13. Diaz
Diaz
“Welcome to the Great Yuletide Showdown, the grand finale in this episode of Sleigh the Bake.”
Penelope stood in the center of the barn, her plaid dress catching the overhead lights like a goddamn Christmas ornament. Fuck, if somebody told me the woman slept hanging from a tree in Rockefeller Center, I would’ve believed them.
“Today’s challenge is simple in concept but monumental in execution,” she announced, voice bright enough to power a small city.
“The judges are looking for a centerpiece dessert that represents your home for the holidays. That could be a cake, pie, trifle—whatever speaks to your heart and heritage. And whatever you can complete in four hours.”
Four hours.
Four hours until I never had to bake anything ever again. If I never saw another piping bag in my life, it would be too soon. After today, the only thing I planned on folding was clean laundry.
But first, we had to make it through this bake.
“Remember,” Jin Kato said, elegant as always in a crisp black shirt. “This bake is about storytelling through flavor and texture. Make it personal, not just pretty.”
Mandy Bickham nodded. “Balance is key. Don’t be afraid to layer flavors, so long as they complement each other.”
“Technique still matters,” Keira Von Hustenberg added with a hint of a smile. “This is your final chance to show off everything you’ve learned.”
I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like her eyes skimmed over Matty and me for a beat longer than the others. There was something almost approving in her gaze. “Trust each other,” she said. “That’s what turns a good bake into something unforgettable.”
Penelope clapped her hands. “You heard the judges. Four hours, bakers, and that time starts now!”
All six of us immediately jumped into action. I couldn’t speak for our competitors, but Matty and I didn’t have a minute to waste. We had a lot of ground to make up for today.
Last night, somewhere between orgasms two, three, and six, we had put together our game plan.
I had spent nearly an hour listening as he’d told me about his grandmother’s Alabama Lane Cake, my head on his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over the freckles I had spent the past few hours lapping up like helado de coco.
We were walking into this final challenge the best prepared we’d been all week. No more scrambling, no more butting heads. We knew exactly what we were doing, and more importantly, we knew how to do it together.
And damn, that felt better than winning.
In my head, the steps were crystal clear.
We were doing the classic Lane Cake. Three layers of light sponge, bourbon-soaked raisins, pecans, and a fluffy seven-minute frosting.
But that wasn’t enough, not if we wanted to win the whole thing.
Which was why we had decided to crown our masterpiece with . . .
Another goddamn cookie box.
Only this time, we were going to use the meringue technique that had actually worked for us in the Claus and Effect round. Inside the box, we’d pipe little “gifts” made from candied ginger and fruits, and toasted coconut clusters.
“I was thinking,” Matty started. He glanced at me, then at the cameras, keeping his face neutral. “What if we swap out the bourbon for rum?”
My brows lifted, but I couldn’t stop the slow smile that spread across my face. “Rum?”
“Yeah.” He nonchalantly pulled a bottle of my favorite rum out from beneath our workstation, one that definitely hadn’t been there two days ago. “Abuelita’s coquito has rum, right? We could soak the raisins in dark rum, fold in some toasted coconut, maybe add a pinch of cinnamon in the batter.”
I went still for a second. “You want to put a taste of coquito in your granny’s cake?”
“No, I want to put us in our cake.”
Holy cuteness, Batman.
How the hell did he expect me to keep my cool when he spouted off beautiful shit like that?
We were standing in a barn that reeked of hard work and holiday cheer, wearing matching aprons like one of those annoyingly adorable, influencer couples I loved to hate, but secretly loved to watch.
And yet somehow, Matty—my friend, my teammate—had managed to turn a conversation about cake into something that felt dangerously close to a public declaration.
Our cake.
I was supposed to be the charming one, the guy who joked his way out of every problem when a wink didn’t do the job. But right now, all I could think about was the fact that I was so gone for this man, it was embarrassing.
“Peter?”
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice light even though my chest felt too full. “Let’s do it.”
While Matty got started on the sponge, I focused on the parts of the bake that carried a piece of home.
First came the coconut.
I spread it across a sheet pan and slid it into the oven, watching it slowly turn golden as the scent drifted through the workstation.
The smell hit me immediately, evoking memories of holiday parties packed shoulder to shoulder with my cousins and giant trays of desserts that somehow disappeared before dinner was even served.
Next came the rum.
Dark, rich, and fragrant—it soaked into the raisins while I measured out the rest of the spices. Not enough to overpower the Lane Cake, just enough to nudge it in a different direction.
Southern cooking with a touch of island flair.
Beside me, Matty worked with the calm efficiency of a man who had been learning at his grandmother's elbow since he’d been tall enough to reach a countertop.
Eggs separated. Batter folded. Cake pans lined up with the kind of precision usually reserved for military operations . . . or serial killers.
Eh, so what if he was? I’d gladly help him bury the bodies.
All he had to do was ask . . . or tell me to get on my knees again. Or call me his good boy.
I’ll take D, all the above.
“Coconut’s ready,” I announced proudly.
Matty glanced over from the mixer. “Perfect. Raisins?”
“Getting drunk as we speak.”
A smirk played at the corner of his mouth, and I had a sudden urge to lean over and kiss it away. Or maybe nibble it? Instead, I reached for the vanilla, making sure to brush my arm across his pecs. It was a barely-there touch, but he shivered, nonetheless.
We didn’t talk much after that. Didn't need to. Every time our fingers touched in passing was enough.
When the cakes finally came out of the oven, we let them cool before stacking them and piping the fluffy white frosting between the layers. It definitely looked like a cake, and at this point in my five-day baking career, that was enough for me. Even better, it was almost straight.
Ha, I’ve heard that one before.
I laughed under my breath when Matty stole a spoonful and held it up like a dare.
“Open,” he said, voice low and innocent enough for the cameras.
The word hit me like a spark.
I parted my lips and let him feed it to me, my tongue flicking out to catch the edge of the spoon.
Mmm, tastes like . . . us.
Sweet, spicy, and a little messy—my favorite flavor.
Our eyes met for half a second before I pulled back with a perfectly neutral, “Thanks, man.”
Matty had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.
When the timer finally buzzed, we carried our cake up to the front to present to the judges.
“It’s Alabama Lane Cake,” Matty started, his voice steady and sure. “It’s my granny’s recipe—”
“His granny’s award-winning recipe,” I corrected, earning me smiles from both Matty and the entire judging panel. Even Keira, which was somewhat of a relief. I had begun to think the woman was incapable of emoting anything beyond neutral.
“That’s right,” Matty confirmed. “It’s a classic holiday cake in the South, or at least it is in my house. But Peter and I wanted it to be ours, so we made a few changes.”
I jumped in seamlessly. “We swapped out the bourbon for dark rum and added some toasted coconut, cinnamon, and ginger. It’s still the Lane Cake Matty grew up with, but now it carries a piece of my abuelita, too.”
They sliced into the cake with careful precision. The layers held beautifully, the rum glaze glistening under the lights. I held my breath as Jin Kato took the first bite, followed by Mandy and Keira.
This was it.
This single moment would decide whether or not we took home the fifty grand for the Junior Roasters. Fifty thousand dollars that could make a world of difference for the kids in the program.
Sure, some of that money would go toward new uniforms, travel scholarships, and equipment for families who otherwise couldn’t afford it, but the organization had always been about more than what happened on the field.
Over the last few years, they had expanded their mental health initiatives, bringing in counselors, hosting workshops, and creating spaces where kids could talk openly about things most of us had been taught to bottle up: anxiety, depression, the social pressure of growing up in a world that never seemed to slow down.
Baseball might be what brought them through the door; community was what kept them there.
And if a few days of bruised egos and near-fatal cookie collapses were all it took to make that happen, it felt like a damn good trade.
Jin Kato spoke first. “Gentlemen, the texture is . . .”
I held my breath.
“Impeccable,” he finished, nodding approvingly. “Light sponge, beautifully balanced sweetness. The rum was an excellent choice, and the spices—they lift it without stealing the show.”
Mandy Bickham lifted her fork, swirling it through the air like a magic wand while she spoke. “You can taste the care that went into this. This isn’t just a cake; it’s a conversation between two heritages.”
It all came down to Keira.
“The two of you have grown so much over the competition,” she started. “I think even you can admit that the early days were . . . rocky.”
Matty and I exchanged a hopeful look. For a split second, the rest of the barn disappeared—it was just the two of us, flour-dusted, exhausted, and so damn horny.
I wanted to reach out and squeeze his hand, to tell him without words how proud I was of us.
Instead, I tucked both hands deep into my apron pockets so I wouldn’t do something stupid on camera.
Keira’s expression softened into something warmer than her usual stern mask. “But today? Seamless. You anticipated each other. You trust each other. That’s rare. And it shows in every bite.”
“Thank you,” I managed, voice steadier than I felt.
Matty nodded beside me. “Yeah, thank y’all.”
With that, our time at the table was over.
We gathered our serving platter and made our way back to our station, our shoulders brushing as we walked. The second we were out of the spotlight, I let out the breath I had been holding for four fucking hours.
For the first time all week, there was nothing left to fix. No batter to mix or frosting to pipe or cookies threatening to cave in—we had done everything we could.
Now we just had to see if it was enough.
Behind our workstation, hidden from view, I felt Matty’s pinky nudge mine. I hooked mine around it and squeezed.
We did it.
Together.
I didn’t have a clue what came next—with us or the competition—but standing here beside him, I knew one thing for sure.
I wanted to keep figuring it out with Matty.