4. Pink

Pink

Roasters 90–57

T hat’s strike three, fucker.

I knew it before the ball hit Bennett’s glove, before it had even left my hand. It was my superpower.

The friction of the laces rubbing against the already formed calluses on my fingers combined with my lengthy stride off the mound made for the perfect curveball.

“Strike three.”

The batter shook his head as he trudged off toward the dugout. I couldn’t blame the guy; he hadn’t had a hit all game.

I resisted the urge to smirk while I jogged off the field, toward the crowd’s deafening cheers. Since the early days of tee ball, every one of my coaches had drilled into me that there was a fine line between cocky and confident—one that I tiptoed almost daily. And why not? I was a fucking fantastic ballplayer.

It's not arrogance if it’s true.

“Game’s not over.” Coach Ward’s gruff voice echoed through the dugout. “Tucker, you’re up.”

I dropped down onto the bench with a thud, next to Matty who was busy taping up two of his fingers. He’d taken a nasty hit from the base runner earlier in the inning, one that ended in an out and a couple of sprained fingers, by the looks of it.

“Can I get some of that when you’re done?” I asked. Calluses were manageable—they were a hazard of the trade—but when it came to blisters, I was a verified crybaby.

He slapped the roll of black tape into my extended hand. A light shove to the shoulder had me turning to my left, just as Bennett dropped down beside me, catcher’s gear still in place.

“I felt that last one in my throat, dude.”

I made sure he could read my lips when I replied, “That’s what I like to hear.”

Bennett generally kept the processer for his cochlear implants turned on during games—it helped that as a catcher, he basically wore a helmet for the entirety of it—but he felt more comfortable when he could see our lips when we talked to him.

After my fingers were sufficiently taped, I removed my sweat-drenched hat and dragged a towel across my head, thankful that I’d let the guys talk me into shaving my head a few months ago. The fuzzy, blond stubble had taken some time getting used to, and three months from now, I was sure I’d be freezing. Until then, I’d do anything to keep my body temperature regulated.

I hadn’t moved to the Pacific Northwest for one hundred degree, humid temperatures. This was some East Coast kind of bullshit.

Matty groaned. “Fuck, I’m dying out here.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Bennett said, nailing him with a pointed glare.

“I’m going house hunting again this weekend, and I swear, I’m only looking at places with pools.”

“Pink.”

I jumped to my feet.

Brooks Bailey-Ward III had the kind of imposing presence—and name—that demanded immediate attention. Unlike most coaches, he didn’t yell, didn’t swear. He didn’t need to. His commanding tone was enough to make your balls tighten.

“Coach?” I asked when I reached his side.

“You got one more in you?”

“Whatever you want, coach.”

“Be honest with me,” he said without a hint of amusement. Steam clouded the corners of his signature, thick-framed glasses. “It’s hot as hell out here and I need you to start four days from now in Vegas.”

“I can do one more.”

He popped a few more sunflower seeds into his mouth and nodded.

I turned to take my seat, but he stopped me again. “Oh, and Brock Heller wants to do a profile on you. Don’t let it go to your head but expect to hear from him in the next day or so.”

My eyes widened.

In addition to writing the sports column for the Portlandia Press , Brock also hosted High Cheese , one of the most downloaded baseball podcasts. Soren had done an interview with him a few months back, but the old man also had an extra decade in the game. I wasn’t sure what Brock would want with me.

“Uh . . .”

His lips tipped up in a subtle grin. That may as well have been uproarious laughter for Coach Ward.

“Gotta say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I kind of like it.”

The crack of a bat had the rest of guys jumping out of their seats and leaning over the dugout fence, just in time to see the ball soaring over the right-field wall. Tuck pumped his fist up and down, matching the tempo of the crowd’s applause, as he rounded the bases.

Between the noise (that I typically lived for) and the questions racing through my head, I was suddenly in desperate need of a cuddle from Blue Beary—the small, stuffed bear that lived in my game day bag, a relic from Bella’s vintage toy collection phase. That or a certain copper-haired, fat-assed goddess.

Ward smacked my shoulder, jolting me out of my head—a dangerous place indeed. “Get used to it, kid. You’re a Cy Young nominee. Everybody’s going to want a piece of you now.”

“Right.”

“We can talk more about it after the game.” He tilted his head toward the bench. “Grab some pine.”

I trotted back, slightly more dazed than before. And this time, it wasn’t because of the heat.

“Okay, who’s buying me dinner?”

Roman and Matty hurled towels at today’s M.V.P., Johnathan “Tuck” Tucker. I couldn’t blame them when he was flashing his junk and flexing like a Greek god—that was my thing.

He batted away their terrycloth attack and hopped off the bench. “Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “First round is on me.”

Cheers erupted, echoing through the locker room. Tuck’s homerun in the sixth had launched an onslaught of runs for the next two innings. What had started as an even matchup with one of our biggest rivals had ended in a 12–2 massacre.

Nine more.

That was all we needed. Nine more wins.

We might have already clinched that playoff spot, but fuck, I wanted first.

The sperm-donor-who-shall-not-be-named had drilled a lot of toxic shit into me as a kid about “second place being the first loser” or “being the best means beating the best,” but this wasn’t about him.

Well, maybe it was a little bit.

No, this was about making my mark—on my name and my name only—and sharing the rewards with the people I loved. The people who sweat and sacrificed to get me here. I couldn’t give them much, but I could give them that.

“Don’t be salty, Pinky Pink,” Tuck teased, dropping down into the empty seat beside me. Thankfully, he’s managed to squeeze those tree trunk thighs of his into some boxer briefs first. Bare ass on cold metal benches was a recipe for disaster. “You played well, too.”

I smirked. “I know I did.”

“Just not as well as me.”

My smile grew. “Oh yeah? Is Brock Heller writing a profile on you, too?” I didn’t give him a chance to respond, not when I already knew the answer. “No? Didn’t think so.”

“No shit. Seriously?” Matty asked when Tuck was too stunned to speak.

“That’s what coach said.”

“That’s amazing, dude,” Matty said. “Seriously, that’s a big deal.”

“He’s a tough one,” Soren added. “Hard to read, but he really knows his stuff. He’s not like a lot of podcasters that just want a platform to share their shit takes. Brock genuinely loves the game.”

I nodded. If Soren said it, it must be true. He might have come across like grumpy badass—and in a lot of ways, he was—but the old man didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body.

“Well, fine . . .” Tuck sighed. “Then I guess you’re buying the first round.”

Laughter descended amongst the group. The razzing continued while we all finished our post-game rituals. Mine included making a mental list of things I needed to grab during tomorrow morning’s trip to the hardware store.

When I’d purchased the townhouse—plus the attached unit next door—I’d done so with the intention of rehabbing both units and combining them into one larger home. Although, I was tempted to leave the other unit for my sister in the eventuality that she did move out to Rose City. After graduation, of course.

There was a lot to be done. Starting with a fresh stain on the kitchen cabinets. Dani and I had settled on a “rich cappuccino” brown for lowers, and a dark green for the uppers that, according to the description, “paired well with leather-bound books and brandy.” Whatever that meant.

It was hard to believe that just two years ago, I’d spent the bulk of my non-game days on my buddies’ couches playing The Last of Us or picking up ball bunnies—or bears—at the local watering hole. Yet here I was, picking out paint with my live-in best friend, hitting up yard sales, and making weekly trips to Costco—mostly for the free samples and $1.50 hot dogs.

Roman smacked his fist against his locker. “Quiet down, fuckers!” he boomed. I might be known as the loudmouth of the group, but he had the loudest mouth by far.

As soon as he was satisfied that he had everyone’s attention, he nodded to Soren. “You’re up, captain.”

“You’re all invited to our official housewarming next weekend.”

“ Our ?” Right fielder, Nathaniel Wu, asked.

Soren smiled smugly. “Clarke finally agreed to move in with me.”

Childish “ooohs” and kissing noises broke out throughout the locker room. Soren didn’t seem to mind. He knew that we were only teasing; we all loved his girl.

Hell, it wasn’t every day that a group of grown ass men stayed up all night re-stitching the name on the back of their teammate’s jersey, just so he could declare his love in a very public and slightly embarrassing grand gesture.

Like the ones in Nessa’s books.

The ones she didn’t know I read . . . and loved.

She didn’t know that the age gap romance I had picked up in her shop months ago had only been the beginning of my erotic education. She didn’t know that I had a growing stack of paperbacks on my nightstand—all of which had also been purchased from her store’s website under a different name—as well as another dozen or so on the e-reader I kept in my travel bag.

She definitely didn’t know that I was already three hundred pages deep in the romantasy book I’d snatched off the douche at the bar last week. I’d torn through the first half of that Shrek-fucking fantasy during the flight back from Dallas.

It was official: I was a bona fide—more like boner fide—romance reader. I had read more novels in the past three months than I had in the last three years, and it was all thanks to her.

Even if she didn’t know it.

“Next Sunday, three o’clock. And the theme is B.Y.O.B.”

“You’re too cheap to spring for the drinks now?” Bennett taunted.

“B.Y.O.B.,” Soren repeated. “Bring your own board. Like a charcuterie board, a pizza board, veggie board—”

“Dibs on potato board!” I shouted.

I’d never met a French fry I couldn’t fuck with.

“Does this mean my gourmet kitchen is ready?” Wes asked. Wesley Nu?ez, our center fielder, was one hell of a gourmet chef. He had been itching—demanding, really—to get his hands wet in Soren’s freshly renovated kitchen.

“Yes, chef.”

“ órale !” Wes exclaimed, smacking his hands together.

While the rest of the guys brainstormed ideas for their boards, I stepped to the side with my captain.

“So, domestic bliss, huh?” I asked him.

“It’s pretty great. You should try it sometime.”

I gasped, feigning outrage. “What am I, a child bride?”

“No, just a child.”

His sickly-sweet smile told me everything I needed to know. He was a man in love. I couldn’t believe I’d ever doubted his intentions with Clarke. She was clearly the light of his life, the answer he’d been searching for—even if he hadn’t known it.

“So, who else is invited to your little shindig?”

The knowing glint in his eyes told me he knew exactly what—or rather, who—I was fishing for.

“Just ask.”

“Ask what?”

“Ask if she’ll be there.”

I turned away from the eyes that were burning a hole in my skull. “I’m not sure who she is—”

“Don’t play dumb. You know who we’re talking about.” He paused, waiting until I turned back to him before adding, “Nessa.”

Fuck, I was down bad for this woman, and clearly everybody knew it. The only person I wanted to hear voicing her name was me. Preferably in a breathy tone while her lips were wrapped around my dick.

“Be careful there.”

“How do you mean?”

He cocked a brow. “It’s no secret you’re into her, but . . . you might want to slow down.”

Fuck, had Nessa said something? Had I made her feel uncomfortable in some—

“And you can wipe that worried look off your face.” He lowered his voice. “You haven’t said or done anything to scare her off. If you had, we’d be having a very different conversation.”

Well, that was a relief.

It also hadn’t escaped my notice that my teammate—my friend—was willing to take up arms to protect my girl— she’s not yours, fucker —even if it meant protecting her from me. Even if we weren’t together. And that was an altogether different sense of relief.

“Just hear me out,” he said, softening his tone. “If you’re genuinely interested, and I think you are, give her time. None of this love bombing or swooping in to save the girl shit.”

“How did you—”

“Women talk, bro.”

“I don’t know what Clarke Bar told you, but I only stepped in when the guy wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“You swooped.”

“I did not—” I lowered my voice. “I did not swoop.”

“The first step is admitting you have a problem.” Soren smiled. At least one of us was thoroughly enjoying my humiliation. “Admit it. Admit that you’re a swooper.”

I scrubbed a hand across my chin. My usual five o’clock shadow had thickened to nine o’clock sometime in the last few days.

Soren was right; I was a swooper.

There was no use denying it. And it wasn’t because of some archaic patriarchal notion about men being women’s “protectors” because whether men believed it or not, that was a crock of shit. The patriarchy harmed men almost as much as it did women. It just took some of us longer to realize it. Not me. I’d learned that the first time my dad had grabbed my mother’s wrist.

The bruises had lasted for six days, the scars a lifetime.

I was an equal opportunity swooper, though, one who saw red when people mistreated their pets or made fun of somebody with a disability or laid their hands on someone who clearly wasn’t interested. They didn’t have to be women, let alone women in my life. They were still people.

Basic human decency was a dime a dozen.

“Okay,” I grumbled. “I might be . . . a swooper.”

“Welcome to the club,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “From one swooper to another, take my advice. Let her set the pace, okay?”

I nodded begrudgingly. I could do that. I wasn’t afraid of playing the long game—in fact, I welcomed the challenge—especially if it meant winning a shot with Nessa Gibbs. No matter how long it took.

I was ready for the marathon.

I’d been training for it my entire career.