15. Sean
FIFTEEN
SEAN
San Jose sure knows how to make a thing out of a thing.
And right now, the thing is us.
By the time the Mets come to San Jose, the kiss has been clipped, replayed, analyzed, memed, and turned into everyone’s favorite new problem. Packed stadium. Cameras everywhere.
Commentators trying to sound chill while they absolutely aren’t. People in the stands wave homemade signs like this is a rom-com and they’ve paid for front-row seats to the romance.
One sign says O’MALLEY + GUERRERO = , which makes me want to die.
Another says KISS HIM, METS!, which makes me want to commit arson.
And the worst one… the absolute crime?
SWITCH HITTERS FOR LOVE with a heart drawn around it.
Fucking kill me now.
I glare at it from the on-deck circle, and the fan holding it beams like I just personally blessed her. I adjust my batting gloves and pretend I don’t feel Emiliano’s eyes on me from the mound.
Except I do.
I feel him like gravity.
He’s in full uniform, Mets blue crisp against the green field, cap low, jaw set, and expression calm. Pitcher calm. The kind of calm that makes you feel like he already decided how this goes.
I hate him and I love him.
The crowd buzzes louder when the PA announcer cues my walk-up. The first notes of “Tear You Apart” by She Wants Revenge crawl out of the stadium speakers like a confession, dark and sexy. A little feral.
Very us.
And the stands react immediately because everyone knows.
That song isn’t subtle. It’s a statement. It’s me walking up to the plate and letting the whole baseball world watch me own what I used to be terrified to name. I step out of the on-deck circle and into the batter’s box with my pulse loud in my ears.
This isn’t just an at-bat.
It’s a spotlight.
It’s me, out and loud, while my boyfriend stands on the mound and pretends he’s not proud as hell.
I tap the plate once, settle my stance, and look out at him.
Emiliano stares in like he’s about to ruin my day.
He probably is.
He sets, and I smirk.
He smirks back, just a fraction.
The catcher gives the sign, and Emiliano nods once. Then he pauses, glove hiding his mouth like the cameras can’t read his thoughts.
But I know him.
He’s about to shit-talk.
“Pelirrojo,” he calls, his voice carrying just enough.
I lift my chin. “Mili.”
The crowd reacts instantly, with little oohs and laughter, like they’re watching two villains flirt at prom.
Emiliano’s eyes narrow. “You sure you wanna call me that out here?”
I shrug, exaggeratedly. “You’re my boyfriend. That’s what boyfriends do.”
The crowd loses it, and I can practically hear the commentators melting down in the booth.
His mouth tilts into the most lethal smile. “Okay. Then don’t cry when I strike you out.”
“You wish, baby.”
He laughs, low, and his voice drops into Spanish like it’s a private knife.
“Te voy a hacer ver bien pendejo,” he murmurs.
My stomach flips and I lean forward, gripping the bat tighter. “Come on, baby. I know you can do better than that.”
The catcher shifts like he’s trying not to laugh.
Emiliano’s eyes flash, and the crowd gets louder because they can feel the heat even if they don’t know the words.
He shakes his head slowly, like he’s disappointed in me.
“Cállate,” he says, but the edge of his smile gives him away. “Focus.”
“Oh, I’m focused,” I say sweetly.
He inhales, and then he throws.
A fastball that cuts to the side of the plate like it’s got an attitude problem.
Foul ball.
The ump shouts and Emiliano’s eyes stay locked on me like I’m a problem he’s delighted to solve. He steps off the rubber, glances toward first like he’s checking a runner, and then looks back at me.
“You always swing too early when you’re mad,” he calls.
I grin. “You always talk too much when you’re nervous.”
That makes him go still, because he is nervous, even if he’ll die before he admits it. He adjusts his grip on the ball, his calm face back in place.
“Nervous?” he repeats, voice light. “No, no. You’re the one that’s nervous. I’m having fun.”
I point the bat at him. “Keep running your mouth, Guerrero. I’ll put this in the bleachers.”
Emiliano’s smile goes sharp. “Promise?”
My cheeks heat, and he sets again.
The second pitch is a slider. It looks like it’s coming right down the middle until it drops off the table like it changed its mind.
I swing anyway because I’m cocky and predictable.
Strike one.
The crowd boos me, so I step out of the box, adjusting my gloves and breathing through my nose. Emiliano’s voice drifts over, soft and smug.
“Qué bonito te ves cuando fallas,” he says.
I glare. “Shut up.”
“You love it.”
The catcher throws the ball back, and Emiliano catches it and turns it in his hand like he’s deciding what kind of pain he wants to give me next.
He looks up.
Glove to his mouth again.
“Good boy and strike out clean,” he murmurs, his glove hiding his mouth. “Or do I embarrass you?”
I choke out, “I hate you.”
Emiliano’s eyes darken like I just fed him.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I pitch better when you hate me.”
Third pitch.
Changeup.
My timing is wrong, my swing late, and I know it the second my bat cuts the air.
Strike two.
The crowd is losing their minds now. People are chanting my name, then his, then both, like we’re a damn boy band. I step out again, jaw clenched, heart pounding.
Emiliano is smiling now.
Not a big smile, but the private one that he reserves for me.
I point at him. “One day I’m going to hit you.”
Emiliano’s grin widens. “That’s just foreplay, Cobre.”
I snort despite myself, then set back in.
Two strikes.
Here we fucking go.
Emiliano settles, and the stadium gets quieter, tension pulling tight.
He lifts his leg, and right before he throws, he says, low enough only I can hear,
“After this, you and that perfect ass of yours are mine tonight.”
“Is that a threat?”
Emiliano’s eyes burn. “It’s a promise.”
He throws.
Fastball high and inside.
It’s nasty.
It’s perfect.
It’s a pitch designed to make you swing at your own pride.
And I do.
Because I’m Sean O’Malley and my mouth is bigger than my self-control.
Strike three.
The catcher catches it clean, and the ump calls it. And the stadium erupts like they just watched a season finale of their favorite show. I stand there for half a second, bat still in my hands, breathing hard.
Then I look up at the mound.
Emiliano is smiling, smug and beautiful, like he just committed a crime and got away with it.
I lift my middle finger because this is how we love out loud.
He lifts his back at me, casual as anything.
Then he grins, and in that grin is pure devotion wrapped in arrogance.
The crowd cheers louder because they think it’s funny.
They don’t know it’s a love language.
I turn and walk back toward the dugout, shaking my head like I’m disgusted. My teammates are leaning over the railing, losing it.
Kai is practically vibrating as he screeches. “brO. THE FLIRTING. IN brOAD DAYLIGHT.”
Gael is laughing, hand over his mouth. “You’re both insufferable. You know that, don’t you?”
Jackson smirks at me. “Struck out, huh?”
“Shut up,” I chuckle.
Andres claps my shoulder, eyes warm. “You’ll get him next time.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I will.”
I sit on the bench, heart still racing, and Brooks leans in from the other end, grin sharp. “So… Emiliano’s officially one of the crew now, right?”
Mike rolls his eyes. “He’s literally your enemy when it comes to pitching.”
Brooks shrugs. “He’s Sean’s boyfriend, and that makes him family.”
Family.
He’s part of my family.
I stare out at the field, where Emiliano is already resetting, calm face back on, pitcher brain locked in, and I realize something that would’ve scared the hell out of me months ago.
This is my life now.
I’m in love with a man who will strike me out and kiss me afterward.
When the inning ends, Emiliano glances toward our dugout once. His eyes find mine. No smirk this time, just warmth.
I lift my middle finger again, and the bastard grabs the air like he caught it, then shoves his hand in his pocket with a shit-eating grin.
He mouths, “Te amo.”
“I love you too,” I mouth back, and for once, love doesn’t feel like something I have to earn through suffering.
This feels like a beginning I’m letting myself have.