Chapter 6 Ryan
RYAN
The “Wingman Protocol” had been a fucking torture. Every minute spent laughing with Miller was a minute I wasn’t looking at Ozzie; every professional nod on the field was a lie that tasted like ash. Now that the door was locked and the world was shut out, the dam finally broke.
“Get on the fucking bed, rookie. Now.” I growled against the sensitive skin of his jaw.
I didn’t stop kissing him. I trailed my lips down his neck, marking the spot just behind his ear where I knew he was most sensitive. Ozzie let out a shaky, broken sound—half-sob, half-moan—and stumbled back toward the mattress, his hands never leaving my arms.
The moment he hit the sheets, I was over him.
I didn’t give him a second to breathe. I kissed his chest, his stomach, the heat of his skin radiating through the dim light of the room.
I wanted to erase every inch of the “professional distance” we’d kept all day.
I wanted to remind him—and myself—exactly who he belonged to when the stadium lights went dark. He was mine.
“Ryan,” he gasped, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me back up to his face. “Please…”
“I’ve got you, baby,” I whispered, my voice thick with a hunger I couldn’t hide anymore. “Nobody’s watching. Just me.”
I captured his lips again, deeper this time, a slow and possessive burn.
The rhythm of the city outside—the distant sirens and the hum of traffic—faded into nothing.
There was only the sound of his heart thudding against my chest and the desperate way he arched into me.
In this room, there were no scouts, no agents, and no trades.
There was just the weight of him under me and the terrifying realization that I was falling for this kid faster than a line drive.
“Ryan…. fuck me… please..,” Ozzie moans on my mouth.
I groan deeply, my cock throbbing hard against Ozzie’s thigh as his words send a rush of heat through me.
I pull back just enough to look into his eyes, dark with need, before crashing my mouth back onto his, kissing him rough and hungry.
My hands slide down his sides, gripping his hips firmly as I grind my erection against him, feeling the heat of his body pressing into mine.
“Fuck, Oz, you want it, don’t you?” I murmur against his lips, my voice low and gravelly.
I shift my weight, pushing him back onto the bed, my fingers hooking into the waistband of his lounge pants.
I yank them down roughly, exposing his hard cock that springs free, already leaking pre-cum.
My own pants follow quickly, kicked off to the floor, leaving us both naked and aching.
I spread his legs wide with my knees, positioning myself between them.
My hand wraps around my thick cock, stroking it once to line up with his tight entrance.
I spit into my palm, slicking him up as I rub the head against his hole, teasing just enough to make him squirm.
“You want this cock inside you? Beg for it again.”
“Ryan….please…fuck me,” He said with lust and need. “I need your cock…”
Without waiting long, I push forward, the tip breaching him slowly at first, then thrusting deeper in one smooth motion.
His ass clenches around me, hot and gripping, pulling me in.
I start pumping my hips, fucking him steady and hard, each slap of skin echoing in the room.
My balls smack against him with every drive, and I lean down to capture his moans in another bruising kiss, my tongue fucking his mouth in rhythm with my cock in his ass.
“You like that, rookie? Me fucking your brains out?” I growl as I thrust my dick into his ass.
“Yes, Cap. Please… I’m going to come…” He said, breathing hard, while stroking his own dick.
“Then fucking come, Oz. Do it for me, baby.”
And then he did. His cum spurting on his stomach.
“Good boy.”
* * *
After a three more mind-blowing sex, I tightened my grip on him, pulling his back flush against my chest. The adrenaline of the last hour was cooling into a heavy ache. I was sore from all that sex for a 29 year old that I was.
God, he was fucking perfect. And yet, some part of me wants to be near him at all times. Protect him from the world and the news outlet.
In the quiet of the hotel room, the stakes of the outside world—the trades, the rumors, the “Golden Boy” reputation—felt like they belonged to a different man. I felt I needed to protect the rookie who caught my eye since he first joined the team.
“Please stay for tonight,” I murmured into the damp curls at the nape of his neck. I didn’t want to wake up to a cold bed and not have him besides me. I wanted to feel him breathe. I want to hold him as mine.
“Okay,” Ozzie whispered, his voice small and tired. He reached back, lacing his fingers with mine over his chest. “But you won’t see me until practice. I’m slipping out at five a.m. before the coaches start prowling the halls for coffee.”
“Five a.m.,” I groaned, closing my eyes. “I can live with that. Just stay for tonight, Oz. Please.”
“I will, Cap.”
We lay there in the dark, the only sound the steady hum of the air conditioner. I knew what was coming next. Chicago. The city where every fan had a camera and every “insider” was looking for a story to break. The pressure was going to be suffocating.
But as Ozzie’s breathing slowed, I realized I’d play a thousand “Wingman” roles and endure a hundred silent bus rides just to keep this.
He may be a rookie, but he’s my rookie. No one else’s.
“Why are you obsessed with me Ryan?” Ozzie whispers while I hold him in bed.
I shifted my weight, pulling him back against my chest so there wasn’t a single inch of light between us. The hotel room was silent, save for the hum of the fridge and the sound of his breathing, but my head was a goddamn stadium of noise.
“Why?” I rasped, my voice sounding raw even to my own ears. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of his soap and that faint, lingering smell of the infield dirt that never really leaves a ballplayer.
“Because you’re the only thing that’s real, Oz.
” I tightened my grip, my fingers splaying across his stomach as if I were trying to hold him together.
“I’ve spent fifteen years being a ‘product.’ I’m the Captain.
I’m the guy who says the right things to the press and signs the balls for the sponsors. I’m a statue in a jersey.”
I turned my head, pressing a kiss to the pulse point in his neck, feeling his heart skip a beat. It was the only thing I lived for these days—making him react, making him feel the same electric current that was short-circuiting my brain.
“Then you walk in,” I continued, my voice dropping to a low, possessive growl.
“And you don’t care about the stats or the ‘Golden Boy’ bullshit.
You look at me like I’m just a man. You’re messy, you’re loud, and you play this game like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.
You’re the color in a world that I’ve seen in black and white for a decade. ”
I rolled him over then, pinning his wrists above his head on the pillows. In the dim light, his eyes were wide, reflecting the desperate, hungry version of me that I never let anyone else see.
“I’m obsessed because I’m terrified,” I admitted, the truth tearing out of me.
“I’m terrified that if I let go of you for one second, I’ll go back to being that statue.
I watch you catching balls not because I’m worried you’ll miss the ball, but because I can’t look away.
I’m addicted to the way you look in my jersey.
I’m addicted to the way you say my name when no one’s listening.
You’re not just a rookie, Ozzie. You’re the reason I still want to wake up in the morning. ”
I leaned down, my lips brushing his, my breath hitching in my chest. “So yeah, I’m obsessed. And I’m never going to stop.”
The silence in the room wasn’t empty; it was heavy, like the air right before a summer thunderstorm breaks over the stadium. I stayed pinned over him, my heart hammering against my ribs, waiting for him to tell me I was too much. Waiting for him to tell me I was suffocating him.
But then he said it.
“I’m obsessed about you too, Ryan Lindson.”
The way he used my full name—the name that usually belonged to the headlines and the back of the jersey—made it feel brand new. He reached up, his hands trembling slightly as he cupped my face, his thumbs brushing over the stubble on my jaw.
“You think I don’t watch you?” Ozzie whispered, his eyes searching mine. “I’ve had your rookie card tucked in my wallet since I was twelve, Ryan. I used to stay up late in Rock Hills just to watch your West Coast starts. I didn’t just want to be a ballplayer. I wanted to be your ballplayer.”
I felt the air leave my lungs. I’d spent so much time worrying about being his “Captain” that I’d forgotten I was his hero first.
“When I got called up,” he continued, his voice cracking, “I was terrified you’d be a jerk.
Or worse, that you’d be boring. But you’re neither.
You’re the most intense, stubborn, brilliant man I’ve ever met.
I’m obsessed with the way you pull your cap down when you’re about to throw a strikeout.
I’m obsessed with how you always make sure I have a water bottle waiting for me in the dugout.
You’re my baseball hero, Ryan. You’ve always been my favorite player. ”
He pulled my head down, his forehead resting against mine.
“So don’t you dare think you’re alone in this. If you’re a statue, then I’m the one who’s going to keep you from ever turning back to stone.”
I let out a shaky breath, the last of my defenses crumbling.
I didn’t have to be the “Golden Boy” here.
I didn’t have to be the leader. I just had to be his.
I slid my hands down to his waist, pulling him up so our bodies were perfectly aligned, the heat between us enough to burn down the whole hotel.
“Then we’re both crazy,” I muttered against his lips.
“The best kind of crazy,” he whispered back.