Wild Pitch (Dominating the Diamond Book 1)

CHAPTER 25

I understand what Reyes is trying to say. Appreciate it even. I just don’t expect him to be right.

There’s a difference between pitching, where strategy comes so much into play, and hitting, where the distance to the fence is almost twice as far as it is on a softball field. Sure, there’s the skill and strategy of being able to sight and strike the pitch. But there’s also the simple physics of power and distance, which frankly isn’t on my side. I could send the ball over the wall on a softball field; here, every outfielder around the diamond would be moving in and waiting like sharks scenting blood in the water.

It may only be a couple ounces difference, but the bat weighs me down. My entire stance feels wrong. I am all too aware of those dark eyes on me, of the sweat at my low back, of the sun that’s suddenly too bright. Trying to keep the bat loose is the only thing I let myself focus on, but my shoulders begin to tense in spite of my best efforts.

When I clip another foul ball, I don’t throw a tantrum. Reyes is in my head now, I don’t want you to just swing, planning to miss so I’ll leave you alone.

I meant it more than I should, when I told him that I don’t want him to leave me alone. Basking in his attention is about so much more than seeing how he can turn me into a better player. It’s tied up in more than the way his body yielded to mine in the hot tub or the way he looks when he’s on his knees at my feet.

“Do you need a break? I didn’t mean to push too hard if you really are finished–” Reyes says when I swing so late, I’m nowhere near the next pitch.

Apparently today is the day of one hundred embarrassments. There’s no way I’m going to admit that the reason I missed the pitch was because I was too busy thinking about how pretty he looks when he kneels.

“I’m good.” I have to clear my throat when my voice cracks. “Just waiting for my pitch.”

He doesn’t point out how ridiculous that statement is in front of a machine designed to always hit the strike zone.

I know it must be only in my head, but emptiness washes over me, the loss of his intensity trained on my back. It’s impossible. To be so in tune with someone that I could feel the weight of their gaze. Let alone a man I’ve only known a couple of months, the better part of which, he’s kept me at arm’s distance. Impossible–yet it’s both as certain and as subtle as the feeling of a cloud blocking me from the sun’s rays.

A grounder skitters toward what would be third base, and I’m certain Reyes isn’t even watching until he shouts over the rustling of an equipment bag on fake turf.

“Better. Relax, rookie. Don’t fight the bat, and it’ll come to you.”

With the barely-there static of a portable speaker, the unmistakable trumpet lick fills the cooling air before the pop of the next pitch leaving the machine. Reggaeton flows through my body, tempting my hips to move, and I’m not thinking about the weight of the bat or the weight of Reyes’ gaze, about what last night meant, or about why he’s being so nice to me now. In my mind, I’m not even here; I’m standing beneath a harvest moon in an empty field, with my mom on the mound in front of me and my mama behind the plate, and both of them singing along to the music blaring from their beat-up old boombox behind the backstop.

I may be holding the bat Reyes forced into my hands, but I swing the way my mothers taught me in that overgrown field that was always more brown than green, where the backstop was rusty, and the bleachers were worn-down old wood whose paint had seen better days.

The moment the ball makes impact–as the vibrations shudder up my arms, rattle in my shoulders, and dissipate through my body like a lighting strike–as that glorious crack rings in my ears–I know that I’ve done it. I stand almost in shock, watching the ball sail like I didn’t believe possible.

Behind me, Reyes whoops over the steady rhythm of syncopated drums. He gives me time to revel in my own power. There’s no, I told you so. No smart-ass remark from the man who, I’ve come to realize, really isn’t grumpy at all.

That solo trumpet comes back, and I step back up to the plate. One way or another, I need to know if this was a fluke.

Right foot as blaring horns announce the beginning of the next song. Left foot as the trap beat feeds into the track. Bat to the center of the plate as salsa, trap, and hip hop combine to back the opening verse. I square up, body staying loose, as if buoyed by the music.

Another ball crashes into the cage. One, two, three cracks in quick succession. The netting trembles, as if it too is dancing to the Latin beats.

When I step out of the cage and set the bat down on the turf beside the scuffed, little speaker, I expect Reyes to say something. He sits on the bench behind the batting cage with his legs kicked out in front of him and his hands interlaced over the top of his ball cap. Still silent, as I drop to the bit of turf between our bags and kick off my shoes. Barefoot and nervous for no good reason, I nudge the bat toward him.

“Keep it.” Reyes finally breaks his silence, and I don’t know why I’m so relieved by the sound of his voice. “Leila has plenty. This one suits you.”

“Thank you,” I say, but it isn’t enough. Not just for the bat but for the time he’s spent with me. Perhaps most importantly, for seeing something in me, where even the people willing to pay an obscene amount of money to make me their publicity experiment aren’t willing to take a chance on me.

“You aren’t even going to compliment my playlist?”

The fact that he’s clearly deflecting my gratitude makes me feel a little bit better about my own awkwardness. He drops his hand to scratch his chest, and I catch the hint of color almost hidden by the shadow his hat casts on his cheeks. The way he adjusts his feet is oddly adorable; he shakes his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, and the movement should be so small, so simple. There’s something about the way he does it, about that little fidget and the way he breaks eye contact for the shortest of seconds.

“Where did you get this playlist?” I ask, just as another of my favorite workout songs begins.

“I didn’t get it anywhere,” he says with mock defensiveness. “Give me some credit, for once, rookie.”

“You just happened to make a Latin workout playlist?” I drop my chin and arch my eyebrows, grinning through my look of disbelief.

He shrugs and plants his feet. With a groan that seems more in jest at the injuries that brought us together the night before than due to current pain, he rises and stretches both arms toward the sun. He isn’t much taller than me, perhaps an inch or two difference, but standing over me like this, with his broad shoulders, slim hips, and flaring lats, he cuts an imposing figure.

Which only makes me want to have him on his knees that much more.

I shake my head to clear that thought and try not to stare at the tight ass flexing in those fitted, gray pants. He walks into the batting cage like he owns it. Not in a possessive or demonstrative way. There’s a confidence bordering on hard-earned arrogance in each step. He kicks the dirt and finds his stance with a self-assurance so natural, I couldn’t look away, even if I tried.

I squeeze the soles of my feet together and lean into the butterfly stretch while he warms up, striking a few easy balls with only a fraction of his power. Moving through the rest of my stretches while sweat begins to cool on my bare skin, I watch him ramp up to the sort of batting that fills stadiums week after week.

“Nooo, why this song?” I whine as dramatically as possible when the awfully overplayed remix starts.

Reyes drops his bat and stalks toward me. He twines his fingers in the links between us and points one finger in my general direction.

“Change it. My phone’s right by your leg.” His brows knit when I stand and begin walking his phone toward him. “I didn’t say bring it to me. Don’t be weird, and just change the song. Wait, though, if you’re already up, can you bring me my water?”

I roll my eyes. But he leans into the fence and opens his mouth when I reach him, and my brain skips. It’s not unusual–a fellow athlete standing open-mouthed, waiting for a teammate to squirt water when their hands are occupied or blocked. It just isn’t usually a man I spent the night straddling in a hot tub, with my tongue down his throat and thoughts of filling both our mouths with so much more.

Water dribbles down his chin, and I have to walk away.

“There’s a passcode,” I say, staring at the phone in my hand. It’s not my wittiest remark, but the sight of dripping water has me fighting to form thoughts.

“One, seven, zero, eight, one, two.”

“Your jersey number?” I ask while I input the code and unlock his phone.

“My niece’s number. My first number, all the way back as a kid. And you already know my current number.”

“Cute, but that is not a secure passcode, viejito,” I tease, but I can’t tamp down the warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest that he cares so much for his family.

“Do you want to change the song or not? At this point, you’ve listed to most of it.”

My silence concedes his point. I swipe to the next song. My hips start moving to the beat immediately, but the text notification flashing on his screen distracts me. I don’t mean to snoop, but my mind registers that bit of preview text before my fingers lock the screen.

Oliver:

I’m sorry for just showing up, ok? But you’re giving Nessa cold feet worrying your mom niece. If you aren’t ok…

Tossing his phone back onto his pile of equipment and clothes, I try not to worry about the message I wasn’t meant to see. The crack of his bat pulls my attention, and it’s hard to see the man who could barely climb into the ice bath last night in the way he moves in the cage.

Another track change, and there’s nothing I can do to fight the dance that moves through me. My feet move in smooth, quick rhythm with the Latin guitar. I sing along to the fraught love song without a care for how bad my ear is or how poorly I sing, and the bachata song about a forever love flows through my entire body. I should feel clumsy, socks slipping on turf, but it’s a dance I’ve danced a thousand times.

The pitching machine falls silent, but I’m too lost in the music to notice. The absence of cracking bats and rattling nets doesn’t register, and I don’t realize that the speaker and I are the only noise to be heard over the incessant LA traffic, as I wonder what it would be like to love someone enough that I’d even joke about telling their spouse on their wedding day that their relationship is on borrowed time.

Reyes laughs. Low. Quiet. Barely audible over the music.

Close enough that I could turn into his arms, Reyes dances clumsily beside me. He trips on his cleats and laughs again, and then his shoes are kicked off in disarray beside mine. He pulls off his ballcap and tosses it aside, and when the waning light catches the depth of brown in his eyes, he isn’t clumsy anymore.

The sun sets behind the skyscrapers in the distance, and the floodlights come to life above us, as the music changes from romantic bachata to a driving remix of one of those songs that gets every Latino running to the dance floor. It’s impossible to focus on anything but his hands as Reyes pulls me close. For a few forgotten breaths, all I know is the grip of his fingers and the way his palm slides to the small of my back.

I want to ask him where he learned to dance merengue. The catcher has a reputation for being mysterious, but it seems like the more I get to actually know the man, the more he surprises me. I follow his every step, giving myself over for him to lead. It’s all too easy to fall into rhythm with him, whether I’m turning and trusting him always to be there, or dancing so close that my hands are in my hair, his hands wrap around my rib cage, our knees brush with every step.

Each dance pulls my body in tighter. His knee slides between mine. My chest presses against his. Each time we come together, my hands explore his body with a little more confidence. A little more ownership. He may take the lead as we move, but I lay claim to him with every lingering touch.

We’re so lost in the music and each other, the buzz of his phone is jarring in the sudden silence.

“Ignore it.” Reyes wraps both arms around my hips and sways to music only he can hear. His lips brush my forehead–a static shock in a touch so brief I could almost believe it existed only in my mind.

“You should get that,” I say when the phone immediately rings again. There’s not even a chorus between the calls, and my words are muffled by the shirt that smells like a tropical beach, and leather, and him.

“They’ll leave a message if it’s important.”

“Who even calls unless it’s important?” I ask, partly in jest, partly because his phone is ringing yet again, and partly because of that message that I wasn’t meant to read.

“Someone hell bent on annoying me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and finally releases me.

I finish packing up my bag while Reyes answers call number three. Even if I weren’t worried about him, and too nosy for my own good, it would be impossible not to eavesdrop at this distance. To not notice the way he shoves each item into his bag a shade too aggressively.

“Are you still at my house?” he snaps and hoists his bag over his shoulder.

I fidget, not sure whether to wait for him to finish his call or to just cut my losses and leave. If I have any hopes of sticking to my rules about messing with other ballplayers, this is my opportunity to walk away and pretend nothing between us has to change. He isn’t the first teammate I’ve ever had chemistry with; he isn’t even the only one to ever tempt me.

Before I can summon the willpower to walk away, he grabs my bag and jerks his head toward the empty parking lot. I walk beside him, not sure what to do with my hands and felling more awkward by the minute, and he mumbles noncommittal mhm’s and okay’s into the phone tucked snug between his ear and shoulder.

He straps his bag to the back of a motorcycle I can’t help admiring, even though I don’t know anything about the speeding death traps. I reach for my bag to load up my own equipment for the drive back to my lonely apartment, but he swats my hand away and cuts a glare in my direction that somehow, against all odds, actually lightens the expression on his face.

“I’ll see you in half an hour, okay? Tell my mom I’m fine, and stop worrying my sister.” Whoever’s on the other end doesn’t take the hint, and Reyes sighs and pinches his nose before cutting them off. “I’ve got to go.”

“Hot date?” It’s a pathetic attempt to tease him and lighten the mood.

“I wish,” he says, and my stomach plummets even though it shouldn’t bother me at all. But then he reaches for my hand and leads me to my own trunk. I fumble with my keys; he leaves me in disappointed silence until my bag is stowed. He drapes one arm around my shoulders, and I should tell him to stop sending mixed signals, but I let him walk me to my door instead. “I wish I had time to grab dinner. I still owe you for breakfast, since you ran out on me.”

“Next time,” I say, not sure if I’m referring to post-practice dinner or a morning-after breakfast. He raises one eyebrow, but takes enough mercy on me not to ask.

“I’m going to hold you to that.” He cups my face in both hands, and the heat of his body envelops mine. His thumb traces my lips, and he tilts my face to close that short distance between us. “Don’t run away from me, rookie.”

“I won’t,” I concede, with his thumb still on my lips.

“Promise?” He drops his hand and raises his pinky finger between us. The smile on his face is more playful than I’ve ever seen him–a lighthearted foil to the man he was on the phone only minutes ago.

It’s my turn to roll my eyes, but I wrap my finger around his to seal the deal that’s as unclear as everything else happening between us.

I almost bring myself to ask what is happening between us, but then his lips are on mine, and, somehow, we’ve circled around to the hood of my car, and the metal is almost as hot against my back as the hard body pressed between my legs. Our kiss is wet, sloppy, as needy as the quiet sounds exchanged between us. Large hands slide down my body, more possessively than they did as we danced beneath the dying light. I wrap my legs around his waist before he’s fully settled me on top of the hood, and the tease of his dick almost makes me feral. That sweet friction, with only layers of spandex and polyester between us, tempts me to give up what small semblance of self-control I have left.

Reyes is the one to break first. Pressing his forehead to mine, he holds me still against him until our hearts have had a chance to settle. Neither of us speaks as he walks me to my door–unwilling to break the silence that’s thick with lust and dangerous potential.

“Get home safe.” He holds my door until my seat belt is secure. He rolls down my window before shutting it, and leans in with his arms folded in that opening while I fumble to turn down the volume.

“You’re the one on the motorcycle,” I say. “You drive safe.”

He wraps his hand around the back of my head to tug my ponytail, and it’s all I can do not to moan. I manage to swallow the sound, but the grin that brings color to his round cheeks and makes his eyes squint so adorably tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“Fine, rookie. I’ll text you when I’m home safe.”