidering my position on conspiracies. I was now about seventy percent convinced—seventy-three percent on bad days—that there were unseen forces actively plotting against my teammates and me.

Spirits. Demons. El diablo.

It didn't matter what you called them. They were out there and they were fucking me.

Sideways . . . and without lube.

Take it from this sweet Catholic boy who, much to my grandmother’s horror, only saw the inside of a church on Christmas these days.

There was a fine line between superstition and full-blown “the government is turning the frogs gay” delusions, and nobody straddled that line better than baseball players.

Baseball was just as much of a religion as the rest. Only we prayed with pine tar and worshiped at the altar of playoff beards. So, it was only natural that when a winning season started to tilt sideways, suspicion started to creep in.

Maybe it was just team mechanics, or maybe . . . the Rose City Roasters were cursed.

Dum dum dum.

“Strike three.”

The umpire’s voice sliced through the stadium noise like a guillotine. From the top step of the dugout, I watched Bennett freeze for half a second at the plate before stepping back, his jaw tight.

It was a rare thing, seeing my friend caught off-balance like that.

Bennett was so much more than our catcher; he was the team’s backbone.

The guy could read a pitcher’s tells like subtitles and call a game like he’d written the script.

He carried himself with quiet authority that could make even the biggest bastards cower in fear.

Little did they know there was a big, old teddy bear with a sweet tooth lurking underneath that catching gear.

It’d been nearly six months since Bennett had moved out of my spare room, but we’d lived together long enough for me to recognize his tells—the stiffening of his shoulders, the way he avoided eye contact when he passed his bat off to our bat girl, Daisy. He was fucking pissed, and rightfully so.

This was our eighth loss in a row.

It sucked. We sucked. Any day now, the organization was going to rebrand and start selling tickets to Suckfest ‘26.

Now there’s a shirt I’d buy.

On second thought, it sounded like a gay porn flick, and not a good one at that.

I leaned against the railing, staring out at the field and hoping for a sign.

Something.

Anything.

El Chupacabra, even. That would certainly make Abuelita’s day.

Sadly, only the women in my family inherited the brujería gene. The spirits had jack shit to say to me.

Bennett jogged back toward the dugout now, helmet tucked under his arm, his expression carefully neutral. I forced my hands together in a bright, performative clap.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“It’s not your fault, mi pana,” I told him. “It’s the curse.”

He rolled his eyes.

It was safe to say that my ex-roommate did not believe in curses. Or El Chupacabra. Or that the baseball gods had been out for revenge ever since Roman had switched his walk-up song to “Circle of Life.”

Fucking Lion King.

That hadn’t stopped him from spending hours on end at my kitchen table, listening as Abuelita described in vivid, horrifying detail the night a red-eyed beast had drained three goats and “looked her directly in the soul.” Or asking clarifying questions even though he didn’t believe a word of her story. That was how much he loved her.

All the guys did.

And I couldn’t blame them; Abuelita was fucking awesome.

“Not again with the curse.”

“An ancient entity,” I said firmly. “Probably Caribbean, definitely offended.”

“By what, exactly?” He held up a finger wrapped in black tape. “And I don’t want to hear about Roman’s walk-up song again.”

“I’ve narrowed it down to either the new clubhouse coffee machine or that thing Pink calls a mustache.”

Pink gasped from behind us. “You take that back.”

I turned slowly.

Let the record show, I was not anti-mustache. I was, in fact, extremely pro-mustache under the correct circumstances. Some well-groomed whiskers on the right face, with a sculpted jawline and a little bit of swagger?

Fucking hot.

Just last year, I had casually dated an honest-to-God, wood chopping lumberjack. Thick flannel, thicker forearms. The whole Pacific Northwest, Ron Swanson lookalike starter pack, topped off with a 70s porn ‘stache that was one hell of a sex accessory.

Just thinking about it made me shiver.

One night, after a few IPAs and a heated debate about how to “properly” season cast-iron pans, he’d pushed me against the wall of his log cabin, dropped to his knees on the bearskin rug, and gone to town on my log.

It was the kind of blow job that erased every word from my vocabulary, except fuck, please, and more.

And that mustache? Jesucristo.

It’d felt like velvet sandpaper in the best possible way. Tickling, teasing, and just enough friction to short-circuit every rational thought.

But Jared Pink’s mustache wasn’t that.

The dude might’ve been a Cy Young award-winning pitcher, but his mustache looked like it had been drawn on with a Sharpie during some kind of drunken dare.

It was patchy and uneven, the kind that made you wonder if the man owned a mirror or if he was just committed to the bit.

Knowing Pink, it was probably the latter.

I pointed toward his upper lip. “That thing is actively sabotaging our vibes.”

He clutched his chest with feigned outrage. “It’s distinguished.”

“Patrick Stewart is distinguished,” I shot back.

“Sir Patrick Stewart,” Roman corrected from my left. “Did I ever tell you guys about the time he hit on me at Dunkin’ Donuts?”

Bennett snorted, finally cracking a real smile as he dropped onto the bench. “Diaz has a point, dude,” he directed to Pink. “You look like you’re auditioning for the villain in a low-budget Western.”

“Okay, fuck all of you,” Pink muttered, but he was fighting a grin. “But especially you, Benny boy.”

“What did I do?”

“You fucked my sister.”

Bennett’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it got softer, the kind of look that reminded me of the head-over-heels himbos from my favorite movies.

“Guilty,” he said, not even pretending to be sorry. “And I’ll do it again. Every day for the rest of my life if she’ll let me.”

Pink groaned, but there was no real heat behind it. “Fucking gross, man. Spare me the details. I already have to live with the image of walking in on the two of you on the couch.”

“You should’ve knocked,” Bennett reminded him mildly.

I laughed under my breath.

The timeline still amused me. Bennett had moved out of my North Portland place and into Pink’s spare bedroom at the start of the year. He had claimed it was for the quiet and convenience, but we all knew better than that.

The real reason had been Bella, the sharp-tongued, fiercely independent beekeeper who lived next door, and who just so happened to be Pink’s little sister. Within weeks, she had turned our stoic, introverted catcher into a walking rom-com cliché.

Six months later, Bennett and Bella were disgustingly in love, house-hunting together, and arguing over paint colors. Not that there was much of an argument. All of us knew that Bennett would lay down his own life if it meant Bella got the exact shade of green she had her heart set on.

Pink might grumble about his teammate shacking up with his sister, but he would also be the first one to buy them some ridiculously expensive patio furniture the day they finally put in an offer on their future home.

“Seriously, if you knock her up before we win another ring, I will shave your mustache off in your sleep and glue it to your face.”

Bennett raised both hands in mock surrender. “I’ll keep the baby-making on hold until we’ve got the hardware.”

The guys started filing down the tunnel toward the locker room, cleats clacking against the concrete as the conversation splintered, half of them arguing about where to grab dinner, while the rest discussed their plans for tomorrow’s day off.

The noise echoed and overlapped, all of it blending into the kind of background hum that came from too many personalities crammed into one space, comfortable enough to talk over each other without missing a beat.

Bennett fell into step beside me as we headed toward our lockers. “You good, man?”

“Just peachy. Why?”

“I don’t know. You’ve just been a little . . . extra lately.”

I shot him a wink. “You should know by now that I’m always extra.”

“Even for you,” he said, low enough that only I could hear. “I can’t help but feel like you’re putting on a show.”

My smile faltered. “I just take my self-appointed cheerleader responsibilities seriously, Benito. Don’t worry about me.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he also didn’t push. He never did when he knew I was deflecting. Instead, he just bumped my shoulder the same way he used to when we’d still shared a kitchen, playfully arguing over who’d left dishes in the sink. Again.

Spoiler alert, it had been me.

Bennett was an obsessively tidy fuck, one of the many reasons he was better off living with Bella.

If the team needed me to shoulder the burden of being the resident optimist through this slump, then I was more than happy to take it on. Truthfully, it was a welcome distraction.

“Are you excited for Abuelita’s visit?” Bennett stripped off his jersey, tossing it into the locker next to mine.

Subtle subject change, Benny boy.

“Sí,” I told him. “She’s made a list of all the places she wants to visit while she’s here. And all the meals she insists on cooking for me.”

His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Does that include arroz con gandules?”

“You know it.”

“You better invite me over.”

My lips kicked up in a grin. “Abuelita would have my ass if I didn’t.”

I stripped off my own jersey, the damp fabric clinging to my olive skin, and tossed it toward the hamper. The throw went wide.

The curse continues.