Page 175 of Hiding in the Outfield

To cherish.

To love.

One of his hands falls away. Eyes locked on me, he brings it to his chest and rubs my cum into his skin.

My heart stutters.

“Yours,” he whispers.

Emotion rolls over me like a tidal wave, and I fall to my knees, crushing my mouth to his.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop being overwhelmed by how much I love this man.

I pull him onto my lap and tug him close until every inch of him is pressed to every inch of me.

A perfect fit.

FIFTY-NINE

JACKSON

Dear fucking Lord, we are so goddamned close.

I roll my shoulders and shift on the steps of the dugout. I’m in the hole and itching to get in that batter’s box. Also kind of want to run in the opposite direction. Anxiety is fun like that. But this is game five in the biggest game of a baseball player’s career. I want to show up for my team, and my body also wants to crumble under the pressure.

Bottom of the ninth, and we’re down by one, eleven to twelve. It has been a chase this entire game. We score. They score. We score. They score.

Come on, guys. Time for us to score again.

Please score, please score, please score.

We’re up three to one in this series.

We lose; we head to Houston. Three to two, and with them having home field advantage? I don’t like those odds at all.

But if we win?

If we win; we win the fucking World Series.

I still can’t believe I’m here. The past three months have been a blur. When I heard the word traded come out of the Jetties’ GM’s mouth, I thought I’d lost everything.

My team.

My friends.

My heart—because it firmly resided with Frankie at that point.

I’d been so damn excited to come out. Me. Excited. I’d clearly entered some sort of alternate universe. But Stone was already out with the organization, and they’d proven they were supportive, even if he’d still had to contend with jackasses like me. I grimace. I honestly thought getting traded was karma.

This is what you get for being a homophobic asshole, Jackson. How’s the medicine taste? Made fresh for you by you.

But Berkeley instantly felt like home. The guys here are a family. It’s not a stiff, pressure-filled, results-only clubhouse. The atmosphere…it’s one that makes you want to win for every single person who works in that clubhouse, from the GM to your teammates to the groundskeepers.

And they were so welcoming. Of me. Of Frankie.

The WAGs—or SAPs (Spouses and Partners) they’re now called—organize events all the time. Apparently, they’re putting together a cookbook of family recipes that they’re going to sell, with all proceeds going to charity. Did a sexy Italian man with orgasm-level cooking get a little excited when he was told about that endeavor? Let’s just say there are a disproportionate number of Nebiolo recipes included.

We do get the occasional side-eye from some guys on the team, but I suppose this couldn’t be a complete fairytale. Still feels damn close. They at least keep their mouths shut.