Wild Pitch (Dominating the Diamond Book 1)

CHAPTER 19

Mateo Reyes’ heart is racing.

His skin is softer than it has any right to be. Smooth, with hair so sparse and fine, it’s almost nonexistent. Between the locker room showers, the ice bath, and a quarter-hour already passed between us in the hot tub, there’s not a trace of sweat-streaked sunscreen left, but somehow he still smells like leather and sunshine, with something tropical lurking like a sweet surprise underneath.

I tell myself to stop sniffing him before he notices, and I shove. Not hard enough to hurt him. Not hard enough to mark–even if this minute skin-to-skin contact has triggered thoughts of dime-sized bruises decorating golden-brown skin.

“Let the jets do what they need to do before we both turn into prunes.” I’m not sure if I mean to say it as a joke, a suggestion, or a command.

It comes out a command.

For a moment, I’m worried how Reyes, stubborn team captain known for taking no shit and keeping everyone at a distance, will react. It’s a foolish risk. One I can’t afford to make, and he is perhaps the worst person in the world that I could possibly make it with.

His knees brush my legs as he slides back into the corner seat. He lets my hand guide him, neither pushing back nor pulling away. When his back reaches the jets that turn the water tumultuous between us, I’m leaning forward awkwardly, not ready to pull away but not committed to what I refuse to admit I want. I reach for the edge of the tub with my other hand, only to find slippery tile instead of balance.

Reyes catches me. One hand on my waist. His thumb finds the seam where spandex meets skin. His palm is somehow hotter against my hip than the steaming water.

“Careful, rookie.”

He stares at me with those dark eyes, and I almost ask what he sees when he looks at me. A rookie. His teammate. A publicity stunt standing between him and a playoff ring. A woman.

His face is calm. Unreadable. I should pull away instead of searching for clues, but his heart is still racing almost as fast as mine.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and once more, there are too many things he could mean, and so few I should be contemplating. “Even if I’m not always good at showing it.”

“If?”

His laugh rumbles beneath my hand. I adjust my stance, but neither of us releases our grip on the other. A callused thumb traces my hip so slowly, so absently, that I’m not sure Reyes knows he’s doing it.

“I’m sorry for what I said on the bus. You’re the first person in this league who’s made me feel like a teammate. If even you wish I weren’t here, then how am I ever going to make it? I don’t need everyone to be my friend, but I need to be able to trust my team–”

“I want you, rookie.” He saves me from the rambling that I couldn’t control. “You ever going to tell me what happened in Texas that shook you up like this? I never saw you panic on the mound like that until the Scorpions brought you up, and it seems like a whole lot more than a reaction to the stadium size.”

“You watched me play before they brought me up?” I ask because I don’t want to think about the Scorpions. And I shouldn’t want to think about the way Reyes said, I want you, rookie.

“You know that you’ve got the talent,” he says, his thumb still caressing while neither of us acknowledges it. “Don’t you?”

I open my mouth, but no answer comes out. A year ago, the answer would have been yes. No doubts. No room for doubts. It was never arrogance; there was the knowledge of just how many players I could never touch. I always knew how much harder I’d have to work to keep up.

When it’s clear that I’m not going to answer, he rolls his shoulders. He grunts, but the grimace is not nearly so drastic as it was earlier. With all the attention to his back and knees, we’ve neglected the normal post-game wear-and-tear to his shoulders.

“Sit forward.” Again, it comes out as a command.

“You’re the one who told me to sit back, and let the jets do their magic,” he retorts, but when I free my hand from his chest, he lets his fall away from my hip. His grip isn’t gone for long. Those long fingers reach for my waist, my hips, my thighs—grazing water droplets from my skin as I climb onto the spa’s edge behind him. “Shit, Ramirez, be careful.”

“What is it you’re always saying?” I tamp down every nervous, awkward feeling and make myself as comfortable as I can with my feet planted on the seat, bracketing his narrow hips. “Trust me.”

Instead of answering, he lets his head drop forward. I start at the base of his skull, unsurprised by the tension that meets my thumbs. His breathing deepens as I work the knots from his neck, tempted to tease those vulnerable pulse points. I grab the bulge of his traps between thumb and two fingers, and he groans; I dig in mercilessly, watching his skin flush and start to sweat, even as the knots slowly give way to the pressure.

“Fuck, Ramirez.” His body releases in a series of quiet sighs and quieter moans that have absolutely nothing to do with the way the night air makes my nipples stiffen against my soaked sports bra. “I care about more than baseball.”

“I know–”

“Lately, it’s harder and harder not to wonder whether all the sacrifices were worth it. When my last season is behind me, how much am I going to regret?”

My hands pause on his shoulders. There’s nothing I could say to that. Eleven years younger than he is, I have to hope that I’ll never be asking this same question. He reaches up while I’m at a loss for something comforting to say, and his fingers close around mine.

He changes the subject. With an abrupt pivot, as if he never meant to reveal so much of himself, he steers us toward more superficial ground. Easy topics–favorite music, shows, and books; favorite ballparks to visit and cities we wish we could spend more time in; what we plan to do more of come the off-season. Nothing heavy. Nothing vulnerable. But we speak quieter, and his hands never leave mine.

Gooseflesh pricks my skin despite a night that’s far from cold, and every hair on my arms stands electrified as Reyes coasts his hands from my elbows to my wrists. His hands move as gentle as angel’s wings. Those soft caresses almost distract me from the way he leans back against my legs. He massages my pitching hand without being asked. His thumb rubs the tender spot at the heel of my palm and works his way toward every callus.

For the second time tonight, he holds my hand against his shoulder and leans his face in toward me. This time, his lips brush my palm. It’s not quite a kiss, and I’m not quite sure what to make of it. I’m afraid to read into it, even though I’m the one who can’t seem to make up my mind about what I want from him. One moment, I remember, clear as a September day in the middle of a sold-out stadium, that I don’t date ballplayers. The next, I want nothing more than to see just how far he’d let me take control.

When I drag my fingers through his hair, his groan vibrates into my palm. I’m rougher when I repeat the motion. I tease his scalp with my short nails. I tug on his thick, black hair until he leans back. Just a little closer. Just enough that my knees spread to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders. Water splashes off his sculpted back and over the edge of the tile.

The hot spray coats my thighs.

I gasp, but neither of us acknowledges whatever may or may not be happening between us. It’s as if, by not voicing it out loud, we can pretend we’re not dancing down this foul line. I learn his favorite color. He learns my favorite musician. We talk about the last time either of us went to a concert. All while simultaneously growing more relaxed and tenser than ever.

“Reyes,” I sigh when he runs his hands back up my arms. It’s neither permission nor denial as he pulls me in closer, bending me toward him. But my body answers for itself. My hands move across his chest. My arms wrap around him, and his stomach flexes beneath my hands.

“You’re cold.” His observation comes abruptly. I think that’s our sign. Our signal to return to reality before we do something we can’t pretend never happened. “Get in the water before you catch pneumonia.”

“It’s September in LA.” I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue. “I’m not going to catch pneumonia just by being outside with wet hair.”

I slide back into the water with every intention of wading across to the opposite corner. His arm circles my waist, and every good intention dissipates faster than the steam between us.

“Reyes,” I repeat when he doesn’t let me go.

“Mhmm, rookie.” His arm is loose. His hand sits high enough around my waist that we could still pretend he was just helping me into the spa, worried that I might fall.

“What are we doing?”

“Just sitting back and letting the jets work their magic. Right? You don’t date ballplayers. I don’t care about anything except making it to playoffs.” Blunt nails scrape lightly over my hip. “Right?”

“Right.” I ignore every flashing red flag and climb into his lap. “I don’t date ballplayers.”

Reyes leans back and lets me straddle him. He doesn’t pull me forward to grind against his erection. He doesn’t touch anything but the skin between the waist of my shorts and the band of my sports bra.

“We should probably get to bed soon,” he says, still playing it cool enough that I know this is a terrible idea.

“Shut up and kiss me, Reyes.”