18. Matty
Matty
“Let’s run this again.” Coach Ward leaned back in his chair, inked-up arms crossed over his chest. “You two are together.”
It wasn’t a question.
I swallowed, my knee bouncing wildly under the desk. Diaz’s foot brushed mine, a small, steady touch hidden from view.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “We are.”
Coach Ward’s gaze moved between us, steady and unreadable, the same look he wore when deciding whether to pull a pitcher mid-inning. God help any person who challenged this man to a game of poker. He had resting coach face.
“Do you mind if I ask how long this has been going on?”
Diaz shifted beside me. “Since the All-Star break,” he added quietly. “We wanted you to hear it first, before we talk to the rest of the team.”
Coach Ward nodded slowly, processing.
Fair enough. I still couldn’t believe it myself sometimes.
Two months.
That was how long we’d been doing this whole . . . secret relationship thing. Two months of sexy sleepovers and shared meals and fighting over the last scoop of protein powder in the morning. You know, typical couple shit.
And during that time, I had learned everything there was to know about Peter Diaz.
Starting with the fact that he snored like a malfunctioning chainsaw but would deny it to his dying breath.
He also had a deeply concerning obsession with novelty socks—the louder and more ridiculous the pattern, the better—which he tended to leave littered everywhere except his sock drawer.
On more than one occasion, I had found them balled up under my sofa, by the pool, and in Mo’s doggy hammock.
Come to think of it, that last one had probably been Mo’s doing.
Still, he seemed to have a different pair of socks for every mood. The flamingos wearing sunglasses usually meant he was feeling playful. The pair covered in cartoon pickles that read “I’m kind of a big dill” only came out when he was in one of his goofy, self-deprecating moods.
And then there were the “sad weenies,” his soft gray ankle socks with tiny, cartoon dachshunds. The first time I saw him wearing them was after a rough loss and rougher postgame interview. He’d come home with me after the game, kicked off his shoes, and there they’d been.
Sad weenies.
I hadn’t asked questions. I’d just made him his favorite tea, put on a movie, and let him curl up on my couch while I’d scratched his back. He’d never mentioned the socks, but the way he’d melted under my touch had told me everything I’d needed to know.
Diaz, in turn, had discovered that I was weirdly particular about how my towels were folded—hospital corners only—and that I could quote entire scenes from The Princess Bride. He also knew I secretly loved when he stole my hoodies because they smelled like him for days afterward.
And let it be known, the real Peter Diaz smelled ten times better than his candle.
There was also the sex.
Lots of sex.
I had never been so thoroughly fucked in my life.
There was something so addictive about watching Diaz fall apart underneath me.
The way his thighs trembled when I hit the right spot or how his lips parted on broken moans of my name like it was the only word he remembered—I couldn’t get enough.
As it turned out, the only thing hotter than a cocky, smooth-talking Peter Diaz was reducing him to a whimpering, desperate mess.
Even better, he was my whimpering, desperate mess.
My good boy.
I also loved it when he took control. What could I say? I was an equal anal opportunist.
Diaz was deceptively strong, and he knew exactly how to use every ounce of it.
He’d pin me down, spread my legs wide, and open me up with his fingers and tongue until I was shaking and begging for his cock.
The first time he’d fucked me properly, I’d come untouched, sobbing his name into the pillow.
He’d laughed softly afterward, pressing gentle kisses and love bites along my spine until I’d regained the ability to speak.
Seventeen-and-a-half minutes later.
There was a lot more to our relationship than sex, though.
Like the nights where we played video games on my couch until one of us—usually Diaz—literally passed out, controller still in hand.
Or the long walks with Mo, who, thanks to somebody’s terrible habit of feeding her scraps under the table, now required significantly longer outings to burn off all the extra calories.
Diaz was also the reason my farmhouse felt more like a home than it ever had before. He helped with projects around the property—holding boards while I hammered, teasing me when I got too perfectionist about paint lines, and somehow making even the most mundane tasks feel like a game.
Like María Poppins.
Call me a cornball, but it was the quiet evenings where we just sat together, side by side, eating takeout while Mo snored between us on the couch, that I treasured most.
Coach Ward cleared his throat.
I blinked.
Right. Serious conversation.
His gaze moved between us again.
“Judging by the sappy look on Miller’s face, I’m going to take a wild guess that this thing between y’all isn’t casual?”
My cheeks warmed under the weight of his stare. I didn’t have to look to know that Diaz’s eyes were on me now, too.
“We wouldn’t be here if it were,” I said, answering for both of us.
“I see,” he replied. “I appreciate your honesty, but just so you know, this isn’t going to be easy. The league’s come a long way, but there’s still plenty of bullshit out there.”
Diaz nodded. “We know.”
He didn’t need to tell us.
We had discussed this ad nauseum. The ugly comments, the headlines, the people who, without a doubt, would have opinions about something that had absolutely nothing to do with them. Even now, I was quietly rerunning through the list of reasons why we’d kept this to ourselves for two months.
And it wasn’t short.
But then, I thought about Diaz’s house key on my key ring.
The one he’d slipped into my pocket and onto the silver hoop while I’d slept one night, along with the code to his alarm system.
I thought about his socks under my couch and the fact that he’d started buying Mo her favorite treats without me even asking.
I smiled to myself. The answer was clear as day.
Some things were worth a little bullshit.
“You sure you’re ready for that?”
I didn’t even have to think about it.
“Yes.”
Diaz’s hand found mine beneath the desk.
“Definitely,” he echoed.
Coach Ward’s lips curved up in a crooked grin. “We’ll want to set up a meeting with HR and the media relations team,” he said. “Get ahead of things in case you decide to go public. But I’ll be there to support you however I can.”
Relief loosened something in my chest.
“Thanks, coach. We’re not planning to go public just yet, but we would like to tell the guys.”
He nodded. “Only when you’re ready. But keep it professional in the clubhouse. The team comes first. Always.”
“Understood,” Diaz and I said together.
The three of us stood, and for a second, I thought that might be it. By the time Coach Ward pushed himself out of his oversized, leather chair, I was already reaching for the doorknob.
“You know . . .”
We both turned back around.
Coach Ward rubbed a hand over his beard, suddenly looking older than he had a minute ago. The late-afternoon sunlight filtering through the blinds caught the graying at his temples.
“I’ve seen a lot of relationships fall apart because of this game.
” He glanced down at the desk, fingers drumming against the wood.
“Including mine. Take it from me, baseball asks for a lot. Missed birthdays. Missed anniversaries. First steps. School plays. Hell, sometimes you miss the little stuff too. The things you don’t realize matter until you don’t have them anymore. ”
He gave a humorless chuckle.
Beside me, Diaz had gone completely still. I looked over at him. His jaw was tight, his expression thoughtful. It was the kind of look he got when he was listening to something he knew he’d be carrying around for a while.
Coach Ward’s expression softened just a fraction.
“But if you've found somebody who makes all the craziness a little bit easier . . .” He shrugged one broad shoulder. “Well, I’m not about to root against that.”
Diaz’s hand found mine then, just for a second. A quick squeeze against my palm.
I squeezed back.
Coach Ward saw it.
I knew he did.
But all he did was nod once, like he’d just confirmed something for himself. Then, his mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. “For what it’s worth, I’m happy for you both.”
I swallowed hard.
“Thanks, coach,” I said quietly.
Diaz cleared his throat beside me. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” He pointed a finger at us. “You still have to survive an entire offseason together.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Diaz snorted.
We walked out of Coach Ward’s office side by side. The second the door closed behind us, I let out a long breath.
Diaz’s hand brushed mine in the empty hallway, fingers grazing my knuckles before he hooked his pinky with mine.
“One down, ‘Bama,” he murmured.
I smiled, squeezing his finger.
“Only twenty-four to go.”
The stadium was electric.
Top of the ninth. One out. Roasters were up by one.
I settled into my crouch at shortstop and glanced around the diamond. The crowd was on its feet, a sea of red and white waving rally towels and raised phones. The noise rolled through the stadium like thunder, vibrating all the way down to my cleats.
One more out.
One more goddamn out.
Fuck, we were close.
A few months ago, making the playoffs had seemed about as likely as a snowstorm in hell. We’d spent the first half of the season digging ourselves into a hole so deep that nearly every sports analyst in the country—including Tucker’s boyfriend, Brock—had already written us off as a playoff hopeful.
Then the All-Star break had come.
The baking show.
Five deliciously sweaty, flour-covered days in rural Oregon.