“Yeah,” he cuts in smoothly. “Do that. Text me when you’re ready.”
I don’t even have time to respond.
He grabs his glove, turns, and walks away with long strides, confident, every muscle moving with easy purpose.
And I absolutely donotwatch his ass for a second too long.
Shit.
I press my lips together, dragging in a slow breath as Susan glances at me, amusement flickering in her eyes.
“This,” she says lightly, “is going to be interesting.”
I swallow.
Interesting isn’t the word I’d use.
Complicated.
Terrifying.
And suddenly, far more personal than I ever intended.
FOUR
Wild
The roar of the stadium is a living thing. It’s thick, vibrating, crawling under my skin as I step onto the mound. Final inning. We’re up by three. A few minutes left on the clock. This is my moment.
I roll my shoulders, blocking everything else out. The crowd. The cameras. The pressure.
All of it fades until it’s just me, the ball, and the guy standing sixty feet away who thinks he has a chance.
If I strike him out, we don’t even need another at-bat. Game’s over. Win secured.
I grip the ball tight, the leather worn smooth and familiar against my palm. It fits there like it belongs, like it’s an extension of me. I glance down at Kamden crouched behind the plate, his focus razor sharp.
He flashes the sign.
Fastball.
I nod once.
There’s nothing more adrenaline-fueled than this. Every eye in the stadium is on you. Your team counting on you. Your coach trusting you to close it out. For most guys, that kind of pressure crushes them.
For me?
It’s power.
And I fucking love it.
I wind up and let it rip.
The ball slices through the air, fast and clean, cracking into Kamden’s glove before the batter even finishes his swing.
“Strike two!” the ump calls.
A grin tugs at my mouth.
