Chapter 5 Ozzie
OZZIE
My legs felt like jelly as I stood on the vibrating floor of the bus bathroom. Ryan decided to fuck my cock a second time, while I was on that small bathroom counter. He wanted more of my skin. And yet, it felt great.
The air was thick and humid, the scent of us trapped in the tiny, blue-lit space. Ryan was right in front of me, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a heat that hadn’t quite cooled yet.
“God… that was perfect…” Ryan breathed. He leaned his forehead against mine for a second, his skin damp with sweat.
Yes. It was.
I couldn’t even find my voice. I just nodded, fumbling with my belt and trying to make sure my hoodie didn’t look like it had just been through a localized hurricane.
We had just risked everything—our reputations, our careers, our standing with the team—all for five minutes of frantic, whispered bliss while thirty other guys sat just feet away.
“I better go.” I reached for the door handle, my heart still racing at a hundred miles an hour. I needed to get back to my seat before someone started knocking. Before someone found out.
“Oz, wait.”
I turned back, my hand on the lock. Ryan reached out, his large hand catching my bicep.
He didn’t pull me back into another kiss, though I wouldn’t have fought him if he did.
He just looked at me, his expression softening into something I’d never seen him show on the field.
It wasn’t the “Captain” look. It was just Ryan.
“You’re perfect, Oz,” he said, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrated in my chest. “Really.”
I felt a flush creep up my neck that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. “You’re just saying that because I’m the only one who can turn a double play with you,” I joked, trying to shield myself with my usual sass.
Ryan didn’t smile. He stepped closer, crowding me against the door one last time. “I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re a great rookie. Now get out of here before I decide I don’t care if Miller sees us.”
“Yes, Cap.”
I slipped out of the bathroom, my heart in my throat. I walked down the aisle, keeping my head down and sliding into my seat next to the window. I stared out at the passing highway, my lips still tingling and my pulse finally starting to settle.
I was suddenly having feelings toward Lindson. And I was ready to have him bang me again, once we got to the hotel.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the bus pulled into the stadium lot. We were playing against the Arizona Sandbags. I know, quite a name for a baseball team. I couldn’t stop laughing to myself when Coach announced our next play team.
Before we started practice at the stadium, we headed to the hotel to relax and unwind. I got a text from Ryan.
RYAN: If you win tonight, you get a reward, Oz.
I type back.
ME: What reward, Lindson?
RYAN: You know damn well what it is, Ford. Be a good boy for me tonight and win.
Fuck. I have to get use to his dirty words. Because right now, I wanted that reward.
* * *
That night, we won the game. 3-1. I still kept my distance from Ryan, but he still looked at me on the field like I was a piece of meat. A few brushes of fingers to each other, but nothing steamy that caught anyone’s attention.
The high of tonight’s game and the secret thrill of the bus ride crashed into a sudden wall of reality the moment I stepped into my hotel room. My phone was buzzing on the nightstand, the caller ID flashing a name that always meant business.
It was Marcus, my agent.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, wearing a t-shirt and lounge pants. “Hey, Marcus. It’s late. Everything okay?”
“Ozzie,” Marcus’s voice was tight, professional, and lacked its usual breezy charm. “We need to talk. I just got a call from a scout who was at the stadium tonight. He wasn’t just there to watch your catching and batting average.”
My stomach dropped. “What are you talking about?”
“There are rumors, Oz. Someone saw you and Lindson coming out of the back of the bus together today. And then there’s the way you two were looking at each other on the field tonight.
People are starting to whisper, and in this league, whispers turn into headlines faster than a ninety-mile-per-hour heater. ”
Shit.
I went cold. The “perfect” world Ryan and I had built over the last forty-eight hours felt like it was made of glass, and Marcus had just thrown a rock at it.
“Marcus, it’s not—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted. “Whatever is happening, you need to stop it. You’re in a contract year, kid.
The Beavers love you, but the front office is old-school.
Henderson wouldn’t like this at all. If they see you a ‘distraction’ or whatever this is becomes a tabloid story, I will have to talk about trading you to another team. ”
The fuck? He wouldn’t dare. He’s trying to threaten me, but I keep calm on the line.
I stared at the hotel room door, knowing Ryan was just three doors down the hall. He needs to know this.
“I’m just telling you to be careful,” Marcus sighed. “Keep your head down. Play ball. Do not give me a reason to move you.” Then he hung up.
Fuck. What am I going to do? The room felt twice as big and ten times as lonely. Maybe I should text Ryan about this. I want to go to him, to feel his arms around me and have him tell me it didn’t matter. But Marcus’s words were ringing in my ears: He’ll drop me in a heartbeat.
I send a text to Ryan.
ME: I’m coming to your room. Something happened. Will be at your door in 5 minutes.
I didn’t even wait for a reply. I just grabbed my room key and slipped into the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs. Every shadow in the corridor looked like a coach; every floorboard creak sounded like a camera shutter.
I reached Room 323 and knocked.
The door swung open almost instantly. Ryan looked like he hadn’t even started to relax from the game; he was wearing a white t-shirt and short gray pants, his hair damp from what looks like a shower he took. He saw the look on my face and immediately hauled me inside, locking the door behind me.
“Oz, baby. You’re white as a sheet. What happened?”
“My agent called,” I said, the words tumbling out in a rush.
I started pacing the small carpeted area between the beds.
“Someone saw us on the bus, Ryan. Or they saw enough to start guessing. Marcus says the front office at Beavers is already hearing whispers. He said… he said if this doesn’t stop, he’ll move me.
He’ll trade me to some dumb baseball team that won’t win games and catch balls in gloves. ”
Ryan’s face hardened. That “Captain” mask he wore on the field settled over his features, but I could see the flash of anger in his eyes. He stepped into my path, catching my shoulders to stop my pacing.
“Listen to me, Oz. He won’t fucking touch you,” he growled. “I won’t let him.”
“How Ryan?! You’re the star, I’m the rookie they can replace with a phone call.” I looked up at him, my eyes stinging. “I want this. I want us. But I’ve worked my whole life to get to this team. If I lose baseball…”
“You aren’t going to lose it. You aren’t going to lose…
me,” Ryan said, his voice dropping to that steady, commanding tone that usually calmed the dugout during a bases-loaded jam.
He slid his hands up to cup my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones.
“We just have to be smarter. No more bus bathrooms. No more lingering looks in the dugout or on the field. We play the game, we do the press, and we save this for behind closed doors. Only.”
I leaned into his touch, closing my eyes. “It’s going to be so hard to act like I don’t want to kiss you when you hit a walk-off. Or when you catch that ball.”
“Then we’ll just have to make it worth the wait,” he whispered, leaning down to press a firm, lingering kiss to my forehead. “Starting now.”
* * *
To anyone watching the next morning, the “Golden Boy” was back to his usual self.
Ryan spent the entire breakfast buffet sitting with Miller and the other veterans, laughing loudly at some inside joke about a blown call from three years ago. I sat two tables over with the other younger guys, staring into my oatmeal and pretending to be fascinated by the local sports page.
And it sucked.
It was the hardest and painful thing I’d ever had to do.
Every time Ryan’s deep, booming laugh echoed through the hotel restaurant, my skin itched.
I wanted to look up. I wanted to catch his eye and see that secret glint that told me he was thinking about the way I’d felt in his arms just hours ago.
But I didn’t. I kept my head down. “The Wingman Protocol” was officially in play. That’s what Ryan called it anyway.
* * *
By the time we got to the stadium for the game against the Las Vegas Owls, the atmosphere was different. Ryan was leaning against Miller’s locker, talking shop, acting like the ultimate “teammate’s teammate.”
I walked past them, my heart hammering. “Watch it, Ford,” Miller chirped, though there was no heat in it. “You’re walking like you forgot how to use your legs.”
“Late night in the cages, Miller,” I lied smoothly, not letting my gaze flicker to Ryan for even a second. “Unlike some of you vets, I actually have to practice to stay on the roster.”
“Kid’s got a mouth on him today,” Ryan remarked to Miller, his tone light and dismissive—the perfect mask. But as I passed, I felt the breeze of him shifting his weight, a silent acknowledgment that nearly made me trip over my own gear bag.
And I swore I saw him give me a wink when I took a quick look at him.
* * *
The game was a defensive struggle. 0-0 going into the seventh. I was stationed at second base, and Ryan was out in center field.
Suddenly, a high fly ball was hammered deep into the gap. It was “no man’s land”—between my territory and his. We both took off. I was sprinting backward, eyes on the sky, and I could hear the thundering footsteps of a 6’2 powerhouse coming toward me.
“I got it! I got it!” I yelled.
Usually, Ryan would take charge. But he stayed back just enough, letting me make the spectacular diving catch. I hit the grass hard, the wind knocked out of me, but the ball was squeezed tight in my glove.
Got it!
Ryan was the first one there. He reached down, and for a terrifying second, I thought he was going to pull me up and hug me. The crowd was cheering, the cameras were on us.
Instead, he grabbed the bill of my cap and yanked it down over my eyes—a classic, brotherly “pro ball” move.
“Nice snag, rookie,” he shouted loud enough for the dirt-mic to catch it. “Now get up before you look like a lawn ornament.”
Yes, Cap.
He turned and jogged back to his spot. My heart was racing. It was the perfect cover. To the world, we were just teammates. To me, the heat of his hand on my cap felt like a brand.
He’s driving me fucking nuts not to touch him without being seen.
* * *
The game ended in a 1-0 win for the Beavers. We were back at the hotel, the “Wingman” act having worked perfectly. My agent had even texted me saying the “vibes” looked better. But I didn’t reply to it. When this season is over, I want to get another agent. Immediately.
It was now midnight. I was in my room, staring at the door, wondering if Ryan was actually going to stay away. Maybe he changed his mind and decided to quit our steamy relationship. Maybe I wasn’t for him.
Stop saying that, Oz. He has feelings towards you.
My thoughts were shattered when my phone buzzed against my thigh. I pulled it out, the screen’s glow blinding in the dark hotel room.
RYAN: Room 543. Now. Service stairs only. Don’t let anyone see you, rookie.
My heart did a triple-count. The “Wingman Protocol” had worked all day, but it had left a hollow ache in my chest that no win could fill. Acting like I didn’t care about him in front of Miller and the coaches was the hardest game I’d ever played.
I didn’t even grab my jacket or anything else.
I slipped out of my room, my socks silent on the hallway carpet.
I didn’t take the elevator; I pushed through the heavy fire door to the service stairs, my pulse echoing in the concrete stairwell.
I climbed the flight to the fourth floor, peeking through the small wired-glass window to make sure the coast was clear before darting down the hall.
I didn’t even have to knock. The door to 543 cracked open before I reached it, and a large hand reached out, grabbing the front of my shirt and hauling me inside.
The door clicked shut, the lock sliding home with a finality that made my knees weak. Ryan didn’t say a word. He just backed me against the door, his weight pinning me there, his breathing heavy and ragged as if he’d been the one running the stairs.
“That was the longest fucking twelve hours of my life,” he rasped, his forehead dropping against mine.
“You were good though,” I whispered, my hands finding his waist, pulling him as close as the fabric of our clothes would allow. “You and Miller… you looked like best friends. I almost believed it myself.”
“We are best friends. But Jesus, I hated every second of it,” Ryan growled.
He tilted his head, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a frantic shiver down my spine.
“I hated watching you dive for that ball and not being able to pick you up and fucking kiss you right there on the grass. I hated the way you looked at the breakfast table and didn’t even smile at me. ”
He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, his expression raw and hungry. “We have to be smart, Oz. I know that. But in this room? In this room, I’m not the Captain, and you’re not the rookie. In here, you’re just mine. Understand?”
“Yes-” He stopped me by crashing his lips onto mine, and it wasn’t the polished, controlled Ryan Lindson from the dugout. It was desperate. It was the sound of a man who had been starving all day and finally had a seat at the table.