Chapter 26 Bennett
Bennett
“Are we still doing the tequila bar after the game?” Roman leaned against the rail beside me, arms crossed like he was already mentally halfway there. “Because I may or may not know a bartender there who may or may not have sucked my dick a few times.”
Matty snorted from my other side. “Is that your way of saying you wanna go somewhere else?”
“No, it’s my way of saying that I can make one call and get us the banquet room if we want it,” Roman shot back.
A mixture of laughter and teasing broke out amongst the dugout. It was the bottom of the eighth and we were up by two. Bases loaded, two outs. The crowd noise rolled in like a living, breathing thing. Stadium lights burned hot overhead, turning the infield grass electric green.
Wes leaned forward from his spot on the other end of the bench, grinning wide. “That’s it? No bottle service? Maybe your dick game isn’t what you think it is, Garcia.”
Roman’s laughter boomed. “Don’t be jealous because I have more options, Wesley.”
Soren finally spoke up from his spot near the water cooler. His voice was calm, but it carried the kind of quiet authority that cut through the bullshit. “Focus,” he said. “Game’s not over yet.”
I bent forward, stretching out my hamstrings while I waited for my turn in the on-deck circle. My legs felt solid, better than they had in days, but my pulse still thumped hard behind my ears. Not panic, just the good kind of nerves. The kind that reminded me why I loved the game.
Matty tilted his head toward me without looking away from the field. “Hell of a game, Benny.”
I smirked. “Not bad.”
He huffed a small laugh. “Since when is two doubles and a triple ‘not bad?’”
He had a point. This was my best game in weeks.
“We’re good, right?” I asked him. My voice came out rougher than I meant it to.
He looked at me then. Really looked. No anger, no resentment. Just that same steady, patient thing he always had, even when I didn’t deserve it.
“Dude, you already apologized,” he said quietly. “Like, six times.”
“I still feel like shit about it.”
“Yeah, well, stop,” he said softly. “You were hurt; you took it out on me. I get it.” His eyes flicked away for half a second. “Besides, you were right. About me being scared. But I’m going to try to get over it.”
“That’s your timeline, not mine. I was an asshole for making it about me.”
He gave me a small, crooked smile.
“I know,” he said. “And I appreciate it. Now, go bring Tucker home. He looks like he’s getting bored out there.”
The walk to the circle felt longer than sixty feet.
Coach Ward was waiting just past the dugout steps, sweat darkening the collar of his long-sleeved, red, athletic shirt.
How the hell he managed to look so unbothered in the Arizona heat was beyond me.
His hat was pulled low over his brow, the way he always wore it, resting on the top of his black-framed glasses.
He clapped me on the back as I passed. “Show them how it’s done, King,” he said, voice low and steady.
“Yes, coach.”
He gave me one more quick pat in that slightly scary, overbearing, fatherly way of his and stepped aside.
Just as I made it into the box, my eyes quickly raked over the family section. It wasn’t hard to find her, especially not when she was sitting beside Dani and her Cookie Monster blue hair.
Three rows back, behind home plate, my gray road jersey stretched across her generous chest.
So fucking perfect.
So. Fucking. Mine.
She had tamed her curls into two low ponytails beneath her Roasters cap. The hem of my jersey had been tucked loosely into high-waisted denim shorts that hugged her hips and showed off those long, shapely legs I had spent the last four days staring at every time she’d walked past.
I knew without seeing them that she had her Loop earplugs in—those little matte-black ones she wore whenever the crowd noise started to feel like too much. The fact that she’d come anyway, knowing how loud it would get, made my chest ache in the best way.
Clarke sat on one side, Dani on the other. And there, balancing on Bella’s knees, was little Bailey, Dani’s mini-me, in a Roasters onesie.
Bella’s eyes caught mine. She lifted Bailey’s little arm and made her wave, then blew me an exaggerated kiss. My heart slammed against my ribs.
The at-bat was quick. Fouled off three, took a ball, and then lined a clean single up the middle, sending Tuck home to score. When I rounded first, I glanced back at Bella. She was on her feet now, clapping hard, legs shifting under those shorts as she bounced on her toes.
You would’ve thought I’d grand-slammed.
Roman grounded out, ending the inning, and we took the field again.
Their leadoff guy drew a walk. The next two struck out. Only one more to go. Their cleanup hitter, a mean fucker I had played with in the minors, worked the count full and then slapped a line drive to right-center.
Wes charged it, barehanded the hop, and fired home. Just as the runner rounded third. Hard.
Bring it on, fucker.
I planted myself in front of the plate, bracing for impact.
The runner was a freight train—six-three, two-eighty, and eyes full of determination.
He came in spikes-high, classic slide-by-contact bullshit.
His left leg kicked up, metal cleats flashing under the lights, aiming straight for my left knee like he wanted to take it home with him.
I didn’t flinch.
The ball slapped into my mitt a half-step before he arrived.
I dropped the tag fast, right on his shoulder.
It drove into my sternum like a battering ram, punching the air out of my lungs.
My legs buckled for a split second, but I stayed upright, twisting to keep the tag on him while the force shoved me back two steps.
None of that mattered, not when the ump fisted his hand.
“Out!”
The stadium exploded. But I barely heard it.
Because from the stands came a sharp, furious scream. “Get off him, you . . . fucking dick muffin!”
Hm, that’s a new one.
“What’s the matter with you?” Bella yelled. “Spikes up? Really? Are you playing dirty, or is being a cheap-ass asshole just your whole personality?”
My sweet, quiet Bella, the woman who flinched at loud noises and apologized to furniture when she bumped it, had one hand cupped around her mouth, yelling at a two-hundred-eighty-pound base runner like she was ready to vault the fence and fight him herself.
Bailey startled at the sound, then giggled like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Clarke’s mouth dropped open, and Dani looked downright impressed. She didn’t scold Bella for swearing in front of the baby.
The ump lifted his mask just enough to squint up at her, eyebrows raised. “Your wife?” he asked, one corner of his mouth twitching.
I was still catching my breath, but I managed a crooked grin.
“Not yet,” I said. “But maybe someday.”
The image hit me fast and hard.
Bella. My wife. Pregnant with our baby. Holding a miniature version of us on her hip at games. Yelling at umpires. Kissing me after wins. Coming home with me every night.
Fuck.
I was hard under my cup before I even registered the thought.
The team mobbed me with high fives and back slaps, but I barely felt them. My eyes stayed locked on hers.
I stripped off my catcher’s gear right there on the field, passing them off to the bat boy without looking.
Then, I jogged straight for the low wall behind home plate.
The family section was close enough. I planted one cleat on the padded barrier, vaulted it clean, and landed in the aisle right in front of her.
She startled, eyes wide. Bailey reached for me with both hands, babbling with excitement.
That didn’t stop me. I cupped Bella’s face with both dirt-streaked hands and kissed her. Claimed her. Right there in front of everyone—the team, the fans, the press. Mine.
She made a surprised sound against my mouth, then melted into it, free hand fisting my jersey, the other still supporting Bailey.
When I finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, eyes dazed.
“Bennett—”
“Get your stuff,” I said, voice firm.
She blinked. “What?”
I leaned in, lips brushing her ear so only she could hear.
“I need ten minutes to wrap up, and then I’m taking you back to the condo so I can bury myself inside that pussy. I can’t wait anymore. Not with you wearing my jersey, looking like you’re ready to fight for me.”
Her breath hitched.
“I’ll always fight for you, Bennett.”
“Stuff. Now.” I kissed her again. “And give Dani back her baby.”
The condo door slammed shut behind us with a force that rattled the pictures on the wall. I didn’t bother with lights. The moonlight spilling through the living room windows and the faint glow from the light beneath the microwave were enough.
Bella was already all over me, her eyes bright and hungry. I caught her by the hip and walked her back until her spine met the door.
She moaned into my mouth, dragging me closer. Her tongue met mine stroke for stroke. Thank fuck. She was dying for this as much as I was.
I pressed my thigh between her legs, and she rocked against it without shame. I broke the kiss long enough to drag my mouth along her jaw. “Remember when we talked about safe words, baby?”
“Uh-huh,” she breathed, nodding fast.
“Green means go, yellow is slow down, and red—”
“Means stop, I know. But I don’t want easy tonight, Bennett. I want all of you.” She nibbled her lip. “That means no holding back.”
Her cheeks were flushed; her chest rose and fell quickly under my jersey. I brushed my thumb over her bottom lip.
“You sure you know what you’re asking for? It might not be gentle.”
She looked up at me from beneath a hooded gaze. “I don’t want gentle. I want . . .”
“Tell me. What do you want?”
Nothing could have prepared me for what she said next.
“I want you to spank me again,” she forced out.
Heat surged straight to my cock. I groaned low in my throat, forehead dropping to hers for a second while I tried to keep from losing it right there.
“Jesus, Bella.”