Which was why I was here, at a ridiculous, slightly unhinged public fundraiser where Roasters players were being auctioned off like steaks at a butcher counter.
“You always sulk in corners, or is tonight special?” an imposing figure boomed from my side.
I turned.
Roman Garcia, first baseman and Tucker’s roommate, stood a few feet away, a drink in his hand, his expression relaxed—but not careless.
“I was going for brooding,” I told him. “But sure, sulking works too.”
It had been a few months since I’d last seen Roman, but he looked exactly the same—like a big, friendly bouncer at a family cookout. Broad-shouldered, easy smile, and the kind of presence that made people instinctively relax around him . . . unless you pissed him off. Lurking under that teddy bear vibe was a monster, one who could probably deadlift a small car and who was fiercely loyal to his friends.
Especially Tucker.
He offered a wry smile and joined me at the bar. “I noticed you hanging back here. Figured you didn’t come for the wine spritzers and charcuterie spread.”
“You’ve never seen me tear into a baked brie.”
He sipped his drink and surveyed the crowd. “You know, I had to talk him into doing this thing.”
I raised an eyebrow. We both knew who he was talking about.
“The auction?”
He nodded. “He didn’t want to. Said he wasn’t in the mood to flirt with strangers. But I guilt-tripped him, you know, for charity and all that.”
That pulled a laugh out of me, even if it felt uneven.
Roman glanced sideways at me. “Call me an asshole, but I was also a little curious to see what you might do.”
I didn’t say anything. Every explanation I could think of sounded like an excuse. Instead, I just stood there, the silence stretching between us like thread pulled too tight, waiting to snap.
Roman pivoted to face me fully. Surprisingly, there was no malice in his eyes, just a seriousness that sat quietly underneath the surface.
“I know you’ve been trying to reach him,” Roman said. “And I know he hasn’t made it easy.”
I nodded. “He hasn’t made itanything.”
Roman studied me for a second. “Can you blame him?”
Not one bit.
“No,” I said quietly.
“He’s still hurt, or maybe just scared. It’s hard to tell with Tuck. He’s good at hiding both.”
He took a sip of his beer, then set it down carefully on the bar. “Look, I don’t hate you, Brock. I even like you . . .somedays, so I’m just going to say this once. If you’re here because you want him back—reallywant him back—then I’m rooting for you. But if you’re here to ease your guilt or write some poetic ending to a summer fling, walk away now. My friend might seem like a fuckboy, but he’s not built for that.”
My chest tightened. This was a first for me—being read the riot act by a guy’s roommate and friend. And yet, I couldn’t help but be grateful for it.
Roman’s warning wasn’t about ego or territory; it was about love, the kind that ran deep and quiet, the kind that said “if you hurt my friend, you will answer to me.” It meant Tucker was cared for, and if I was going to have any place in his life, I would have to earn my way back through that kind of fire.
Bring it on, boys.
“I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about him,” I told Roman, laying it all on the line. “Because I miss him. And because I was a coward for not saying that sooner.”
Roman studied me for a beat longer, then nodded once. “Glad to hear it because he’s up next. So, if you’re planning to do something dramatic, now’s the time.”
With that, he patted me on the shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.
