1. Diaz #2
I bent to grab it, but straightened too fast, colliding shoulder-first with a solid wall of pale, freckled muscles.
Fuck.
I knew those freckles.
I had spent months dreaming about—and jerking off to—those freckles. I half-expected scientists to bang down my door any day now, demanding to study my inexplicable freckle kink.
Frecklephilia. Was that a thing?
My hand shot out instinctively to steady him, fingers curling around his bare bicep before my brain could catch up.
“Sorry,” I barked, far too loudly.
“All good,” Matty muttered. It took every ounce of self-control not to glance down when he adjusted his towel.
He didn’t pull away immediately. Just stood there, close enough that I could smell the sunscreen and sweat rolling off his skin. Those stupidly pretty—because yes, Matty Miller was a pretty man—hazel eyes narrowed, locking on mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then he stepped back.
I gave him a genuine smile, the kind that usually got me out of trouble. “Guess we’re all off our game tonight.”
He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it had any air behind it.
“That’s putting it nicely.”
The thud of my own heartbeat drowned out the clanking lockers and boisterous chatter. I should’ve walked away, clapped him on the shoulder like I would do to any of the other guys, and kept moving. Unfortunately, my mouth had other plans.
“You know, I saw a meme the other day with a dog that looked just like Mo. She even had the same—”
“Not now, Diaz.”
Diaz. Not Peter or Pete.
Diaz.
Matty ran a hand through his mussed curls, pushing them behind his ears. I pretended not to notice the way the beads of sweat clung to his skin as they slid down his collarbone.
“Sorry,” he added, softer this time. “I’m in a shit mood and I still have to pick up Mo from doggy daycare, and I hate—”
“Being late.” He gave a small, tight nod. “I get it.”
“I’ll catch you later.”
He slipped past me toward his locker, leaving nothing but a faint mossy scent in his wake.
I probably should’ve been thankful. This had been one of our longest interactions in days. Weeks, really.
Matty had been avoiding me like the plague since Soren and Clarke’s wedding, and frankly, I couldn’t blame him. Sure, we still talked about lineup stuff and scouting reports, but it was all surface level now, careful and clipped, like we were both reading from the same bad script.
One that didn’t end with a happily ever after.
Any chance of that had gone up in smoke the night I’d told him the truth about who had been writing explicit fanfiction about him—and most of our teammates—for over a year.
It had started as nothing, really. Just a way to burn off nervous energy.
A stress-free, creative outlet for myself and whatever seven people stumbled across it on FanVerse.
But then, one post had turned into another and another, and before I knew it, tens of thousands of people were reading my stories and sending me messages.
Including Matty.
Finding out your friend had been writing graphic sex scenes starring you and your teammates was one thing; realizing that the anonymous fanfic writer you had been texting and flirting with for months was your teammate was something else.
It hadn’t just been PeteRoseCity9 on the other end of his messages and memes and little heart emojis.
It had been me.
His teammate. His friend.
And then, there was the kiss—
“Shake it off.”
Coach Ward’s voice boomed through the room, shaking me out of my shame spiral.
He stood at the front, thick-rimmed, black glasses slipping slightly down his nose, sleeves pushed up to reveal a maze of tattoos winding over his forearms. Coach Ward didn’t raise his voice often, but when he did, it carried.
“Tonight sucked,” he said bluntly, sweeping his gaze across the room like he was making sure it landed on every last one of us. “No way around that. But you don’t get paid to sulk—you get paid to show up and do it better.”
He folded those inked arms across his chest, jaw set. “So pick your heads up, roll your shoulders back, and quit looking like someone kicked you in the dick. Nobody here is that special.”
A couple of guys huffed out quiet laughs, the tension cracking just enough.
“You’ve got tomorrow off, so use it. Get off your feet, clear your heads, and then come back ready to work.” His gaze sharpened again, just enough to keep the edge. “We’re not carrying this one into the next series. Leave it here.”
“Tell that to the demons,” our second baseman, Johnathan Tucker, mumbled under his breath.
“On a better note,” Coach Ward continued. “All-Star voting has closed. I’ve got two little girls to get home to, so I’m not going to draw this out. Roman Garcia.”
Roman nodded once, his lips tilting up in a cocky grin. Our first baseman might put on a fuckboy front, complete with a gold chain, well-groomed fade, and one eyebrow permanently arched like only he knew the butt of whatever filthy joke he’d come up with, but underneath it all, he was a softie.
An ooey-gooey cinnamon roll who sent handwritten thank-you cards to clubhouse staff and had a certain cartoon bear tattooed on his ass.
How’s that for the butt of a joke?
Winnie the Pooh on your ass.
“Jared Pink.”
Pink stood slowly, hands lifted like he was accepting an award. “Thank you for this honor. I’d like to thank the fans—”
“Save it for the showers, Pink,” Coach Ward ordered. “Finally, making his official All-Star debut, Johnathan Tucker.”
Tucker blinked. “You’re kidding.”
Coach Ward cocked his head. “Tucker, after two-and-a-half seasons together, you should know I don’t kid.”
The room erupted with applause.
Last season, Tucker had missed his shot at the All-Star game when he’d torn his hamstring the week before the break. He’d watched from his couch while sitting on a bag of frozen peas, pretending he didn’t care while the rest of us texted him updates from the clubhouse.
The season before that, he’d been too caught up with falling in love with Brock Heller, sports journalist turned literary sensation turned Tucker’s live-in boyfriend. This season, he’d been more locked in than ever before. Seeing him stand there now, blinking like he didn’t quite trust it yet—
Yeah, we clapped harder.
The energy in the room started to fracture after that.
I peeled off the rest of my gear and hit the showers, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders until the ache dulled to something manageable.
By the time I came out, towel around my waist, half the team had already gotten dressed and taken off.
I tugged on my gameday slacks and was reaching for my shirt when I caught sight of Matty again. He was at his locker with his back to me, buttoning up his shirt.
Broad shoulders.
That was the first thing you noticed about Matty Miller. Well, it was the first thing I’d noticed.
It wasn’t a bodybuilder or gym rat’s physique.
More like a swimmer’s, or someone who had spent his life hauling fifty-pound feed bags like they were grocery totes.
Scratch Ankle, Alabama, might’ve sent us the best shortstop in the league, but it had also sent us a man who knew how to swing a hammer.
His back flexed subtly as he worked the buttons up his chest. Freckles dusted across his shoulders like someone had taken a paintbrush dipped in cinnamon and flicked it carelessly.
A few stray droplets of water clung to the nape of his neck, catching the fluorescent light before sliding down the shallow groove of his spine.
The way I wanted to trace their path with my tongue.
With my cock.
Matty turned slightly to grab his grandfather’s watch from his locker shelf, and for half a second the light caught the line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave off yet.
I could still remember exactly how that jaw had felt under my thumb the night of the wedding. Warm, tense. Then, suddenly yielding when he’d kissed me back like he’d been starving for it.
Part of me wanted to cross the room. Just walk over, lean against the locker next to his, and say something, anything that wasn’t another joke or deflection.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.
I’m sorry I let things get this far without saying it out loud.
I’m sorry I still want you so bad it hurts.
But the words stayed glued to the roof of my mouth.
Instead, I watched him roll his shirt sleeves up to his elbows.
Holy mother of arm porn.
His forearms were corded and freckled, the veins standing out just enough to make me swallow hard. He didn’t look my way, didn’t have to. The awareness was there anyway, humming between us like static on an old radio.
Then, Pink’s voice cracked through the room.
“Diaz, Matty, you coming? Drinks are on Tucker tonight. All-Star tax.”
Tucker’s groan echoed back. “I said one round, Pink. One.”
I glanced at Matty one last time. He paused, his hand clutching the strap of his bag. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked in my direction before quickly sliding away again.
“Not tonight, fellas,” he answered in that signature Southern twang of his. “I’ve got an angry wiener to pick up.”
A ripple of laughter went through the guys lingering near the door.
The lore around Matty’s dachshund, Mo, was legendary.
Stories circulated around the locker room—and beyond—like inside jokes.
Like the time she’d once stolen an entire rotisserie chicken off the counter and dragged it under the couch like a dragon hoarding treasure.
Or how she’d pee on anybody’s shoes if they sat too close to Matty on his porch swing.
Matty swore she was just misunderstood. The rest of us were convinced she was pure evil wrapped in black and tan fur.
“Tell the little dictator we said hi,” Pink called after him. “Diaz?”
I forced a breath out through my nose.
“Coming,” I called back.
I grabbed my own bag, slung it over my shoulder, and fell into step with the guys heading for the exit. Laughter rolled ahead of me down the tunnel, Pink already roasting someone about their drink order.
This time, I didn’t look back.