Page 101 of Serving Bunt

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.

And somehow, when we’d all gotten back to Rose City, everything had changed. The clubhouse had felt lighter. Tucker had broken out of his slump, Soren had started hitting like a man possessed, Bennett had thrown out three would-be base stealers in a single series, and Pink . . .

Pink had finally shaved off the porn stache.

And to be honest, that was the biggest victory of them all.

You know, along with the nine-game winning streak that had finally gotten us out of the losing season hole. At this point, it was probably safe to say the so-called “curse” had been broken. Though, we were all under strict orders from Peter “Good Boy” Diaz not to discuss it aloud.

No talking about the curse being over. No mentioning winning streaks. No discussing playoff scenarios. My man had somehow become the most superstitious person on the roster.

My man.

I glanced over my shoulder. There he was, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet in left field. If there was anyone who deserved the Golden Glove this year, it was him. He had been playing the best ball of his career for the past two months, and even though I couldn’t prove it, I was pretty sure all the extra orgasms had played a role in that.

Bennett threw off his mask and waved the infield in. “Infield in. Mound meeting.”

I jogged in with the others. Soren came from third, Roman from first, Tucker from second. Pink was already standing on the mound, rolling the ball between his palms.

He looked focused. Terrifyingly so.

Which, coming from Jared Pink, was downright unsettling. This was the same man who usually operated like a golden retriever in cleats—perpetually grinning, incapable of sitting still, and one dirty pun away from getting pelted with sunflower seeds in the dugout.

But on the mound? He became somebody else entirely.

The smile disappeared, the restless energy settled. His eyes sharpened into something cold and deliberate.

It was easy to forget that underneath all the charm and cheesy jokes, Pink was a damn good pitcher.

“Alright, boys,” Bennett said, his voice low and steady.

Sweat glistened on his forehead and his dark hair had been pulled back with one of the headbands he always wore under his catcher’s mask. The small cochlear implants behind his ears caught the stadium lights as he looked around the circle.

“Let’s make this guy swing. Pink, keep it low and away.” Bennett nodded his head toward Soren. “Captain?”

Ever the steady veteran, not to mention the oldest guy on the team, Soren stepped forward. Even in the middle of the biggest game of the season, he carried himself with quiet authority that made everyone listen.

“Matty, stay double-play depth,” he said calmly. “We can end this now with one play, two outs.”

He narrowed his brows before adding, “We’ve come too far to blow it now.”

We all nodded.