“Best roommate ever,” he said, clutching his chest.
He looked different after his month-long trip home to Puerto Rico, relaxed in a way that I hadn’t seen since the end of the playoffs.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,mi pana.You don’treallywant to move to Rose City. They have likefour restaurants.”
“Five,” I corrected. “Plus, the food cart pod by the stadium.”
“Which closes by eight,” he muttered.
I folded the flaps of the box and leaned my weight on it to make the tape stick. “Just say you’re going to miss me, Peter.”
His face soured at the sound of his own name. Hardly any of the guys used their first names. Clubhouses ran on nicknames and copious amounts of profanity. Hearing your government name aloud was basically the verbal equivalent of getting beaned.
“I’m just worried about you getting bored,” he protested, holding his hands out in front of him.
I smirked. “Somehow, I think I’ll survive.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did. For two years, Diaz’s place had been our landing pad after road series, a place to shove our gear and crash on the couch and argue about whichDie Hardmovie was objectively the best.
But I also knew what my chest felt like when I walked out the front door and the city hit me all at once—sirens, buses, people talking, dogs barking, cars honking. Every sound layered on top of the others, the input crowding out the thoughts I was supposed to be having instead. Some days I handled it fine, and some days it scraped my nerves raw.
Rose City was quieter.
“I want to be closer to the stadium,” I said. “Less time stuck in traffic, more time recovering. You know coach is gonna be up our asses this spring.”
Last season had been a wake-up call. We’d gotten shut out in the first round of the playoffs, an ugly, embarrassing crash back to earth after winning the World Series the year prior. One bad stretch of injuries, one slump at the wrong time, and suddenly everyone was asking what the hell had happened to the reigning champs.
We weren’t going to let that happen again.
“True,” Diaz conceded. “But you’re also moving in with Pink and Nessa. I hope you’re ready for him to talk your ear off about his tomatoes’ emotional needs every morning over coffee.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Then again, you’ll also be conveniently close to his hot sister,” he added, wagging his brows. “Funny how that worked out.”
I stopped cold. “Don’t.”
“What?” he asked innocently. “I didn’t say anything. I just know that when Pink said he had a spare room, you jumped at it like I do with myabuelita’s tembleque.”
“Because it made sense,” I said, stacking the hoodie box with the others. “Closer to the stadium, the training facility. Less commuting—”
“And absolutely nothing to do with the fact that a certain beekeeper lives next door?”
I grabbed another empty box off the floor and flicked it open. The cardboard gave a little pop as it unfolded, louder than expected. My implants caught the sharpness, a brief spike in sound that made me wince and adjust the processor behind my ear.
“It’s not like that,” I said once the sound leveled out.
Diaz snorted. “Ay, pendejo.”
“Seriously.”
He didn’t press, just arched a perfectly sculpted brow. The kind that suggested he’d been sneaking off to the same salon where Roman got waxed from earlobe to asshole twice a month. Our first baseman treated personal grooming like a ritual, one that had made us late for the team bus on more than one occasion.
Silence stretched between us. Not uncomfortable, just pointed.
I focused on folding the next box, lining up the seams, pressing the tape, absolutelynotthinking about Bella Pink or herbumblebee panties. Diaz sifted through a pile of vinyl, humming to himself.
