Page 103 of Serving Bunt

“Like you and Brock are together,” I told him, unable to contain my shit-eating grin. “And Soren and Clarke, Bennett and Bella, Pink and Nessa, Roman and . . .”

Our first baseman arched a brow when I trailed off.

“Oh, please go on about how all of y’all are so disgustingly in love and poor little Roman is on his own.”

For half a second, the rest of the guys stayed completely silent.

Pink broke first.

“About damn time.” He let out a low whistle. “I knew something was up with you two.”

A massive grin split Tucker’s face. “Thank fuck, I thought I was the only one who saw it.”

Bennett reached across the middle and nudged my chest. “Congrats, dude,” he told me. “For real though, just treat him right, and we’ve got your backs.”

Roman was still staring out at left field like he was seeing Diaz for the first time. “How did I miss this? He’s been smiling more lately. I thought he was just happy about the winning streak. Turns out he was getting laid.”

“Roman,” Soren warned, but he was fighting a laugh.

Pink leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “So, who’s the top? Wait, no, don’t answer that. I don’t want to picture it. Actually, yes, I do. Tell me everything.”

“Ten bucks says Diaz is a bossy bottom,” Roman said.

I felt my face heat.

“Alright, enough,” Soren said, clapping his hands once. “You fucks can gossip in the clubhouse all you want after we win this game. Pink, you got this. Let’s go.”

We broke the huddle. Soren fell into step beside me as we jogged back toward our positions.

“For what it’s worth, you two make sense together.” He kept his voice low, just for me. “Don’t let the noise get in your head. Just play ball.”

I swallowed around the lump in my throat and nodded.

“Thanks, cap.”

Soren clapped me on the shoulder once before veering off toward third base.

I settled back into my spot between the bases, heart pounding for an entirely new reason now. The cleanup hitter stepped into the batter’s box and tapped the barrel of his bat against the plate.

Darren Mitchell.

Fucking of course.

The bastard was already two for four tonight, with a double in the third and a bloop single in the sixth. He’d fouled off half a dozen pitches in his last at-bat and generally carried himself with the irritating confidence of a man who had seen his fair share of hanging curveballs.

I glanced toward first.

The runner took a healthy lead, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He was fast, too. One swing in the gap and he could tie the game.

Not tonight.

I dug my cleats into the dirt, glove hanging loose between my knees. The familiar rhythm of the game washed over me, muscle memory taking over where nerves threatened to creep in.

Behind the plate, Bennett flashed signs.

Pink nodded.

The stadium was deafening, forty thousand people somehow managing to hold their breath and scream at the same time.