Chapter 14 Bennett
Bennett
It was official; the team trainer was going to have my ass tomorrow. But that was nothing compared to what Diaz was going to do to me when I told him that Jo could cook his abuelita under the table.
I had spent the past hour eating my weight in guava quesitos, washing them down with Jo’s seasonal cinnamon dolce latte. The kind with a light dusting of cinnamon on top and carefully crafted foam art that looked more like a cock and balls than a bat and baseball.
If I had to guess, I’d bet that Jo knew exactly what he’d drawn.
Generally, most people took one look at me—and my permanent case of resting Rottweiler face—and figured I drank my coffee black, but fuck that. I liked sweet shit as much as the next guy.
Flavored lattes, caramel drizzle, cookie bits on top—the works. And right now, with the sugar still buzzing under my skin and the warmth of the drink settling in my chest, I felt almost relaxed for once.
“Fuck, man.” I moaned around another bite of the flaky puff pastry stuffed with cream cheese. “What’s the Scratch Ankle, Alabama, way to describe how delicious this is?”
Matty leaned back in his chair, the late-morning light catching on the freckles across his nose and turning his strawberry-blond hair almost copper. He didn’t even have to think about it.
“So good it’ll make your tongue slap your brains out.”
I snorted, nearly choking. “Jesus, the South really has a saying for everything, don’t they?”
“In a town with a population of two hundred and twelve,” he said, holding up four fingers like I needed the visual. “You learn to talk colorfully or else die of boredom.”
Matty and I had spent many bus rides comparing our tiny ass hometowns.
In fact, it was an ongoing, friendly competition between the two of us, one documented with multiple lists and categories in Pink’s game notebook—population size, town lore, historical landmarks, and so on.
To guys like us, Rose City might as well have been Manhattan.
Would Smell as Sweet hummed around us. Jo was in his natural habitat behind the counter, calling out orders in that rapid-fire mix of English and Spanish he always slipped into when things got busy.
The air smelled like cardamom and brown butter, and every time the door opened, a cold February gust rolled in, fighting with the warmth from the bakery’s ovens.
“Don’t change the subject,” Matty said, tapping his pen against the table. “I’m telling you, if we don’t stagger the fielding stations, the kids are going to bottleneck at third base. Again.”
I leveled him with a glare. “If I remember correctly, that’s what I suggested last year.”
“That was then and this is now,” he shot back smoothly. “Don’t be an asshole.”
I flipped a page in my notebook. “Fine, we’ll stagger stations. What about the swag?”
“Dani has that covered. They held a Junior Roasters’ logo design contest in the schools last semester, so this season’s shirts and hats have the winner’s.”
I smiled despite myself, immediately picturing it.
Dani had shown us the winning design in question—a hand-drawn rooster with a crooked baseball cap pulled down over one eye—during our last volunteer meeting.
What it had to do with the Roasters was beyond me, but there was no denying it had been drawn with heart. Uneven, wildly disproportionate heart.
Honestly, it had more personality than half of the National League’s current branding.
I made a quick note in the margin of my notebook to talk with Dani about potentially adopting the design for our jerseys at some point during the season.
Matty leaned forward, peering at my notes. “What’s that face?”
“Nothing,” I said, closing the notebook. “Just thinking the kids might’ve out designed the professionals with this one.”
“No surprise there. Should we place a pastry order from Jo for the morning of?”
Like on cue, Jo himself glided past our table, his dark hair tucked behind a patterned bandana. He flashed us a grin and a quick thumbs-up before disappearing behind the counter again.
“God, I love that man,” Matty murmured.
“I would kill for him,” I said. “Or at least for his guava pastries. And to answer your question, I’ve already got breakfast covered.”
“Well, I guess that does it then.” He capped his pen and leaned back again, stretching his arms overhead. “Now that we’ve got that squared away, catch me up on what I missed at the latest M he was in good company, too. Pink, Roman, and Diaz were also openly queer.
But as far as I knew, he had only ever dated women. Publicly, at least. So, hearing him say he and, more importantly, hearing the anxiety underlining his confession landed heavier than the words themselves.
“It’s just that the idea of actually going on a date with another guy makes me nervous.” He lowered his voice. “What if I’m . . . bad at it?”
“I get it,” I said carefully. “Flirty texts are one thing. Meeting up in person makes it real.”
He let out a breath that sounded like relief. “Exactly.”
We sat there for a minute, the clatter of the bakery around us drowning out the fears racing through our bones.
“Sounds like we’re both anxious messes,” I said.
Matty huffed a laugh. “Pretty much.”
“But you’re still gonna meet him, right?” I asked.
He met my eyes and nodded slowly. “Probably. Because if I don’t, I’ll always wonder.”
Something in my chest loosened at that. “Same.”
Because I’d already waited longer than I cared to admit. I’d watched Bella from the safe distances of later and maybe someday, telling myself patience was the same thing as caution. That wanting her quietly was better than risking anything at all.
But the truth was, I had never been this careful about someone I didn’t care deeply about. Walking away now just because I was fucking scared of how much I wanted her would be its own kind of regret.
I pushed my chair back and stood, heart thudding harder than before. “You know, the farmers market is happening today.”
Matty grinned. “That’s true.”
“And since we’ve eaten our way through Jo’s pastry case,” I added, gesturing vaguely at our empty plates. “It feels irresponsible not to balance that out with a vegetable or two.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Something green and crunchy. Very health forward.”
Matty stood too, slinging his jacket on. “Or a jar of honey.”
“That’s not a vegetable.”
His teasing grin gave way to warm approval. “That may be true, but it is Bella. Let’s go before you talk yourself out of it.”
I nodded, nerves buzzing under my skin as we headed for the door. If I was going to be brave, I might as well start now, with sticky fingers and a full belly. But as we headed for the door, the cold February air waiting on the other side, I knew one thing for sure.
If I was going to be scared anyway, I’d rather be scared with Bella than without her.