Page 98 of Serving Bunt

The last thing that crossed my mind before I drifted off was the gentle realization that this, us, had been worth every risk.

Every awkward conversation. Every uncertain step.

He was worth it.

Matty Miller was finally mine, and I’d be damned if I was going to let anybody take him away from me.

Matty

Roasters 83–79

“Let’s run this again.” Coach Ward leaned back in his chair, inked-up arms crossed over his chest. “You two are together.”

It wasn’t a question.

I swallowed, my knee bouncing wildly under the desk. Diaz’s foot brushed mine, a small, steady touch hidden from view.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “We are.”

Coach Ward’s gaze moved between us, steady and unreadable, the same look he wore when deciding whether to pull a pitcher mid-inning. God help any person who challenged this man to a game of poker. He had resting coach face.

“Do you mind if I ask how long this has been going on?”

Diaz shifted beside me. “Since the All-Star break,” he added quietly. “We wanted you to hear it first, before we talk to the rest of the team.”

Coach Ward nodded slowly, processing.

Fair enough. I still couldn’t believe it myself sometimes.

Two months.

That was how long we’d been doing this whole . . . secret relationship thing. Two months of sexy sleepovers and shared meals and fighting over the last scoop of protein powder in the morning. You know, typical couple shit.

And during that time, I had learned everything there was to know about Peter Diaz.

Starting with the fact that he snored like a malfunctioning chainsaw but would deny it to his dying breath. He also had a deeply concerning obsession with novelty socks—the louder and more ridiculous the pattern, the better—which he tended to leave littered everywhere except his sock drawer. On more than one occasion, I had found them balled up under my sofa, by the pool, and in Mo’s doggy hammock.

Come to think of it, that last one had probably been Mo’s doing.

Still, he seemed to have a different pair of socks for every mood. The flamingos wearing sunglasses usually meant he was feeling playful. The pair covered in cartoon pickles that read “I’m kind of a big dill” only came out when he was in one of his goofy, self-deprecating moods.

And then there were the “sad weenies,” his soft gray ankle socks with tiny, cartoon dachshunds. The first time I saw him wearing them was after a rough loss and rougher postgame interview. He’d come home with me after the game, kicked off his shoes, and there they’d been.

Sad weenies.

I hadn’t asked questions. I’d just made him his favorite tea, put on a movie, and let him curl up on my couch while I’d scratched his back. He’d never mentioned the socks, but the way he’d melted under my touch had told me everything I’d needed to know.

Diaz, in turn, had discovered that I was weirdly particular about how my towels were folded—hospital corners only—and that I could quote entire scenes from The Princess Bride. He also knew I secretly loved when he stole my hoodies because they smelled like him for days afterward.

And let it be known, the real Peter Diaz smelled ten times better than his candle.

There was also the sex.

Lots of sex.

I had never been so thoroughly fucked in my life.

There was something so addictive about watching Diaz fall apart underneath me. The way his thighs trembled when I hit the right spot or how his lips parted on broken moans of my name like it was the only word he remembered—I couldn’t get enough. As it turned out, the only thing hotter than a cocky, smooth-talking Peter Diaz was reducing him to a whimpering, desperate mess.