2. Matty #2
And even though I had given Soren a lot of shit when they’d first gotten together, Clarke was just as much a part of the team as the rest of the guys. Same with Dani, who had gone and married Coach Ward earlier in the season.
Apparently, love was contagious in the Roasters’ locker room.
“Y’all really transformed this place,” I told Clarke, taking in the setup.
Dani appeared at her side, her electric-blue hair falling in messy waves around her face. “Somebody had to. This room normally looks like a sad church basement.”
Clarke nodded. “And smells like a moldy shoe.”
That was our social media dynamic duo for you. Whereas Clarke was soft curves, Dani was sharp edges wrapped up in a petite package. Tattoos curled down her neck and bare arms, disappearing beneath her cropped top. A small hoop pierced her eyebrow, catching the light whenever she tilted her head.
“You’re up after Diaz finishes this set,” Dani said, glancing at her clipboard. “Hair and makeup’s ready when you are.”
I nodded, but my eyes had already found him.
Lord have mercy.
There he was. Peter Diaz.
Smiling, shirtless, and covered in puppies—a queer boy’s wet dream.
His bronze skin gleamed under the softboxes like he’d been oiled for the shot, every ridge and dip of muscle catching the light just right.
Forget herding puppies. Who did a guy have to fuck to get a job lubing up professional athletes before photoshoots?
Well, maybe just one specific athlete.
My eyes skimmed across his chest and down his well-defined abs. His uniform pants were slung low enough to show off the dark trail of hair leading away from his bellybutton and toward his waistband, like an arrow pointing straight toward trouble.
In fact, everything about Peter Diaz screamed trouble. The kind that made good Southern boys like me forget their manners and start thinking with their dicks instead of their heads.
Speaking of dicks . . .
The shape of his was unmistakable even through the soft cotton of his pants. It curved slightly to the left, pressing against his thigh in a way that made the material tent just enough to be borderline obscene. Every time he shifted his weight, it moved like it had a mind of its own.
And then there were the puppies.
The only thing hotter than baseball pants stretched across a tight ass—male or female, I wasn’t picky—was baseball pants stretched across a tight ass surrounded by puppies.
He had one arm wrapped around a cream-colored lab while the other cradled a hound mix close to his chin. He belted out a laugh when the lab mix tried to climb his shoulder, and the sound made my mouth go dry.
Hot damn.
Forget the charity calendar. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a small-town romance novel. Something with an adorably punny title like Fur-ever Yours.
Yeah . . . I’d read that.
I hated how good he looked like this. Worse, I hated how much I wanted to keep looking.
“Earth to Matty.”
Dani’s voice snapped me out of my daze. She was standing right beside me now, one eyebrow arched in a way that told me she knew exactly what—or who—had caught my eye.
“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “I, um . . . no. Sorry. Mind saying it again?”
“Walk with me.”
She started toward the holding area at the back of the room, and I followed. Clarke fell into step beside us, Mo still tucked against her chest.
“What do you know about Sleigh the Bake?” Dani asked.
“The baking show?”
She nodded. “They’re doing a celebrity showdown holiday special and one of the teams dropped out last minute. The producer is a friend of mine, so she reached out to see if I had a few hunky baseball players to offer up as replacements.”
I blinked. “Uh-huh.”
I didn’t like where this was going. She couldn’t possibly be suggesting—
“They’re filming during the All-Star break and since you’ll be around . . .”
“You want me to bake?”
“Yes.”
“On television?”
“Right again.”
“And before you say no, just know that it is for charity,” Clarke quickly added. “Each team picks a cause and gets money just for showing up. The winning team takes home fifty grand.”
“I’m not much of a baker,” I told them.
That was putting it lightly. I knew my way around the grill, but the oven was a different story. I hadn’t baked so much as a birthday cake since high school, and that had only been because I’d wanted to impress my girlfriend at the time.
She’d dumped me four days later.
“Nobody’s expecting you to be Paul Hollywood,” Dani said. “The show is about personality more than anything.”
“Besides, it wouldn’t be just you,” Clarke offered. “You’d have a partner.”
“And it would be a great opportunity to promote the Junior Roasters.” Dani’s smile was genuine. “We all know how important those kids are to you.”
They had me there. The Junior Roasters was more than just a youth baseball program.
For a lot of kids, many of whom came from low-income neighborhoods across Oregon and Washington, it was an escape, an opportunity to build skills and friendships.
I had been volunteering with them for the past year, so I knew firsthand that fifty grand would go a long way.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Who would be my partner?”
Clarke and Dani exchanged a look.
“We’re thinking either Wes or Diaz,” Clarke answered. “Both would be great picks, but the producers are thinking Diaz might be more—”
“Good TV,” Dani said, cutting to the chase.
I glanced back toward the set and my stomach did a flip. Diaz was laughing again, his head tipped back as the hound lapped at his chin.
“No,” I said, too quickly.
Dani frowned. “Hear me out. It’s only for five days, out near Pendleton, in this gorgeous, refurbished inn—”
“I appreciate the offer, but to be honest, I could use the added rest. Plus, I barely know a cake pan from a pie dish.”
Dani studied me for a second, then nodded. “No problem. Just let me know if you change your mind.”