CALLUM
Someone loves me.
Ian.
Ian loves me.
My eyes remain glued to a certain batter at the top of every inning, and to a certain third baseman at the bottom. Even from a distance, Ian is sexy as heck, and he’s all mine.
And he loves me, exactly how I love him.
That plays through my mind on repeat throughout the whole game. The internet says you’re supposed to complete yourself instead of relying on someone else to do so, but I don’t think anyone isevercomplete. I’m still working on myself—that’s never going to stop—and I’m not getting Ian to bridge any gaps.
I’d be okay on my own, but he adds to my life in a way I couldn’t do myself. Like how black coffee does the job to wake me up, and I like it alright, but milk helps it go down smoother. My life would be fine if I was lactose intolerant, but his cream makes it so much better?—
Oh, god. That analogy took a filthy turn, even if it’s true.
I would have thought blunting my sexual hang-ups would also blunt my intrusive bedroom thoughts, but it’s done the opposite.
I have to take my mind out of the sewer and focus on the game.
Ooh, action! Awesome. Ian pulled WMU ahead by one at the top of the ninth, and BUC just got a second strikeout with a runner still on second.
WMU’s place in the playoffs is hinging on Jeremy. Man, the poor guy looks like he’s shitting king-sized bricks with how he’swhite-knuckling the ball on the mound. He fires off a…fastball, I think, and it sails toward BUC’s batter.
Fuck, it connects. The hit sounds crisp and looks even better, and the ball sails far into the outfield.
Please don’t be a home run.
Nick answers my prayers. He’s running toward the back of the ballpark, eyes fixed on the falling ball, tracking it, homing in, stretching out, jumping…
Catching it.
Dropping his body to the ground. With his glove still around the ball.
BUC is out.
WMU won. Holy shit, theywon.
Groans of disappointment surround me as I pump my fist in celebration, heading down so I can get closer to the dugout. Ian’s going to do a debrief like he always does, but I want to congratulate him beforehand, if I can. The few people heading for the exits let me pass as I go in the opposite direction to them, and I lean over the railing above the visitor’s dugout, waving at Ian, who’s looking out onto the field.
I’m about to call his name when one of the WMU coaches, Ramirez, based on the name at the back of his coaching sweater, spots me and grins, motioning for me to climb over.
Jeremy spins Ian around and shoves him closer. I jump the low railing into the dugout, and Ian catches me as I stumble on the landing.
“Hey.” He’s all smiles, his face flushed and shimmering with hard-earned sweat. “Did you enjoy the game?”
My god, that smile. It's blinding, perfect, and all mine.
“Yeah, I did.” My voice is flat, my mind distracted by the amazing sight of a win-fueled, elated Ian in front of me. I reach down and turn his hat backward. Red dust clings to the stray sweat-dampened strands of hair sticking out from under the brim and on his sun-kissed skin.
He looks too good to be real. This man is completely, utterly breathtaking, he’s mine, andhe loves me.
“You good, Cal?” he asks, his mouth crooking up to one side.
“More than good,”I want to say back, but the words don't come. The emotions, the everything, it's overwhelming, and at the same time, it's not nearly enough.
I grin and run my thumb along his jaw. He jerks once, a shiver echoing across his face, but that beautiful expression of his doesn't break.
