Home Plate (Easton U Pirates 2)

“Besides, I’m about to be three for three,” he said, noticing I was still lying there like a lump. “Night, Maclain.”

As I crawled under the covers and closed my eyes, I knew the fucker was right.

18

Girard

Maclain was guarded today, pensive too, but his storm of emotions showed in his game as he consistently contested my calls. It was super frustrating and like we were back to square one. Maybe he was ticked that I’d left the room last night, but it had felt overwhelming. Not only the getting-him-off part—and myself in the process. But watching him take what he needed was so hot, even if it was under the auspices of pretending. Plus, when his fingers had brushed my cheek so tenderly, my heart went all tight and strange, so I certainly didn’t want to stick around and watch the remorse creep back into his eyes.

Yeah, possibly it’d been a dick move to leave, but he’d made enough of his own the past few months. Being around the guys hadn’t helped anyway, and a couple of them had even noted I was acting weird. What could I say? It was hard to act normal after you’d had your crush’s dick in your mouth and loved every minute of it. So I took off again, ending up on the treadmill in the hotel’s gym, trying to get my head on straight.

When I got back to the room, Maclain was dead asleep and snoring a little, which was pretty adorable. I had the urge to crawl in bed with him, to feel his warm body against mine, which was fucked up because he’d never go for it.

He’d been quiet this morning, then cagey when we met the team in the lobby, as if they’d guess what we’d done—or maybe he thought I’d already spilled the beans. And it annoyed the shit out of me.

So I was being a dickhead now, too, signaling pitches he would never go for. I could see Coach pacing the third baseline, and if we didn’t get it together, he’d bench us both.

I gestured to the umpire for a time-out and approached the mound, noticing that the rest of the team seemed on edge as well. Hollister threw Donovan a look from his position at first base, no doubt worrying we’d be duking it out in the locker room again after the game.

I lifted my glove to hide my expression from the other team. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s yours?” he countered, toeing the dirt.

I motioned toward home plate. “You’re not trusting my calls.”

“You’re not trusting my intuition.”

That stopped me cold as I flashed back to an earlier conversation between us.

“Why can’t you trust my instincts for a change? You’re a stubborn ass too.”

My shoulders slumped. I was tired, so tired of fighting him. This game was supposed to be fun, and at this point, what did we have to lose?

“You know what? Fine. You studied the stats as much as I did.”

I moved back behind home plate, nodding to Coach Crawford as I went. He’d allowed us to work it out on our own, and I appreciated that.

This time when I signaled the calls, it was pitches I had a feeling he’d accept. And as he wound up and threw three powerhouses in a row, striking the batter out and effectively ending the inning, I must admit I was stunned and impressed. His smirk said it all as we headed toward the dugout, but I also saw something else buried underneath—confidence and pride. Not the false smugness that colored his every interaction. This was more visceral and likely just what he needed, and maybe it would bleed into other areas of his life. A guy could dream.

“Nice job,” Coach said, clapping us both on the back.

“Aww, you two are like a match made in baseball heaven,” Devers quipped.

“More like an old married couple,” Fischer joked.

“You’re just jealous you don’t have a work husband.” Kellan batted his eyelashes in Donovan’s direction.

“I did have one,” Sinclair mused. “But he left me for another man.”

That got everyone laughing, and I knew without looking at him that Maclain was going to shut down because it was way too close to the truth.

But to my utter surprise, he clapped back at his former roommate. “If I knew you’d miss me so much, I would’ve spent more quality time with you.”

Devers snorted as he and Sinclair left the dugout to line up near the batter’s box to practice their swings.

Maclain wouldn’t look at me, though, and it was just as well. I needed to get my head back in the game, and he had set us up perfectly for another relief pitcher to close out the win.

That night we went to dinner in La Jolla, then walked along the beach, where we came across a wedding taking place under an arch of flowers in the sand. As the group grew quiet to watch, I blinked repeatedly when I realized the ceremony was between two men in tuxes with a female officiant.