12. Matty #2
His brows shot up. He knew exactly why I was bolting, but I didn’t need to wait around for him to tease me about it.
I turned and headed toward the gourmet waffle truck, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between us before I did something stupid, like drag him behind the barn, push him to his knees, and let him make good on his offer to lick my freckles.
Later, I told myself.
Tonight, once everyone went home and the barn was quiet again, I wanted Diaz back in my bed. I wasn’t ready for everything just yet. The idea of fucking his ass—or having him fuck mine—still made my stomach twist with nerves.
Even though I knew it would be good.
Diaz would make it good.
But I wasn’t there yet. I wanted to take my time, explore every inch of him, preferably in a California King.
Until then, I would settle for waffles . . . and maybe another blow job or two.
The line for Pop Goes the Waffle was short enough. Just as I finished ordering, James Jarrett stepped out from the side of the truck, holding a plate with some kind of towering waffle concoction.
“If anybody asks,” he said, “I only had two of these.”
“Two of what exactly?”
“The Monte Carlo. Whoever thought of pairing jam and maple butter with turkey and melted cheese deserves a fucking medal.”
I nodded, chuckling. James glanced toward the barn wall where the game was playing in bright HD. “Your guys are looking sharp.”
“Thanks.”
“Does it feel weird to be watching instead of playing?”
“You have no idea,” I told him.
Weird didn’t even begin to cover it. For the last five years, the All-Star break had meant packed clubhouses, media obligations, and trying not to look like an idiot standing next to some of the best players in the world.
This year, though, I was sitting on a blanket in rural Oregon with a waffle in one hand and my dog in the other.
Yet somehow, I was having a better time.
James nodded like he understood. “First summer after I stopped acting full-time, I kept reaching for scripts that weren’t there anymore.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm.” He took a bite of his waffle monstrosity, moaning around the mess of jam and cheese. “I spent nearly twenty years with somebody telling me where to stand, what to wear, and when to show up. Then one day, nobody was calling.”
“That sounds . . . terrifying.”
He shrugged. “It was. But not as terrifying as realizing I was all alone.”
Something in my chest tightened. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Baseball was baseball. I loved the game—always had, always would—but when I pictured what I wanted most right now, it wasn’t the crowds or the travel or even stepping into the batter’s box.
It was the idea of coming home to someone after it all.
Someone to share the wins with, to lean on during the losses. Someone who made the quiet moments feel full instead of empty.
Someone like—
James studied me for a long moment, his expression softening. He took another bite of his waffle, chewing thoughtfully before speaking again.
“You know, I’ve been around long enough to see a lot of people waste time worrying about what they should do instead of what actually makes them happy.
” His voice was low and casual, but there was weight behind it.
“One day you blink and you’re forty-something, wondering why you didn’t take the shot when you had the chance.
Especially when it’s staring you right in the face. ”
My throat tightened.
James wasn’t looking at me anymore. His eyes were trained on Diaz cheering on Tucker as he rounded second while Mo licked the barbecue sauce off his fingers.
He knew. I didn’t know how, but he did.
Or at the very least, he suspected.
My stomach did a slow, nervous flip. I opened my mouth, ready to play dumb, but James just gave me a small smile and clapped me on the shoulder.
“Don’t overthink it, Miller. Life’s too short for that.”
He walked off before I could respond, leaving me standing there with my thoughts spinning and my face warm. I stared after him for a long moment, his words echoing in my head while I waited for my order.
One day you blink and you’re forty-something, wondering why you didn’t take the shot when you had the chance.
James was right.
I had spent months running from this thing with Diaz—from the text messages, the kiss at the wedding, the fear of what it all might mean.
I had convinced myself it was safer to hide and pretend we were just teammates, but every time Diaz looked at me the way he did tonight, every time our knees brushed or his fingers “accidentally” found mine under the blanket . . .
It felt like the safest place I’d ever been.
I was done wasting time being scared.
I wanted him. Diaz.
Peter.
I pulled out my phone before I could talk myself out of it.
Me
Does the offer still stand?
The reply came almost immediately.
Diaz
Which one?
Me
Your tongue. My freckles.
Diaz
Just say when and where, tesoro.
I smiled, heat curling low in my stomach.
Me
Cabin. Seventh-inning stretch.
And then, for good measure, I added:
Me
I want you on your knees when I get there.
Three little dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.
Diaz
Yes, sir.
I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket, feeling lighter than I had in months. When I finally made it back to our blanket, Diaz looked up at me. His eyes were dark and full of promise, the kind of look that made my pants tighten and my skin feel too warm.
I wasn’t the only one affected. The thick outline of his half-hard cock was tenting the thin fabric of his short shorts. God, I loved that I had done that to him with nothing more than a few text messages.
Mo was curled up happily between us, deep into a food coma. Diaz absently scratched behind her ears while his gaze stayed locked on me.
I sat down beside him, closer than before. Before he could say anything, I smiled and whispered, “Watch the game, Peter.”
Diaz’s mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, but he just leaned back, that knowing smirk still playing on his lips. A moment later, I felt his fingers brush mine. I turned my palm over and laced our fingers together, holding on tight where no one could see.
We stayed like that for the next one-and-a-half innings, secretly holding hands under the stars while our teammates played on the side of a barn.
When the seventh inning began, Diaz gave my hand one last squeeze before pulling away. He stood up slowly, stretching his arms overhead like he was just getting up to grab another drink.
“Be right back,” he said casually, but the look he gave me was anything but.
I watched him walk toward the cabin, heart hammering in my chest. A few minutes later, during the next commercial break, I stood up, too.
“Gonna stretch my legs,” I told no one in particular. Mo lifted her head, but I gave her a quick scratch behind the ears and left her curled up on the blanket.
I followed the path toward our cabin, the string lights fading behind me as I stepped into the quieter darkness. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and stepped inside.
Diaz was already on his knees in the middle of the small room, looking up at me with hooded, hungry eyes.
Just like I asked.
I closed the door behind me, heart racing, and smiled down at him.
“Good boy.” I reached for my zipper. “Now, open.”