Chapter 25 Bella
Bella
It was safe to say that after three days in Arizona, I finally understood the saying “hot as balls.”
And I didn’t even have balls.
The desert heat had been relentless, the kind that made me feel like I was slowly being turned into jerky.
Three days had passed since I’d landed here in a haze of panic and red-eye exhaustion, and during that time, the Scottsdale condo had started to feel like a temporary home.
And thank goodness it was because some of the guys were messy as hell.
Not Roman, though, surprisingly enough. The dude was kind of a neat freak, both with his space and personal hygiene. Diaz, on the other hand . . .
Takeout containers still lined the kitchen counter from last night’s chaotic group dinner.
We had ordered from at least ten different places because Diaz had insisted on sampling the entire Scottsdale food scene in one sitting.
Not that I was complaining. I had spent the better part of the evening chowing down on tacos, dumplings, and something called a ramen burger, while watching him and Matty argue over the differences between regional meat pies.
Dinner and a show.
The three of them had welcomed me into their shared space with arms—and fridge—wide open. More importantly, they had been there for Bennett every step of the way. He wasn’t back to his usual self just yet, but last night had felt like proof he could get there.
I had sat there for hours, knees tucked under me, pretending to scroll on my phone while I cataloged every small return of the man I had fallen for. The way his shoulders had loosened when Matty had teased him, the crooked half-smile when Roman had clapped him on the back like nothing had happened.
He was still careful, still quieter than normal, but there was something steadier about him now. Grounded. The guys had been instrumental in that shift.
It was clear that they had his back on and off the field.
They didn’t treat him like he was broken, but rather like he was theirs—because he was—and they were prepared to carry him until he could carry himself again.
This afternoon, the condo was quiet. Sunlight slanted through the half-open blinds, painting gold stripes across the living room floor. Bennett sat on the couch in athletic shorts and a sleeveless shirt, tearing his way through a crime novel he had picked up from the bookstore in town.
I sat across from him, curled up in the oversized armchair, drowning in boob sweat. Even with the air conditioner turned down to sixty-eight. Just one of the many downsides to being a member of the big tittie committee.
I shifted again, trying—and failing—to discreetly lift and readjust my bra for the third time in ten minutes.
The underwire was digging in, the fabric was clinging like wet paper, and every small movement just made the damp valley between my breasts more pronounced.
I could literally feel the sweat pooling and trickling sideways.
It was gross and uncomfortable and very, very distracting.
For both of us, apparently.
“You okay over there?” Bennett asked. I didn’t miss the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You look like you’re waging war with your shirt.”
I let out a frustrated huff and dropped my hands. “I’m melting. Specifically, my boobs. This bra is trying to become one with my skin, and I think it’s winning.”
He chuckled. “Arizona’s not kind to undergarments.”
“You can say that again. I feel disgusting.”
“You’re not disgusting, baby,” he murmured, tossing his book to the side. “You’re fucking gorgeous. Sweaty, flushed, wearing my shirt like it belongs to you. Trust me, it’s doing things to me.”
I rolled my eyes, but the heat in his gaze made my thighs press together despite the stickiness. “Flattery isn’t going to make the boob swamp go away.”
“Boob swamp,” he repeated, grinning wider. “Is that the scientific term?”
“Medical,” I corrected. “Very serious condition, extremely uncomfortable.”
Bennett studied me for a beat, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So take it off.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Your shirt. Bra, too, if it’s killing you.” He shrugged, like the very idea of me going topless in his living room, midafternoon, was an everyday occurrence. “It’s just us. The guys won’t be back for hours. You’re uncomfortable, so fix it.”
I hesitated, glancing toward the front door like somebody might burst through at any second, even though I knew they wouldn’t.
Bennett watched me patiently. No pressure, just that steady, quiet encouragement he always gave when I was second-guessing myself.
“Fine.”
I reached for the hem of my shirt—well, his shirt technically—and peeled it over my head. The fabric clung for a second before releasing with an audible wet sound that made me cringe. I dropped it on the floor beside the chair like it had personally betrayed me.
The bra came next. I unhooked the front clasp, shrugged the straps down my shoulders, and let it fall.
Cool air hit my bare skin immediately. My breasts felt instantly lighter. Sweat still glistened between them and along the undersides, but at least they weren’t being held hostage anymore.
I sighed so loudly it was almost comical. “So much better.”
When Bennett didn’t say anything, I glanced over and . . . caught him squirming. Just a little. There was a subtle shift in his seat, one hand pressing briefly against the front of his shorts before he caught himself and dropped it to his thigh.
His eyes flicked down to my chest, lingering on the flushed, damp curves and the way my nipples had tightened in the cooler air. He swallowed once, visibly.
Heat rushed through me, sharp and sudden.
“You’re staring, catcher.”
He exhaled through his nose, a rough sound. “Can you blame me?”
Unfortunately, he left it at that. And I didn’t push him for more, even though I wanted it. Even though he hadn’t so much as kissed me for three agonizing days.
No wandering hands.
No suggestive whispers.
No threading his fingers through my hair and choking me on his cock while he called me his “good girl.”
He held me at night but always stopped short of taking things further. Even yesterday, we had fallen asleep tangled together after the guys had left, his hand had rested innocently on my hip. Protective, yes, but nothing more.
I understood. He was still raw, still putting himself back together after his panic attack. I could be patient for as long as he needed me to; I’d been waiting for him my entire life.
But seeing him now, squirming, erection tenting his shorts while he ogled my bare breasts, made something inside me twist with both tenderness and hunger.
“Today’s your last day off,” I said softly, keeping the subject light.
He nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
“How are you feeling about going back tomorrow?”
When he spoke, his voice was low and measured. “I think I’m ready,” he admitted, choosing his words carefully. “As ready as I can be at least. Sitting around, doing nothing is starting to make me feel twitchy. I need the field, the routine.”
“Resting and healing is not nothing.”
“I know that.” He looked up at me then, eyes soft but searching. “I just don’t want anybody looking at me like I’m breakable. Don’t want the fans, especially the kids, to think I can’t handle it.”
I tilted my head. “Where does that come from? The whole ‘can’t handle it’ thing. Because you know the team and fans love you.”
His hands flexed once, twice, before settling on his thighs.
“I’m the only Deaf guy in major league baseball right now.
That carries weight. Not just for me, but for every kid out there who’s been told their difference is a limitation.
If I can’t handle the pressure, or if I let one bad night define me, it feels like I’m proving all those doubters right.
Like I’m failing to give a voice to the voiceless.
Or at least . . . failing to keep mine loud enough for them to hear. ”
The words landed heavy, honest. I felt them settle in my chest like stones in a riverbed.
“I get it,” I said, reaching out to rest my hand on his. “But just try to remember that you’re also allowed to have bad days and moments where the weight feels too heavy. That doesn’t make you less of an example. It makes you real. And those kids need to see real more than perfection.”
He turned his hand over, so our palms pressed together. His fingers laced through mine, thumb brushing the inside of my wrist.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I hear you.”
We sat with that for a minute, the quiet stretching comfortably between us.
“So, what do you want to do with your last day off?” I asked him. “We could stay in and watch more shitty movies, or . . .”
He arched his brow. “Or?”
I grinned. “We could go be frivolous. Do something silly and fun and completely non-baseball related. Like eat overpriced churros at the zoo or . . . go off-roading in the desert?”
“You want to go off-roading?” His eyes flicked down to my bare breasts again. “You’d have to put a top on for that, you know.”
“I’ll manage.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. There he is.
“Churros, huh?”
“Or the botanical gardens.” I thought back to the “Scottsdale Shit” list on my phone. “Ooh, or a rodeo.”
He leaned over and kissed my forehead. Soft, lingering, the closest thing to more we’d had since I’d arrived. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
The condo door clicked shut behind us a little after one a.m., the faint sweetness of churro sugar still clinging to our clothes.
My cheeks hurt from laughing so hard. Bennett’s cowboy hat, which he had purchased ironically and worn unironically for three straight hours, sat crooked on the entry table now. Beside it was the box of sopapillas we’d brought home for the guys to enjoy for breakfast.
He kicked off his sneakers by the door, stretching his arms overhead until his back popped. “I think I’m officially too old for clubbing.”