Switch Hitter (The San Jose Coyotes #4)

1. Sean

ONE

SEAN

The stadium empties like a confessional line at midnight, slow and reluctant, the last stragglers clinging to the noise because silence makes you face yourself.

I should be in the locker room showering.

Or laughing with my team like a normal person who just played nine innings and didn’t spend half of it thinking about the opposing pitcher’s mouth.

Instead, I’m in the dugout.

Again.

Hands on the chain link like it can hold me up, pretending I’m stretching out my shoulders when really I’m just waiting.

Like a sinner who can’t stop coming back to the same altar.

The lights hum overhead, bright and sterile, throwing hard shadows across the benches. Somewhere out past right field, a cart rattles over concrete. A door slams. Voices fade into the distance.

And the quiet moves in.

That’s where the guilt lives.

My pulse is still too loud in my ears. My jersey sticks to my back from the heavy Queens humidity. There’s dirt under my nails, sweat in my hair, and Emiliano Guerrero’s pitches still tracking through my body like phantom bruises.

He made us look stupid tonight.

He made me look stupid.

And the worst part?

I let him.

Every time he toes the mound and stares in like he’s already decided what I am, I get angry enough to see red and stupid enough to want him. I chirp. I glare. I flip him off like I’m twelve.

He just smiles, calm and lethal, and throws heat like he’s aiming straight for the part of me that keeps trying to pretend I don’t want him.

I’m not supposed to be this kind of man.

That’s what my childhood taught me: Irish Catholic boyhood in a neat little box. Be good. Be quiet. Be strong. Be clean. Don’t want the wrong things. Don’t look too long. Don’t feel too much.

Don’t, don’t, don’t.

And yet here I am, alone in an empty dugout, waiting for him like I’m addicted to the worst decision of my life.

I swallow hard.

My grandma would cross herself if she could see me right now. My mother would cry. The voice in my head is my own version of Father O’Shea telling me to pray it away, like desire is something you can bleach out with holy water and fifteen Hail Marys.

I’ve tried that.

It doesn’t work.

Because Emiliano isn’t a thought I can banish. He’s real. A voice in my ear and a hand on my jersey. He’s heat on the back of my neck.

Emiliano is the reason my anger feels like foreplay and my guilt feels like hunger.

And I hate it.

I hate him.

I hate myself for being here.

My fingers tighten around the fence until the metal bites, leaving little grooves in my skin. I press my forehead to the chain link for one stupid second, breathing slowly, as if I can pray my body back into obedience.

Just leave.

Go back to the clubhouse.

Be normal.

The problem is, normal never felt like this.

Footsteps echo behind me, unhurried. Not a teammate or the staff. Not even the stadium security. My spine goes tight anyway, like my body knows before my brain can catch up.

I don’t turn around.

I don’t have to.

The air changes warmer, and heavier, like someone just walked in and pulled all the oxygen toward himself.

Emiliano’s presence hits my back like a hand.

My throat tightens.

Of course he came.

Just like I waited.

I’m still here like a goddamn fool, hands on the fence and my heart in my mouth. His voice slides over my skin, calm as a prayer and twice as dangerous.

“You always do this,” he murmurs behind me, like we’re discussing pitch selection instead of the fact that I’m in an empty dugout. “You lose, and then you come looking for me.”

I bark a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “I didn’t come looking for you.”

He hums, unimpressed. “No?”

I feel him step closer. Not touching yet. Just close enough that my body tightens on instinct, recognizing the threat and the temptation as the same thing.

“You’re still in your uniform,” he adds, quiet, amused. “Still sweaty. Still mad.”

“I’m always mad when I’m around you,” I snap, staring straight ahead like if I don’t look at him, he can’t do this to me.

“Good,” he says. “That’s my favorite version of you.”

My fingers flex around the chain link. I should leave. I should do literally anything except stand here and let him talk to me like this.

But the thing about Emiliano Guerrero is he never rushes.

He doesn’t have to.

The motherfucker waits you out. Stares you down. Ballsy enough to throw the same pitch twice just to prove he can, just to see if you’ll flinch the second time.

And I always do.

“Go celebrate your win,” I spit. “Go take your little victory lap. Go get worshipped by the fans.”

He laughs softly, and it’s the most infuriating sound in the world because it means he’s enjoying this. My anger. My stubbornness. The way I can’t stop myself.

“I already celebrated,” he says, voice lowering. “Now I’m here for the part you like to pretend you don’t want.”

My jaw tightens.

“You’re delusional, you know that?”

His breath brushes the back of my neck, and I hate that my body reacts before my brain can catch up.

“I’m really not,” he corrects. “You’re the one who is lying to himself.”

I turn my head just enough to catch him in my periphery.

Emiliano’s cap is backwards, and his expression is calm. Too calm. The same calm he wears on the mound right before he ruins your whole night.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I tell him.

“You say that every time,” he replies, like he’s bored of the script. “And every time you stay.”

My throat tightens. “I’m not staying.”

He makes a quiet sound, half disbelief, half amusement, and then his hand slides to the back of my jersey and grips.

Firm.

Possessive.

My pulse jumps.

He leans in, mouth near my ear.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” Emiliano’s hand tightens on my jersey, knuckles turning white. “Lie to me, Sean.”

His hand stills for half a second, giving me the chance he always gives me. The one I never take.

“I don’t,” I snarl, baring my teeth. “I fucking hate you.”

His smile is absolutely lethal, like he just got exactly what he wanted.

“Bueno.” He nods, like he’s approving my form, shoving me forward; the chain link at the dugout mouth is suddenly cold against my cheek. “Grip it, Cobre. Real good.”

My fingers curl around the fence. The stadium’s empty, lights humming, nothing but our breathing and the distant clatter of someone packing up equipment.

Emiliano presses behind me, crowding my space like he’s daring me to fight. His mouth brushes my ear.

“I wanna hear how much you hate me while I’m fucking you like this.”

Those words hit like a pitch to the ribs, sharp and personal, and my whole body goes traitor-hot. I should fight him. I should spit another insult and storm out and go pray until my knees bruise and my throat goes raw.

Instead, my fingers tighten around the fence and I breathe out like I’m bracing for impact.

He laughs quietly behind me, smug as hell.

“What’s the matter? Still mad about the win?” he murmurs, mouth near my ear.

“Go to hell,” I bite out, but it comes out rougher than I mean it to.

Emiliano hums like I just complimented him.

“I’m already there,” he says, and his hand drags down my side, slowly. “In this dugout. With you.”

My face burns against the chain link. I hate that my pulse trips, that my body leans back into him like it’s been waiting all night.

“Just admit it, you’re obsessed with me,” I spit, because it’s safer than saying please.

That makes him shift closer, pressing his chest to my back, and I feel him smile.

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I just wanted to fuck your perfect ass after I made your lineup look stupid.”

“Cocky asshole,” I hiss.

He chuckles. “You love it.”

“I hate you.”

“Say it again,” he murmurs, like he’s collecting my hatred like trophies.

Emiliano’s hands reach around my waist and quickly undo my belt, shoving my pants down just far enough to have access to my ass.

“I hate you,” I repeat, voice shaking, and it makes him inhale like he likes that too.

His hands find mine on the fence.

One of them slides over my fingers, big and warm, and then he laces his fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like we’re not enemies and this isn’t a sin.

Like we’re not about to do something I’m going to regret and crave all in the same breath.

The intimacy of it makes my chest seize. I squeeze the fence harder, and Emiliano squeezes back, firm and steady, holding my hands in place like he’s anchoring me.

“Así,” he murmurs in Spanish, voice low and pleased. “Just like that.”

My stomach flips because he praises me in Spanish. He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear, and his voice turns softer, more dangerous.

“?Ves?” he whispers. “You can pretend you don’t want me all you want… but your body doesn’t lie, Cobre.”

I swallow hard, trying to keep my mouth from betraying me.

He shifts behind me and I hear him spit. Then his slick fingers press against my hole, slow at first, until my knees almost buckle. Then his fingers are gone, there’s more spit and the head of his thick cock eases in.

“Emiliano,” I grind out, like his name is an accusation.

“Yeah,” he says, smug. “That’s it. Say my name again, pretty boy.”

I bare my teeth at the fence. “No.”

He laughs, warm and satisfied.

“You ran your mouth all game,” he murmurs. “You yelled at me from the outfield like you wanted to fight.”

Thrust.

“I did,” I snap, breath catching as his hips pull back.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m giving you what you came here for.”

His grip tightens around my fingers, and then he moves, deliberate, unhurried. Like he’s on the mound again, deciding the pace while my body follows whether I like it or not.

I bite down on a sound that tries to escape.

The fence digs into my palms.

The world narrows to pressure, heat and Emiliano behind me, making me feel wanted in the most humiliating, addictive way.

He’s patient, dragging it out like he wants me to crack.

“You still mad, O’Malley?” he murmurs, voice slick with amusement.

“Shut up,” I gasp, because my body is already betraying me. “Shut up. Shut up.”

He makes a pleased sound. “Nah.”