Wild Pitch (Dominating the Diamond Book 1)

CHAPTER 11

This was a bad choice. Terrible, really. Absolutely, goddamned, irresponsible choice.

Ramirez is all but kneeling between my legs with that dark ponytail brushing my knee and her hand practically resting on my thigh. Her long torso stretches to reach the bag I told her to get, and I lean my head back to keep from looking at the growing strip of skin as her jacket rises. She just pitched five innings in the middle of summer, but she still smells like strawberries and watermelon gum, with an undercurrent of sweat, leather, and sunscreen. And damn if it isn’t intoxicating.

I take off my ball cap and drag my fingers through my hair, as if that could possibly distract me from thoughts I should not be having on the team bus.

“Are you excavating an entire cave down there?” I ask, praying she mistakes the gravel in my voice as irritation and not something more.

“Calm your man titties,” she says, and I’m so taken aback I bark out a laugh that earns me an over the shoulder glance and sky-high eyebrows from Dante.

“Pecs,” I say. “Pretty sure you mean, rock-hard, sculpted pecs.”

“I mean what I said, viejito.” She finally sits up, and I’m able to let out a breath that sounds pained for reasons other than the pinch in my low back. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Of all the words for her to choose at this moment.

I grind my teeth. I roll my eyes and shake my head to buy time to think of how I’m supposed to respond to that.

She saves me the trouble and thrusts the aux splitter toward my chest. Her eyes are wide and her lips pressed thin with challenge and expectation.

“What’s your excuse now?” she asks.

I snatch the cord from her without a word. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I heard her gasp in that split-second too long when our fingers brushed. But when I glance at Ramirez, her face is as calmly animated as ever. She reaches over to connect her headphones, and I hold up one finger between us.

“Hang on,” I say. “I have one condition.”

“Oh, come on,” she whines with a tell-tale grin giving her away. For a professional athlete, Ramirez has a garbage poker face. “If I’m not allowed to tease you, what’s the point?”

“If you would be patient and trust me for once, you’d know that’s not my condition,” I deadpan, the hint of a smirk twitching at the corner of my lips. I shake my finger between us. “One condition. You aren’t allowed to do that terrible thing you call humming. Got it?”

“I’m not that bad—”

“I’ve heard sea lions in better harmony,” I retort.

“Whatever.” She pulls her headphones over her ears and circles her finger in a let’s get on with this motion. “Hit play, then.”

My finger hesitates over the play button. Not because I’m afraid of a bit of good-natured teasing from my teammate. Especially now that she’s back in her seat at a safe distance, and the tension at the pit of my stomach has dissipated.

I haven’t shared music like this since Oliver. I’ve carried this silly little splitter around in my bag as a physical reminder that those happy memories weren’t just a dream. I don’t want Oliver back. I did, for a while. The first few months after we broke up, when my team didn’t even make it to the post-season, and I spiraled alone in a Long Beach house way too big without him in it. Not anymore, though. Not since he started moving on, and seeing him laughing so easily with someone new made me finally realize just how little he smiled for me those last rocky months.

It doesn’t matter that I don’t want him back. These memories are still wrapped up in him, and it’s scary to share the moment with anyone else. Even if they can’t be anything more than a teammate.

I didn’t get this far in my career by avoiding the hard parts. It’s time to stop avoiding them in my personal life, too.

I press play.