Wild Pitch (Dominating the Diamond Book 1)

CHAPTER 17

Don’t read into it. Don’t read into it. Don’t read into any of this, I tell myself while wandering deeper into my childhood idol’s home. He didn’t mean anything by that.

I drag my fingers over the piano keys and browse the bookshelves in his front room.

“You don’t date ballplayers anyway, Ramirez,” I mutter. “Not that he’s interested in his rookie teammate anyway.”

“What was that?” he shouts down the hallway.

“Nothing!” I shout back. Too fast and too loud, mortified that he might have heard me.

“Everything in the kitchen is fair game if you’re thirsty.”

I’m not about to admit to anyone just how thirsty I am, so I continue wandering. His house is sparse but cozy. No dust or clutter on the coffee table, but there’s a hoodie tossed over the wingback armchair, an open book face-down on the ottoman, and a nest of pillows and blankets in one corner of the sectional. I make my way through the spotless kitchen, past the fully-stocked, three-tiered fruit basket on the island, and find myself on his back patio listening to the sound of planes in the distance and mosquitoes meeting their electric maker.

“Water?”

His smooth voice startles me, even though I’m the one wandering around his house. I try not to do a double-take when I turn around and see Mateo Reyes leaning against the sliding door frame wearing an unzipped hoodie and satin sleep shorts. The silky, navy-blue material makes his skin glow bronze under the porchlight, and the length of his inseam leaves little to the imagination. I try not to stare at the teardrop muscle flexing above his knee, or the definition between his quads and the juicy curve of his hamstrings. I try even harder not to follow those muscles all the way up to the material clinging to his groin.

I force my gaze to meet his before it can settle on the outline of his dick.

He pushes off the wall, and shadows dance over his chest and stomach. Muscles ripple where the hoodie hangs loose, and I have no business looking. His skin is so smooth, his chest nearly hairless, that the faint, dark trail of hair draws my attention down with the insistence of a neon arrow, no matter how I try to ignore it.

“I have other options, if you want something else,” he says, and I realize he’s been standing with arm outstretched and a glass of water between us.

I almost ask for a beer. Something to dull this sudden, senseless flurry of attention.

“Water’s good.” I accept the glass and clear my throat. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright now? I don’t want to rush out of here if you still need me.”

“Really, I’m good. You worry too much, rookie.”

Reyes crosses the patio. Like the rest of his house, the space is small. Understated. Clean and comfortable, with its perimeter of shrubs and potted plants, its copse of fruit trees, and bougainvillea climbing the privacy fence, yet somehow still lacking in personal touches. He sets his glass down on the long wooden table that takes up the center of the yard.

When he pinches his shorts and adjusts himself to take a seat on the steps to the hot tub, I look away, pretending to be unnaturally focused on the nearest cluster of succulents in brightly painted terracotta pots. In my peripheral vision, his legs spread wide. He leans forward on his elbows and lets his head hang for long enough that I give up on the cactus and take a step in his direction.

“You shouldn’t go, though,” he says softly.

I take the last few steps. My hand rests on his shoulder before I’ve made a conscious decision to touch him. I squeeze and feel the muscle flex beneath lightweight fleece.

Reyes doesn’t pull away.

“Are you still in pain? Do you need me to call someone? Get painkillers or something–”

“What did I tell you about worrying too much?”

The world moves in slow motion. He raises one hand, and I more than half-expect him to remove mine. Warm fingers wrap around my wrist instead, and I’m all too willing to let him hold me there.

Just teammates, I remind myself. It’s too little, too late, a verbal reminder that doesn’t stand a chance when he leans his cheek against our joined hands. Deep brown eyes rise to meet mine, and any ice left between us melts.

Up close, his exhaustion is unavoidable. His face is still brimming with youth–rounded cheeks and smooth skin–but dark circles add depth to eyes so rich, staring into them feels like getting lost in a sky without stars. His eyelids fall heavy, and straight black lashes flutter against his cheeks until I think he’s fallen asleep.

I wouldn’t be mad if he had. My feelings are so different now than they were on the bus ride that seems so long ago. Funny what a change that little bit of vulnerability has made to me, though I understand why he would hide it from the rest of our teammates. As much as his secret has bonded us that much deeper, I hate being the odd one out all over again. I hate to think that the only reason he let me in, is because even he still thinks of me as ‘the girl.’

“It’s late. I don’t want you driving home,” he says, and those eyes are reflecting the sky back up at me once more.

“Now who worries too much.” I make it sound like a joke. A clever retort, tossing his words back at him. But I pull my hand away from the warmth of his. Part of me appreciates the chivalry, and if I were just a friend, not just a teammate, his statement would be simpler. “I’ll be fine. You’re the one who needs to get some rest, if you’ve got any hope of playing the next game.”

My hand hangs awkwardly at my side, like without his body to touch, I don’t know what to do with it. I turn away, ready to grab my keys and hurry home before this night gets any stranger.

Warm fingers bracket my wrist. He doesn’t pull me back. He doesn’t trap me in his iron grip. His is a soft touch, caressing the very spot my pulse begins to race.

“If you were any other teammate, I’d still ask you to take the guest room instead of driving home, when I’m the one who kept you out and out of your way. Well, probably not Williams, but don’t tell him that.” He laughs, but the warm sound turns hollow and morphs into a groan. “Actually, you know I’d tell him right to his face.”

“I don’t have anything to wear. I don’t even have a toothbrush. Honestly, I don’t even live that far; it’s not a big deal.”

“If it’s not a big deal, then stay. You’re really telling me that in that big-ass bag you carry, you don’t have a change of clothes?”

“Not unless I want to drive home in the morning for something to wear to the batting cages. I don’t pack spare clothes to sleep in.”

“Rookie mistake, Ramirez.” His fingers tighten just enough, and I can’t help turning back to face him. “You never know when the bus is going to leave us stranded at another stadium. Always pack the essentials.”

“Well, I’ll remember that for next time.” My tongue trips over the next words, as I gesture between us with my free hand. “Not that there’s going to be a next time.”

“Seriously. You can crash on the same bed Dante used the last time he drove me home. I’ll even throw in a shirt and toothbrush since you bought dinner.”

He grins at me, and I can’t help realizing how rare his smiles are. At least ones that light him up like this. Not a smirk. Not guarded. Not a forced tilt of the lips while his eyes stay focused on something more serious. He’s beautiful, with his eyes kissing in the corners as his cheeks flush with a hint of pink.

I haven’t agreed to stay, but when he looks at me that way, it’s hard to resist. He loosens his grip and lets his fingers slide down to the tips of my own. Sparks–just a moment, and then they’re gone as quickly as he is.

“I’m not trying to pressure you, rookie. If you want to leave, I’ll walk you to your car right now, on one condition.” He pauses and gives me his sternest team captain look. “Say you’ll text me when you’re home safe.”

He holds out his hands, and this time, I’m the one to take them. I pull him up, but anything clever I might have tried to say dies on my lips when his smile becomes the sort of wince that only accompanies deep pains.

“So, Dante knows about that?”

“What are you talking about? Come on, let’s get you out to the car.”

“About the injuries you’re trying to hide. That’s why he drove you home, isn’t it?” I put one palm on his chest when he tries to dodge my question by ushering me to the car. His heart pounds its steady rhythm into my hand.

“He drove me home after I had too much to drink because, believe it or not, I’m not an emotionless baseball automaton.” Reyes sighs, and for a second, I think we’re going to rehash our entire fight from the bus. I open my mouth, ready to admit that I still owe him an apology. “I’m not injured, Ramirez, so put that idea out of your head. My seasons left behind the plate are numbered, that’s all.”

“Not being able to bend over after a game isn’t normal–”

“Tell me that in ten years, rookie. I’ll take a break when our season’s up, and I swear I’m fine until then.” He glances at his chest, where my fingers are splayed over soft, bronzed skin. “Why are you so worried about me being able to bend over anyway?”

I know he means it to break the ice. To get me to drop my questions and let my worries go. But my mouth goes dry, and suddenly my heart is racing like I’ve been running wind sprints as punishment for being late to practice, and more adrenaline is pumping through my veins than when I’m standing on the mound with a full count and the bases loaded.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” I blink away images of Reyes bent over in those short, clinging shorts, with his forearms braced on the hot tub steps, and the muscles in his back rippling in the moonlight. “And stop thinking I’ll fall for your tricks and distractions. I’m not Williams.”

“Thank god for that,” he mutters. “Look. I don’t know what you want me to tell you. My back and hips get tight, and my knees are fucked. Normal ballplayer–hell, normal athlete–aches and pains. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Even though I’m the reason you played extra innings? Because we both know that I haven’t pitched a single good inning without you behind the plate.”

“Damn, rookie, did they have to get you a special hat for that big head of yours? We’re in the running for the wildcard spot, and I need that Series ring. I was playing extra innings and working Alex’s last nerve before you came along, and I need you to keep your head in the game and trust me to mind my own business–”

“Because you don’t think I’m going to last?”

“Because I want you to outlast me. Believe in yourself. Trust me. That’s all you’ve got to do. Now, can I walk you out to your car, or are you going to stay?”

“Throw in breakfast with the shirt and toothbrush, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”