Chapter 4 Ryan
RYAN
The sunlight stabbing through the hotel curtains felt like a personal attack. I rolled over, my arm instinctively reaching for the warm weight of the man who had been tangled in the sheets with me until three in the morning.
My hand hit cold, empty polyester.
I sat up fast, my heart doing a nervous gallop. The room was silent except for the hum of the air conditioner. Ozzie was gone. For a second, a dark pit opened up in my stomach—the “veteran” brain taking over, telling me that last night was a mistake, that he’d panicked and bolted.
Did I make a mistake while having sex with him? Did I go too far with my dirty talk? I hope that wasn’t the fucking case.
I dragged myself out of bed, my muscles aching in that specific, satisfied way that had nothing to do with the gym.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror—red-eyed, brown hair a mess, and a faint bruise on my shoulder where Ozzie had gripped me.
I looked like a man who had finally gotten exactly what he wanted and was now terrified of losing it.
But man, that sex was fucking amazing.
Another part of me was scared what others thought.
We were the Rock Hills Beavers’ core. If this went south, it wouldn’t just be a breakup; it would be a clubhouse disaster. People would talk and wonder why two teammates are secretly hitting each other off. I can’t let that happened to me. Or to Ozzie.
After a long, scalding shower to clear my head, I stepped back into the room, towel wrapped around my waist. I went to grab my watch from the bedside table, and that’s when I saw it.
A small, jagged slip of paper torn from the hotel notepad.
It wasn’t a “Dear John” letter. It was just ten digits scrawled in messy, hurried handwriting, and a small, hand-drawn sketch of a baseball with “Beavers” written across it. Underneath, in tiny letters, he’d written:
Here’s my cell number. Text me before the bus leaves. Don’t overthink it, Cap.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Don’t overthink it,” I muttered, shaking my head. Easier said than done when you’re 29 and falling for a 23-year-old catcher who catches ball like his life depends on it.
I picked up my phone and typed out a message.
To: [New Number] I’m thinking about it. But I’m mostly thinking about how you look in my shirt. Get some breakfast, kid. See you at the bus.
* * *
The bus was a hum of white noise—the engine’s low thrum, the air conditioning blowing through the vents, and the distant murmur of guys arguing over their fantasy football leagues.
I was tucked into my usual seat in the back row, my long legs cramped, while Ozzie was four rows up, sitting by the window.
The agony of being away from him. I wanted to claim him again with my lips. I wanted a taste of his cock.
We were just two teammates focused on our pre-game rituals, but in secret, we were a love fuck. My phone was burning a hole in my palm as I texted Ozzie.
ME: You’re wearing that hoodie I like. The one that’s a little too big for you.
I watched the back of his head. He didn’t move for a second, then I saw his shoulders drop as he checked his screen. He leaned his forehead against the window, shielding his face from his seatmate.
OZZIE: Maybe I wore it because it smells like your hotel room. Focus on the scouting report, Ryan. You’re supposed to be the disciplined one.
I felt a surge of heat crawl up my neck. I adjusted my position, leaning back and typing with one hand.
ME: Disciplined? Last night you had that dirty fuckable mouth on me and you weren’t calling me ‘Cap.’ You were begging. Hard to stay disciplined when I can still feel your teeth on my shoulder. You like that, don’t you? Leaving marks on your Cap?
Across the bus, Ozzie shifted violently in his seat.
He reached up, pulling his hood over his head to hide the fact that his ears were probably turning bright red.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew exactly what he was feeling—that desperate, electric tension that made it impossible to sit still. I’m getting to him all right.
OZZIE: Shut up, Lindson. Seriously. I’m sitting three feet away from the pitching coach. If you keep talking like that, I’m going to have to go lock myself in the bus bathroom until we hit the state line.
I looked at the back of his hooded head, imagining the look in his eyes—the way they got dark and hazy when he was flustered. I leaned forward, my thumbs flying over the screen.
ME: The bus bathroom has a lock, Oz. And it’s dark. If you get up in five minutes, I might just happen to need a stretch at the same time. We could see just how ‘aerodynamic’ you really are in a tight space.
I saw him freeze, like I challenged him. He didn’t text back immediately. He just sat there, perfectly still, while the miles blurred past the window.
Is he going to do it?
Then, slowly, he stood up, not looking back, and started making his way down the aisle toward the small restroom at the rear.
I waited exactly sixty seconds. My pulse was a frantic rhythm in my ears, louder than the roar of the highway under the tires. I stood up, stretching my arms over my head like a man who’d just caught a cramp, and moved toward the back.
I’m coming for you, Ozzie Ford.
I slipped into the tiny, cramped lavatory and clicked the lock just as the bus hit a pothole, sending me stumbling forward.
Ozzie was already there, backed against the tiny sink in the dim, blue-tinted light. The space was so small my knees were literally slotted between his, and the ceiling was so low I had to duck my head.
“You’re insane,” Ozzie breathed, his voice a frantic whisper against the hum of the engine. “If anyone hears—”
“They won’t,” I cut him off, my voice a jagged growl. I hooked my hands under his thighs and hoisted him up onto the small counter. He gasped, his legs immediately locking around my waist, pulling me into the cradle of his hips.
The vibration of the bus traveled through the floor, through the walls, and straight into our bones. I buried my face in his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin and that oversize hoodie.
“I told you I couldn’t fucking stop thinking about it,” I muttered, my hands sliding up under the sweatshirt to find the warm, bare skin of his waist. “Watching you walk down this aisle… knowing what you look like under this hoodie….fuck…”
Ozzie’s hands fumbled with my shirt, his fingers desperate and shaky.
He found my mouth in the dark, and the kiss was frantic, messy, and tasted like the adrenaline of being caught.
Every time the bus swayed, we were thrown harder against each other.
I could feel every line of his body, every tensed muscle as he tried to keep his moans muffled against my lips.
His head hit the back wall with a soft thud, and he let out a choked sound, his fingers digging into my shoulders. “Ryan… we have to… the game…”
“The hell with the game,” I rasped, trailing my lips down to the sensitive spot right below his ear. “Right now, it’s just us. Four rows away from the rest of the world.”
The danger of it—the thin door separating us from our entire professional lives—made everything ten times more electric. I felt him shudder against me, his breath hitching as I pressed him firmly against the wall, showing him exactly how much he’d affected me.
I go to his pants. “Ryan, we can’t-”
“Shut it, Oz. I need this cock. I need you.” I growled back. I unzip his jeans, taking out his cock.
Ozzie’s breath hitches, his cock already hard in my hand. I stroke him slowly, my thumb circling the tip, spreading the pre-cum that’s already beading there.
“Fuck, Ryan,” Ozzie moans, his head falling back, his hips bucking into my touch.
I drop to my knees, my tongue replacing my hand. I lick him from base to tip, my eyes locked on his. “You taste so fucking good, Oz,” I murmur, my breath hot against his skin.
I take him into my mouth, my tongue swirling around his shaft, my lips tight around him. I can feel him throbbing, his cock pulsing with need. I sucked him with fucking greed. His cock tasted like salt and of him. That’s just what I want.
Ozzie’s hands tangle in my hair, his hips moving in time with my mouth. “Oh god, Ryan,” he gasps, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m gonna… come.”
Please fucking do. Come for your Cap.
I pull off him, my hand replacing my mouth. I stroke him hard and fast, my thumb pressing against the sensitive spot just beneath the head. “Come for me, Oz,” I command, my voice rough with desire. “I want to see you come.” I stroke him as I look at him.
Ozzie’s body tenses, his cock twitching in my hand. He comes with a cry, his cum spilling over my fingers, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. I lick my fingers clean, my eyes never leaving his. “Good boy. You did well for me.”
“Fuck, Ryan,” Ozzie pants, his body limp, his eyes heavy-lidded. “That was… that was amazing.”
I stand up and kiss him deeply. He can taste his cum on my tongue, his cum still on my lips that I fucking tasted. He moans into my mouth, his body pressing against mine.
I break the kiss, my breath ragged. “No, Oz,” I murmur, my voice rough. “You’re amazing.”
Ozzie smiles. “You’re not so bad yourself, Lindson.”
I smile. God, I fucking love this man.