Chapter Thirteen
Crack!
Heart soaring as he drove the ball through the gap for a single, Jake ran to first base, head down in the bright sunshine. There really was nothing quite like it—the sensation of the bat smacking the ball but good, vibrations ringing up his arms. Then either the roar of the crowd or the groan.
In this case, the Chicago fans grumbled restlessly, but a vocal contingent of Ottawa supporters who’d made the trip cheered, big groups of red shirts visible in the stands.
With two on base and no outs, Chicago’s manager took his slow walk to the mound to pull the starting pitcher and send in a replacement. The Caps were only up by a run, but now was the time to blow it open.
Excitement sparked in Jake’s veins. The Caps were having a damn good season, and while winning their division was likely just out of reach, they could grab the wild card spot into the playoffs. Jake wanted it—really wanted it—for the first time in years.
Granted, it hadn’t been more than a pipe dream in San Fran, the team never in the running in the back stretch of the season.
But the Caps were in contention. Jake looked to the dugout, where Nico sat watching him with his laser focus.
Pulse surging, Jake wondered if anyone noticed, and forced himself to look away.
The Caps were hungry, and so was Jake—for more than just the win.
He nodded to Vasquez, the Chicago first baseman, who patted Jake’s butt with his glove. They’d have a few minutes to kill while the new pitcher made his way from the bullpen beyond the outfield.
He and Vasquez had never played together, so Jake didn’t know him well, but he’d always seemed like a good guy. “How’s it going?” Jake asked.
“Can’t complain. Nice clean hit you got.”
“Thanks.” He took off his batting helmet for a second to swipe his damp forehead with his red sleeve. The air was thick and sticky, the sun beating down. “Hey, any recommendations for dinner?”
“Definitely. New place on Randolph. In West Loop? The charcuterie is to die for. It’s called Meat and Cheese, so it’s easy to remember if you want to hit it up this weekend.”
Jake chuckled. “Cool, thanks.”
“How’s it going up there? You guys get good turnouts, I hear.”
“Definitely. We’re really lucky.” Jake kept his eye on the third base coach for any signs while the reliever approached the mound, glancing at the first base coach nearby every so often as well. “The city’s damn eager for it. Whole country, really, with only two teams.”
“I bet. You’re from there, right?”
“Yep. It’s good to be back.” He realized as he said it that he actually meant it this time.
“Going well with Marco’s little brother, huh?”
Jake’s heart skipped a beat. He’s talking about baseball. Relax. “Yeah. He’s got a hell of an arm.”
The first base coach, Arakawa, stepped over. “He does, and Fitz has a hell of a way with him. Kid’s always had great ball control, but now his head’s in the game.”
Jake tried to shrug it off. “He’s got the talent. I just catch the balls.”
Arakawa laughed. “Yeah, yeah, you’re the conductor and he’s the orchestra, right? Well, have you ever seen an orchestra play without a leader? You’re instrumental.”
Vasquez chortled. “Instrumental, get it?”
They all laughed, and Arakawa added, “Seriously, I was afraid Agresta was going the way of Gellar.”
Jake and Vasquez groaned. Vasquez said, “He’s unreal.
My buddy Lee’s over there in Cleveland, and the clubhouse is sick to death of his shit.
Did you see him plunk Medina last week?” He laughed.
“And when Medina rushed the mound, the Cleveland guys were all, like…” He jogged on the spot in slow motion.
“Took their sweet time getting over there, and I don’t blame ’em.
Medina got in some vicious hits before it was broken up. ”
“Trust me, Nico’s nothing like that asshole Gellar.
” Jake realized he’d used Nico’s first name, which wasn’t necessarily unusual since first names and surnames were often used interchangeably.
Still, he cleared his throat and added, “Agresta’s working hard to be a team player.
” The catcher and relief pitcher were warming up with a few pitches now, and Jake checked third base again for signs.
As they got ready to resume play, Arakawa faded back into foul territory and Jake took a lead off the bag.
Diego was on second, still having a few words with the baseman, so even if Jake had wanted to steal, he couldn’t.
At his size, he wasn’t the quickest on the base paths anyway.
Tugging down his helmet, he focused as Lopez stepped into the batter’s box.
Crack!
Lopez took the very first pitch down the first base line, and Jake raced for second as soon as the bat hit the ball.
He looked to the third base coach for a signal that the ball had been foul, but he was waving Jake on, Diego already speeding toward home.
Adrenaline erased the aches in Jake’s back and knees as he rounded second and powered to third.
The coach windmilled his arm instead of holding up his palms to tell Jake to hold at third.
The ball must have gone into the corner, and Jake didn’t slow as he stepped on third and veered wide before bringing himself back in line with the base path, adrenaline thundering, muscles burning as he ran full out.
The Chicago catcher still waited for the throw, so he couldn’t block the plate yet. Jake shifted his weight back, sliding into the dirt toward home as the ball rocketed from the outfield, the crowd screaming, willing it there before Jake.
Choking on dirt, his foot crossed the plate as the catcher applied the tag, hitting Jake’s shin with his glove, the ball gripped inside. In a tangle, they whipped their heads up for the umpire’s call.
The ump threw his arms out to the side, and as the fans groaned and the catcher protested, Jake leapt to his feet to high-ten Diego and Crowe, who was waiting in the on-deck circle.
He and Diego jogged back to the visitors’ dugout, where enthusiastic butt slaps and high-fives waited. Nico stood near the end of the dugout, his socks pulled up to his knees like always, uniform hugging his lean body, the sun rich on his skin, a dark curl poking out from beneath his cap visor.
And God damn if Jake didn’t want to haul him into his arms and lay one on him. God damn if Nico wasn’t the most gorgeous thing Jake had ever seen, especially with those dimples digging into his cheeks as he raised his hand.
Their palms slapped, and as Jake angled away to high-five one of the coaching staff coming up behind him, Nico smacked Jake’s ass.
Jake’s breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary at all in a dugout.
No one would think twice, and Jake forced himself to tuck his batting helmet away in his cubby and not react.
With the dugout buzzing from the runs, guys laughing and chatting, Jake turned back to Nico and reached past him to fill a little white paper cup with orange Gatorade.
Nico bit his lip, a positively mischievous look on his face. A swell of affection hit Jake like a strike slamming into his glove, a warm glow at seeing his boy so relaxed and happy.
As he moved back, Jake murmured, “You’re going to pay for that tonight.”
“Is that a promise?” Nico looked out at the field as Crowe’s at-bat began.
Jake sipped his Gatorade. “You bet your sweet ass.” Maybe he’d take him to Meat and Cheese for dinner first. They might be recognized, but teammates out for a meal during a road trip wasn’t strange.
They could eat, have a few drinks. Build up the anticipation.
He could really play with Nico in a way they hadn’t yet.
His heart did a hop, skip, and jump, and he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to haul Nico into his arms to keep him calm and happy and safe, or if he wanted to fuck his brains out. Both.
Careful.
He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not for Nico or anyone. This was getting messier by the day. Hell, by the hour. The minute.
Jake sat on the bench beside Nico, their knees barely brushing.
Desire and affection zipped through him, the lingering adrenaline from scoring pumping his heart.
He didn’t dare look directly at Nico or he might drag him over his lap right then and there.
His dick swelled uncomfortably in his cup, and Jake shifted, reaching down to scratch his thigh and surreptitiously adjust himself.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Nico’s shit-eating grin.
Jake banished his worries. He’d deal with all of that…later. Because forget taking Nico to dinner. They were going straight to dessert.
When the soft knock came at his hotel room door, Jake was tempted to wait.
Let Nico sweat it out a bit. But he didn’t want him standing out in the hall where teammates and anyone could come by and wonder what he was doing.
Especially since, peeking through the peephole, Jake could see Nico looked as sweaty as a priest in a brothel.
He opened the door, and Nico came inside, saying, “Um, hey.” He wore jeans and an Old Navy T-shirt, and kicked off his flip-flops.
Jake shut the door and flipped over the extra lock with a sharp rap, making Nico jump a little. God, he was delicious. Smothering his smile, Jake stepped close and pressed their lips together for a moment. Then he leaned down close to Nico’s ear. “Nervous?”
Breathing unevenly, Nico nodded.
“You should be.” Their bodies brushed, but Jake kept just enough distance. “Have you been thinking about what we’re going to do together tonight?”
A vigorous nod.
Jake trailed a hand down Nico’s arm, feeling him shiver as Jake touched his bare skin. “Have you been thinking about how I’m going to own your ass?”
A shuddering exhale, pupils blowing wide and dark. “Yes.”
“Good boy. And how do you feel about that?” He stroked his hand lower over Nico’s butt.
“I want it. I want—” He broke off, cheeks going red.