Page 5 of Serving Bunt

It hadn’t just been PeteRoseCity9 on the other end of his messages and memes and little heart emojis.

It had been me.

His teammate. His friend.

And then, there was the kiss—

“Shake it off.”

Coach Ward’s voice boomed through the room, shaking me out of my shame spiral.

He stood at the front, thick-rimmed, black glasses slipping slightly down his nose, sleeves pushed up to reveal a maze of tattoos winding over his forearms. Coach Ward didn’t raise his voice often, but when he did, it carried.

“Tonight sucked,” he said bluntly, sweeping his gaze across the room like he was making sure it landed on every last one of us. “No way around that. But you don’t get paid to sulk—you get paid to show up and do it better.”

He folded those inked arms across his chest, jaw set. “So pick your heads up, roll your shoulders back, and quit looking like someone kicked you in the dick. Nobody here is that special.”

A couple of guys huffed out quiet laughs, the tension cracking just enough.

“You’ve got tomorrow off, so use it. Get off your feet, clear your heads, and then come back ready to work.” His gaze sharpened again, just enough to keep the edge. “We’re not carrying this one into the next series. Leave it here.”

“Tell that to the demons,” our second baseman, Johnathan Tucker, mumbled under his breath.

“On a better note,” Coach Ward continued. “All-Star voting has closed. I’ve got two little girls to get home to, so I’m not going to draw this out. Roman Garcia.”

Roman nodded once, his lips tilting up in a cocky grin. Our first baseman might put on a fuckboy front, complete with a gold chain, well-groomed fade, and one eyebrow permanently arched like only he knew the butt of whatever filthy joke he’d come up with, but underneath it all, he was a softie.

An ooey-gooey cinnamon roll who sent handwritten thank-you cards to clubhouse staff and had a certain cartoon bear tattooed on his ass.

How’s that for the butt of a joke?

Winnie the Pooh on your ass.

“Jared Pink.”

Pink stood slowly, hands lifted like he was accepting an award. “Thank you for this honor. I’d like to thank the fans—”

“Save it for the showers, Pink,” Coach Ward ordered. “Finally, making his official All-Star debut, Johnathan Tucker.”

Tucker blinked. “You’re kidding.”

Coach Ward cocked his head. “Tucker, after two-and-a-half seasons together, you should know I don’t kid.”

The room erupted with applause.

Last season, Tucker had missed his shot at the All-Star game when he’d torn his hamstring the week before the break. He’d watched from his couch while sitting on a bag of frozen peas, pretending he didn’t care while the rest of us texted him updates from the clubhouse.

The season before that, he’d been too caught up with falling in love with Brock Heller, sports journalist turned literary sensation turned Tucker’s live-in boyfriend. This season, he’d been more locked in than ever before. Seeing him stand there now, blinking like he didn’t quite trust it yet—

Yeah, we clapped harder.

The energy in the room started to fracture after that. I peeled off the rest of my gear and hit the showers, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders until the ache dulled to something manageable. By the time I came out, towel around my waist, half the team had already gotten dressed and taken off.

I tugged on my gameday slacks and was reaching for my shirt when I caught sight of Matty again. He was at his locker with his back to me, buttoning up his shirt.

Broad shoulders.

That was the first thing you noticed about Matty Miller. Well, it was the first thing I’d noticed.