Page 6 of Serving Bunt

It wasn’t a bodybuilder or gym rat’s physique. More like a swimmer’s, or someone who had spent his life hauling fifty-pound feed bags like they were grocery totes. Scratch Ankle, Alabama, might’ve sent us the best shortstop in the league, but it had also sent us a man who knew how to swing a hammer.

His back flexed subtly as he worked the buttons up his chest. Freckles dusted across his shoulders like someone had taken a paintbrush dipped in cinnamon and flicked it carelessly. A few stray droplets of water clung to the nape of his neck, catching the fluorescent light before sliding down the shallow groove of his spine.

The way I wanted to trace their path with my tongue.

With my cock.

Matty turned slightly to grab his grandfather’s watch from his locker shelf, and for half a second the light caught the line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave off yet.

I could still remember exactly how that jaw had felt under my thumb the night of the wedding. Warm, tense. Then, suddenly yielding when he’d kissed me back like he’d been starving for it.

Part of me wanted to cross the room. Just walk over, lean against the locker next to his, and say something, anything that wasn’t another joke or deflection.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

I’m sorry I let things get this far without saying it out loud.

I’m sorry I still want you so bad it hurts.

But the words stayed glued to the roof of my mouth.

Instead, I watched him roll his shirt sleeves up to his elbows.

Holy mother of arm porn.

His forearms were corded and freckled, the veins standing out just enough to make me swallow hard. He didn’t look my way, didn’t have to. The awareness was there anyway, humming between us like static on an old radio.

Then, Pink’s voice cracked through the room.

“Diaz, Matty, you coming? Drinks are on Tucker tonight. All-Star tax.”

Tucker’s groan echoed back. “I said one round, Pink. One.”

I glanced at Matty one last time. He paused, his hand clutching the strap of his bag. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked in my direction before quickly sliding away again.

“Not tonight, fellas,” he answered in that signature Southern twang of his. “I’ve got an angry wiener to pick up.”

A ripple of laughter went through the guys lingering near the door.

The lore around Matty’s dachshund, Mo, was legendary. Stories circulated around the locker room—and beyond—like inside jokes. Like the time she’d once stolen an entire rotisserie chicken off the counter and dragged it under the couch like a dragon hoarding treasure. Or how she’d pee on anybody’s shoes if they sat too close to Matty on his porch swing.

Matty swore she was just misunderstood. The rest of us were convinced she was pure evil wrapped in black and tan fur.

“Tell the little dictator we said hi,” Pink called after him. “Diaz?”

I forced a breath out through my nose.

“Coming,” I called back.

I grabbed my own bag, slung it over my shoulder, and fell into step with the guys heading for the exit. Laughter rolled ahead of me down the tunnel, Pink already roasting someone about their drink order.

This time, I didn’t look back.

Matty

Roasters 28–47

If there was one thing I’d learned growing up on a farm, it was that being on time meant you were already late. My dad had drilled that into me and my siblings long before any of us could reach the barn door handles without jumping.