His lips crashed against mine with a kind of urgency that sent sparks down my spine. My hand found the back of his neck, pulling him in deeper, and he sighed into my mouth like he had been aching for this moment as much as I had.
The kiss deepened, not driven by urgency but by a mutual understanding that this wasn’t just about the moment. This was something lasting, something we were both ready to fully explore.
I couldn’t help but respond, leaning into him, my fingers running through his hair as I kissed him back with everything I had. It felt like we were balancing on the edge of something unknown, something simultaneously terrifying and exciting. And I knew, in that moment, that whatever happened next, we would face it together.
Tucker
The World Series: Game Seven
“Strikethree.”
I was already in motion before the umpire finished pumping his fists, glove flying from my hand, legs burning as I sprinted toward the mound like it was the only place in the world I wanted to be.
The stadium erupted. A wall of sound slammed into me—cheers, screams, laughter, crying, all of it crashing together into one beautiful roar that shook the ground beneath my cleats.
We were World Series champions.Iwas a World Series champion.
And in that split second—my arms wrapped around Pink and Roman, teammates piling on, Champagne arcing through the air like liquid gold—I knew every minute of pain, every bruise and blister, every early-morning weight session and late-night ice bath . . . they had all been worth it. It had all led to here.
“We did it!” Roman screamed, throwing his arms around me in the tightest of bear hugs. “Wefuckingdid it, man.”
“Pass the Champagne,” Matty cried.
My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might rip through my chest, but I didn’t care. I could taste sweat and dirt and joy in the back of my throat. I couldn’t stop laughing, shouting, grabbing my teammates like they were extensions of myself. We’d done the impossible—in our first season, no less—and we’d done it together.
And still, in the middle of my elation, I knew something was missing. I scanned the crowd, heart still jackhammering, eyes cutting through the chaos like a man starved for something he couldn’t name.
Until I saw him.
Front row, just behind the dugout, in the section reserved for friends and family.Loved ones.And fuck, did I love Brock Heller.
Every vegan-ish inch of him.
His hands were braced against the railing; his pink lips were slightly open like he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. Or maybe hecould—after all, he was always telling me how much he believed in me.
The moment our eyes locked, everything else fell away. The noise, the confetti, the cameras—it all just blurred into white noise.All I saw was him. He smiled slowly and so full of pride it damn near knocked me over.
I didn’t think. I justmoved.
We had come a long way in the last few weeks. From cautious texts and closed doors to handholding in public and sleepy mornings tangled up in each other on my sofa.
My teammates knew about us now, and much to my surprise, none of them had given me shit for it. All of them had welcomed Brock into the fold as if he were part of the team, including our coach, who had taken to exchanging vegan recipes with Brock via text.
I didn’t even have Coach Ward’s phone number.
Brock, for his part, had taken a step back from his job at thePortlandia Press. Not because of me or our relationship, but because he’d finally admitted that there was something he liked writing about more than baseball—alien sex. And like a good partner, I’d encouraged him to go for it. He still had his podcast, which was raking in record numbers, so it couldn’t hurt to take some time off from the paper to pursue his dreams.
“Don’t put off your passions,” I’d told him late one night while stroking his hair strewn across my chest. “It took me ten years to make it to the major league, and that could go away in a nanosecond. You owe it to yourself to trynow.”
He had smiled at me like I’d handed him permission to want more. In that moment, I’d known—I’dfelt—we were building something real. Something worth protecting.
Something worth winning for.
My feet carried me toward the dugout wall. When I finally got to the divider, I reached up, grabbed a fistful of Brock’s Roasters jersey, and tugged him toward the railing. He barely had time to react before I crushed my mouth to his.
The kiss was rough with joy, messy with months of pent-up want and relief and love, and it didn’t matter who saw it. It didn’t matter that the cameras were probably getting it from every angle or that forty-thousand people were still screaming around us.
I kissed Brock like he was mine. Because hewas.
