Chapter 1
OZZIE
PRESENT DAY
The smell of the Rock Hills stadium was something I’d missed more than I cared to admit.
It was a cocktail of freshly cut grass, expensive dirt, and the faint, lingering scent of overpriced hot dogs.
To anyone else, it was just a ballpark. To me, it was the only place where the world felt like it had a strike zone I could actually hit.
I’m home. Where I belong again.
I adjusted my cap, pulling the brim low as I stepped out of the dugout for the first official morning of Spring Training. My cleats crunched against the gravel, a sound that usually grounded me, but today my stomach was doing back flips.
Second year. No longer the “new kid,” but still not quite a veteran. I had a spot on the roster, but in this game, you were only as good as your last at-bat. I was a rookie catcher to say the least. I wasn’t that important.
“Ford! Looking smaller than ever!”
I didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. I squared my shoulders, turning to see fucking Ryan Lindson jogging toward me. The star catcher of the team.
At 6’2, he didn’t just walk; he occupied space.
He was all lean muscle and veteran confidence, his jersey fitting him in a way that made the rest of us look like we were playing dress-up in our dads’ clothes.
He’d been the face of the Beavers for years, and even after a full season of playing behind him, my heart still did a weird little hitch whenever he pointed that “leader of the pack” grin in my direction.
His hair was dark brown, with a stubble on his jaw, but damn. He was hot.
“It’s called being aerodynamic, Lindson,” I shot back, trying to keep my voice steady as he closed the gap. “Some of us don’t need to catch the ball from a star catcher.”
Ryan laughed, a deep, easy sound that vibrated in the morning air. He reached out, his hand heavy and warm as he gave my shoulder a firm squeeze. “Glad you’re back, kid. I was worried you’d spent the off-season getting soft.”
His thumb brushed against the collarbone of my jersey for just a second too long before he let go.
“Not a chance,” I muttered, though my skin felt like it was humming where he’d touched me. “I’m ready to work.”
And I’m letting him get to me.
* * *
The morning sun had turned into a heavy afternoon heat by the time the coaches blew the final whistle.
My jersey was plastered to my back, and my lungs felt like they’d been scrubbed with sandpaper, but I felt good.
Or I did, until I walked into the locker room and realized my locker had been moved.
Originally, I was next to Steve’s. Now, my locker was next to him.
Right next to Ryan Lindson’s.
Shit.
The locker room was a chaotic symphony of snapping tape, splashing showers, and the loud, boisterous post-practice chirping of thirty grown men. I navigated the maze of benches, dropping my glove onto the wooden seat.
Ryan was already there. He was stripped down to his compression shorts, his back to me as he reached for a towel on the top shelf.
The muscles in his back rippled with the movement—a map of every hour he’d spent in the gym while the rest of the world was sleeping.
He was 6’2 of pure, seasoned athlete, and standing next to him, my 5’8 frame felt… compact.
“I see they moved your tag,” Ryan said, not turning around.
“Yeah. I noticed,” I muttered, focusing very hard on unlacing my cleats. “Guess the manager wants me to pick up some of your veteran wisdom by osmosis.”
Ryan finally turned, leaning back against his locker.
He was close. Too close. The scent of him—sweat, expensive deodorant, and something metallic like the weight room—hit me all at once.
He was huge. He didn’t look annoyed; he looked thoughtful, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that made me feel like he was reading my stats off the back of a baseball card.
“Or maybe,” Ryan said, his voice dropping an octave to stay under the roar of the team’s laughter across the room, “he wants me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t burn yourself out in the first week.”
“I can handle myself, Ryan.”
“I know you can, Oz.” He reached out, his large hand landing on the back of my neck.
It wasn’t a teammate’s shove this time; it was steady, his palm hot against my damp skin.
He used his thumb to tilt my chin up just a fraction so I had to look him in the eye.
“But it’s a long season. You’re gonna need someone to remind you to breathe. ”
Fuck. Just him touching me, ignited something inside me. But I didn’t what it was.
He let go as quickly as he’d touched me, grabbing his gear and heading toward the showers without another word. I stayed frozen on the bench, my heart drumming a rhythm that had nothing to do with the sprints I’d just finished.
I sat there for a beat, the spot on the back of my neck where his hand had been feeling like it was literally on fire. Keep an eye on me? Remind me to breathe? My lungs were working fine, it was my brain that was short-circuiting.
What the fuck is he talking about?
I grabbed my shower bag and headed for the back. The main shower area was loud and crowded, but the Beavers’ facility had a smaller washroom near the sauna that most guys ignored. That’s where the veterans usually went for some peace.
The steam hit me the moment I pushed the door open. It was thick, smelling of eucalyptus and hot slate. Through the haze, I saw the silhouette of a tall, broad frame under the far showerhead.
Ryan.
Fuck.
He didn’t hear me come in over the roar of the water. He was standing with his forehead pressed against the tiles, the hot spray drumming against his heavy shoulders. I should have turned around. I should have gone back to the main room and cracked jokes with the rookies.
Instead, I dropped my towel on the bench and stepped into the stall right next to his.
Really Ford? Next to him? There was no curtain in the stall, just a narrow marble partition that didn’t do much to hide anything.
“You following me, Ford?” Ryan’s voice was a low rumble, cutting through the steam. He didn’t move, but I could see his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the water slicking his dark brown hair back. And wetting his lips and jaws.
“So? It’s a free country, Lindson,” I said, my voice sounding braver than I felt. I turned the handle, and the water hit my skin, but it didn’t do anything to cool the heat in my chest. “And I don’t need a babysitter. Especially not one who thinks he can manhandle me in the locker room.”
Ryan finally turned. He wiped the water from his eyes and looked at me—really looked at me.
Without the jersey and the padding, he was intimidatingly beautiful.
Every muscle was defined, hardened by years of professional play.
He stepped out from directly under his stream, moving toward the edge of the partition that separated us.
“Is that what you think I was doing?” he asked. He took a step closer, crossing the “invisible line” between our stalls. “Manhandling you?”
The space between us vanished. He was so much bigger than me, his shadow looming over my 5’8 frame in the mist. He reached out, his hand wet and heavy, and pressed his palm flat against the tiled wall behind my head, effectively pinning me in place.
The air in the room got ten degrees hotter.
I could see the individual droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes.
“You’ve been looking at me all day, Oz,” he whispered, his voice vibrating in the small space.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’re scrappy, you’re a fast catcher, and you’ve got a mouth on you that’s going to get you in trouble one of these days. ”
He leaned in, his chest nearly brushing against mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him. “Are you looking for a fight, or are you looking for something else? Because I can give you anything, Oz.”
The air between us was thick enough to choke on.
Ryan’s eyes were dark, tracking the way my breath hitched as he leaned in.
I could feel the heat of his body radiating through the damp air, and for a second, the roar of the water faded into the background, replaced by the frantic thudding of my heart against my ribs.
I opened my mouth to say something—to tell him to back off or to tell him to… what? Kiss me? I wasn’t even sure which—when the heavy heavy thud of the locker room door swinging open echoed through the tile.
“Yo, Lindy! You in here? Coach is looking for the spring lineup cards!”
It was Miller, the pitcher of the team.
The spell shattered instantly. Ryan didn’t jump, but the shift in his energy was violent. He pushed off the wall, stepping back into his own shower stream in one fluid, practiced motion. He didn’t even look hurried; he just looked like a man finishing a shower.
“Yeah, Miller! Be out in five!” Ryan shouted back, his voice perfectly steady and completely devoid of the low, gravelly rasp he’d just used on me.
I stayed frozen against the wall, the cold tiles biting into my back while the hot water continued to scald my front. My skin was still buzzing where he’d almost touched me.
Ryan turned his head slightly, just enough to catch my eye through the curtain of water. He didn’t smile. He reached out, grabbed his soap, and spoke just loud enough for only me to hear.
“Saved by the bell, Ford,” he murmured. “Don’t think this is over. We’ve got a long bus ride to the away game tomorrow. Plenty of time to finish our talk.”
He shut off his water, grabbed his towel, and vanished around the corner, leaving me standing alone in the steam. My hands were shaking as I finally reached out to turn off my own shower.
We’ll see about that, Ryan Lindson. We’ll fucking see about that.