18. Matty #2
And somehow, when we’d all gotten back to Rose City, everything had changed. The clubhouse had felt lighter. Tucker had broken out of his slump, Soren had started hitting like a man possessed, Bennett had thrown out three would-be base stealers in a single series, and Pink . . .
Pink had finally shaved off the porn stache.
And to be honest, that was the biggest victory of them all.
You know, along with the nine-game winning streak that had finally gotten us out of the losing season hole. At this point, it was probably safe to say the so-called “curse” had been broken. Though, we were all under strict orders from Peter “Good Boy” Diaz not to discuss it aloud.
No talking about the curse being over. No mentioning winning streaks. No discussing playoff scenarios. My man had somehow become the most superstitious person on the roster.
My man.
I glanced over my shoulder. There he was, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet in left field.
If there was anyone who deserved the Golden Glove this year, it was him.
He had been playing the best ball of his career for the past two months, and even though I couldn’t prove it, I was pretty sure all the extra orgasms had played a role in that.
Bennett threw off his mask and waved the infield in. “Infield in. Mound meeting.”
I jogged in with the others. Soren came from third, Roman from first, Tucker from second. Pink was already standing on the mound, rolling the ball between his palms.
He looked focused. Terrifyingly so.
Which, coming from Jared Pink, was downright unsettling. This was the same man who usually operated like a golden retriever in cleats—perpetually grinning, incapable of sitting still, and one dirty pun away from getting pelted with sunflower seeds in the dugout.
But on the mound? He became somebody else entirely.
The smile disappeared, the restless energy settled. His eyes sharpened into something cold and deliberate.
It was easy to forget that underneath all the charm and cheesy jokes, Pink was a damn good pitcher.
“Alright, boys,” Bennett said, his voice low and steady.
Sweat glistened on his forehead and his dark hair had been pulled back with one of the headbands he always wore under his catcher’s mask. The small cochlear implants behind his ears caught the stadium lights as he looked around the circle.
“Let’s make this guy swing. Pink, keep it low and away.” Bennett nodded his head toward Soren. “Captain?”
Ever the steady veteran, not to mention the oldest guy on the team, Soren stepped forward. Even in the middle of the biggest game of the season, he carried himself with quiet authority that made everyone listen.
“Matty, stay double-play depth,” he said calmly. “We can end this now with one play, two outs.”
He narrowed his brows before adding, “We’ve come too far to blow it now.”
We all nodded.
Because we had.
This season had nearly broken us, and now we were one out away from a playoff berth and, hopefully, a second trip to the World Series.
Pink looked around the circle.
“Anybody got anything else to add?” he asked. “Any final wisdom? Regrets? Secret identities?”
“Pink, I am your father,” Tucker deadpanned.
Pink nodded solemnly.
“I knew it.”
Soren shook his head like an exhausted dad who’d just found crayon art scribbled on the walls. Considering his wife was due in a few months, it was probably good practice. Not that he needed it. He’d already spent years managing the emotional well-being of professional baseball players.
A newborn would probably be easier.
Pink tucked his glove under his arm and cocked his hip. “Seriously, though. If you’ve got something to say, get it off your chest now.”
Roman smirked. “Should we talk about the fact that the team’s batting average went up the second we made you shave that thing off your face?”
Pink touched the smooth skin above his lip protectively. “It was distinguished!”
“It was a war crime.”
Pink opened his mouth to argue again, but I felt the words rising in my throat before I could stop them.
“Actually . . .” I choked. “I have something to say.”
I looked toward left again, toward the man who had no idea what I was about to do, and smiled despite myself.
This wasn’t planned. I hadn’t meant to do this on the mound, during the most important game of the season. But looking out at Diaz, knowing how much we were both risking to be together, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
I swallowed hard, pulse roaring in my ears.
“Diaz and I are together.”
The mound went dead silent.
Roman’s head whipped toward left field so fast I thought he might pull a muscle. Tucker and Bennett followed.
Then, Soren.
Then, Pink.
Until all five of them were staring at Diaz, who in return lifted his glove in confusion.
I nearly laughed.
A scream rang out in the stands. Somewhere nearby, a beer vendor shouted about peanuts. The world kept moving.
But the mound didn’t.
Pink blinked.
“Together,” he repeated.
“Like . . . together together?” Tucker asked.
“Like you and Brock are together,” I told him, unable to contain my shit-eating grin. “And Soren and Clarke, Bennett and Bella, Pink and Nessa, Roman and . . .”
Our first baseman arched a brow when I trailed off.
“Oh, please go on about how all of y’all are so disgustingly in love and poor little Roman is on his own.”
For half a second, the rest of the guys stayed completely silent.
Pink broke first.
“About damn time.” He let out a low whistle. “I knew something was up with you two.”
A massive grin split Tucker’s face. “Thank fuck, I thought I was the only one who saw it.”
Bennett reached across the middle and nudged my chest. “Congrats, dude,” he told me. “For real though, just treat him right, and we’ve got your backs.”
Roman was still staring out at left field like he was seeing Diaz for the first time. “How did I miss this? He’s been smiling more lately. I thought he was just happy about the winning streak. Turns out he was getting laid.”
“Roman,” Soren warned, but he was fighting a laugh.
Pink leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “So, who’s the top? Wait, no, don’t answer that. I don’t want to picture it. Actually, yes, I do. Tell me everything.”
“Ten bucks says Diaz is a bossy bottom,” Roman said.
I felt my face heat.
“Alright, enough,” Soren said, clapping his hands once. “You fucks can gossip in the clubhouse all you want after we win this game. Pink, you got this. Let’s go.”
We broke the huddle. Soren fell into step beside me as we jogged back toward our positions.
“For what it’s worth, you two make sense together.” He kept his voice low, just for me. “Don’t let the noise get in your head. Just play ball.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat and nodded.
“Thanks, cap.”
Soren clapped me on the shoulder once before veering off toward third base.
I settled back into my spot between the bases, heart pounding for an entirely new reason now. The cleanup hitter stepped into the batter’s box and tapped the barrel of his bat against the plate.
Darren Mitchell.
Fucking of course.
The bastard was already two for four tonight, with a double in the third and a bloop single in the sixth. He’d fouled off half a dozen pitches in his last at-bat and generally carried himself with the irritating confidence of a man who had seen his fair share of hanging curveballs.
I glanced toward first.
The runner took a healthy lead, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He was fast, too. One swing in the gap and he could tie the game.
Not tonight.
I dug my cleats into the dirt, glove hanging loose between my knees. The familiar rhythm of the game washed over me, muscle memory taking over where nerves threatened to creep in.
Behind the plate, Bennett flashed signs.
Pink nodded.
The stadium was deafening, forty thousand people somehow managing to hold their breath and scream at the same time.
Pink wound up.
The pitch came in low and outside, exactly where Bennett had called it. The crack of the bat sent a sharp grounder straight up the middle, and I moved on instinct, fielding it cleanly.
Tucker was already covering second, as expected. I flipped the ball to him for the force out before he spun and fired it off to Roman at first.
The umpire’s arm shot out.
“Out!”
The stadium erupted.
We’d done it. We were going to the playoffs.
The guys mobbed me near second base, shouting and slapping shoulders. Pink was screaming something incoherent, made even more so when Roman tackled him in a bear hug. Even Soren was grinning as he jogged over.
But I only had eyes for Diaz.
He sprinted in from left field, a huge smile breaking across his face. He reached me first, pulling me into a quick, fierce hug that lingered just a second longer than it should have for teammates.
Fuck it. Let them wonder.
Let them write naughty fanfiction about us.
#Miaz forever.
“You did it,” he whispered against my ear.
“We did it,” I corrected, squeezing him back.
“Gonna fuck you so good tonight, tesoro. Bend you over and make you scream my name until you can’t walk tomorrow.”
A shiver ran down my spine. I squeezed him tighter, already half hard just from the promise.
We broke apart just as the rest of the team swarmed us, cheering and jumping. In that moment, surrounded by our teammates—our family—with the man I loved right beside me, everything felt possible.
We were going to the playoffs. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid of what came next.
As it turned out, that was an evening of celebrating at Thorn Tavern with the whole team . . . followed by Diaz delivering on his naughty promise.