Page 2 of All Bats are Off (Rose City Roasters)

Brock

“Y ou’re not really going to eat that, are you?”

My stomach roiled when the infuriatingly handsome man seated across from me winked before shoving another forkful of what could only be described as candy-coated, crispy animal fat between his lips.

The smell alone gave me heartburn.

Seriously, deep-fried bacon blanketed in cotton candy—talk about a crime against gastronomy. Gone were the days of a good, old-fashioned bag of popcorn or soft pretzel drenched in cheese sauce.

Mmm, cheese sauce.

To be fair, it had been a decade or so since I’d frequented a fair of any kind—my work schedule didn’t allow for much beyond the office or podcast studio during baseball season and my social life was nonexistent—and apparently, sometime between then and now, popcorn and pretzels had gotten a makeover.

One that made my eyes roll and stomach churn.

“That’s disgusting.”

“No,” Tucker countered. “That’s delicious.”

I nearly choked when his tongue darted out to catch the sugar granules clinging to his lips, and then mentally kicked myself for responding to him like that. It was hard—and getting harder by the second—not to picture what else that mouth of his could do. If the rumors were anything to go by, most of Portland had experienced the oral delights of Johnathan “Tuck” Tucker.

Tucker might not have been the only Roaster with a reputation, but he was the only Roaster whose ass was my screensaver. Not that he—or my editor—ever needed to know that.

What could I say? I preferred my men thicc —with two cs—and Johnny Tucker had thighs like tree trunks. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t pictured them wrapped around my back while I plowed into him at least once or twice.

“Alright, hellhound.” His thick, heavy voice tore me away from my inappropriate thoughts. “Your turn,” he said, nodding toward the plastic fork on the table.

My stomach lurched.

I should have known better than to blindly accept his “condition” for our interview. It wasn’t unheard of for players to have requests—or even hard limits—when it came to their press interactions. That applied to both the location of the interviews and the subject matter itself. After a decade of professional journalism and over a thousand interviews, I thought I had seen it all.

That was until Tucker had demanded a trade—one bite per question.

“I can’t.”

He smiled. “You can.”

“Seriously, man, sugar makes my skin break out, and I haven’t had processed meat in, like, three years.”

“Are you vegan?”

I shrugged. “Vegan-ish.”

“Oh god, you’re one of those ‘my body is a temple’ guys, aren’t you?”

“You know it,” I said around a smirk. “One that deserves to be worshipped.”

His eyes widened with surprise. He wasn’t the only one taken aback by my flirty response. I blamed it on the afternoon heat and overwhelming stench of barbecued pork and . . . caramel?

“Forget me.” I cutting him off before he could come up with some witty comeback. “I don’t know how you can eat all that.”

For his next bite, Tucker flexed his bicep as he lifted the fork to his mouth. “Somehow, I think I’ll be okay.”

We had been at this for nearly twenty minutes—him devouring plate after plate of sweet and salty fair food, barely coming up for air to answer my questions—and that was after waiting in lines for nearly twice as long. Surprisingly, Tucker hadn’t tried to use his local celebrity status to jump ahead. In fact, the only reason it had taken us as long as it had to get our food was because of all the selfies he’d stopped to take with fans.

We had already covered most of my questions about the All-Star break, the team’s philanthropic efforts, and even a few personal questions about Tucker’s rich dating history—there was no topic too taboo for the Roasters’ second baseman—which meant it was time to hold up my end of our bargain.

“C’mon, Hell,” he goaded. “Pick your poison. There must be something on the table you can eat.”

Damn this man and his sideways smile.

I scoured what was left of our smorgasbord. Tucker had already downed an entire sushirito and chased it with a Fruity Pebbles milkshake. The pickle ice cream was an immediate no, as was the twice-baked potato slathered in garlic butter and lobster. I had the sensitive stomach of a fifty-year-old soccer mom. Unless I wanted to spend the rest of the evening on the toilet—and my friend, Beau, would have my ass if I missed his show tonight—it was best I stay away from all seafood, sweets, and meats.

That left the grilled (macaroni and) cheese.

“It’s the mac and cheese sandwich, isn’t it?”

Arrogant asshole. It was like he’d known the answer to the question before it was asked.

Generally, I didn’t fuck with lactose, but cheese was my kryptonite. That and cocky athletes with dimples made for fucking, and Johnathan Tucker was a dangerous combination of both.

I had dreams about cheese—delicious, naughty dreams guaranteed to make a real vegan weep. Call it a hot take, but I would take a plate of sliced cheddar and crackers or a honey-drenched brie bake over sex any day. Then again, that probably said more about the subpar quality of sex I had been having—or not having, if I was really being honest with myself—as of late.

“Finally.”

Tucker’s grayish-green eyes sparkled with amusement. They reminded me of the sea glass my sisters and I used to pick up from the beach near our family’s cabin on Whidbey Island.

“What?” I asked him.

“It’s good to know that something gets to you, Heller. Even if that something is just cheese.” He sat up, resting his meaty elbows on the table. “For a while there, I thought you might have accidentally wandered out of Westworld. ”

I gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to give him the reaction he clearly craved.

“Sorry, I forgot you’re a millennial. Maybe Terminator is a better reference, or 2001: A Space Odyssey ?”

“Okay, asshole, I’m not that much older than you.”

His laugh reverberated across the table, attracting the attention of every man, woman, and child within earshot. It seemed nobody was immune to Johnathan Tucker’s charms, least of all me.

I had the sweaty palms and hard-on to prove it.

This was the first time we had spent any time together outside of the field or press room—and the only time we had been one-on-one—and yet, there was something about him that made me feel safe and comfortable. Like I could tell him anything, free from judgment, something I had never experienced before with another person—not even my family.

It hadn’t taken long to realize that there was something special about Johnathan Tucker, and it had nothing to do with his star status. It was him . His energy was magnetic, a gravitational force that drew in anything and anyone in its path. It was his world; the rest of us were just lucky to be living on it.

Needless to say, it was easy to see how he had garnered the reputation he had. And yet, for the past hour, his focus had never wavered from me. Not once.

“Tell you what,” he said, his voice light and playful. “As much as I would love to see Portland’s favorite podcaster deepthroat a BLT eggroll, I’ll let you off easy this time.”

He did not just mention deepthroating to me. At this rate, my cock might actually bust through my zipper before we made it through dessert.

He slid the cheesy sandwich across the table. “Eat half of that and we’ll call it even.”

I didn’t hesitate. “You’re on.”

He watched with rapt attention as I tore into the gooey noodles smashed between grilled sourdough. I didn’t overthink it. The embarrassment would kick in any second, but it would have to wait—I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Sweet fucking hell.” I moaned between bites.

“Too gouda to be true?”

That was an understatement. I swallowed before answering him. “You feta believe it.”

This time, we both laughed. Fuck. Johnny Tucker was making it unbearably difficult to resist his charms. The only thing hotter than a jacked dude doing yoga with puppies was a jacked dude with top-notch cheese puns and pop culture references.

“You know, I think it’s my turn to ask a question.”

I should have known there was a catch.

“Um, alright.”

Tucker scrubbed a hand across his jaw, scraping over his whiskers. Every journalist worth their salt knew how to read between the lines—we spoke subtext fluently. The best journalists, and yes, I was one of the best, also knew a little something about body language. Tucker’s told me he had been sitting on his question for a while now.

“You said you were taking the week off from the paper, and I know that you record your podcast in a bougie studio on the east side—”

“You sound like a fan, Johnny.”

“—so, what exactly is this interview for?”

Ah, there it is.

“You know,” I told him. “If baseball doesn’t work out for you, you might make one hell of a journalist.”

I was being honest. It was what I would have asked.

“Answer the question, Heller.”

“Eat your potato, Tucker.”

He raised his bushy brows, issuing a playful challenge. It would take a lot more than that to get me to back down.

“I’m toying with the idea of writing a book,” I told him. Surprisingly, it was the first time I had said the words aloud to anyone.

“About me?”

You wish. To nobody’s surprise, the man’s ego was almost as big as his ass.

“Fiction, actually.”

I could have left it at that, but sometime between ice cream and waffle fries, Tucker had opened a valve. There was no stopping the words that poured out of me.

“It takes place in an alternate universe where aliens and humans coexist, and two baseball players on opposing teams—one human and the other alien—fall in love during an intergalactic tournament that’s basically their version of the Olympics.”

He stared back at me blankly. Apparently, I’d cracked the code—all it took to render Johnathan Tucker speechless was the mere mention of a queer, alien romance novel.

“That sounds fucking awesome.”

I reeled back with surprise. “Really?”

“Fuck yeah. I would read it in a heartbeat.”

“Are you telling me the Johnathan Tucker is a romance reader?”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Well, this is strictly off the record, but we have a team book club.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, Pink has a major thing for Rose City’s romance bookstore owner. He got us into reading the store’s book club picks.”

Now that he mentioned it, I had seen the Roasters’ rookie pitcher, Jared Pink, reading in the dugout during more than one game this season—a sports romance novel, no less. I made a mental note to ask him about that after the All-Star break.

“And?” I prompted.

“And even though I’m definitely more of a sci-fi or fantasy kind of guy, I do enjoy the sexy stuff.”

“You know,” I hedged. “There’s plenty of sci-fi and fantasy out there with sexy stuff.”

I had the Kindle to prove it.

“Well, shit, I’ve just been reading the wrong books. Or maybe I was waiting for you to write the right one.”

He punctuated the sentiment with a wink, making my dick twitch. We fell into comfortable silence after that, at least for a few minutes. Long enough for me to regain my wits and polish off the first half of my sandwich. And all the while, I felt the weight of his gaze.

“You should do it.”

My brows pinched together. “Do what?”

“Write your book. I’d love to read it.”

I swallowed past my suddenly dry throat.

“Maybe someday.”

His head cocked to one side. “Why not now?”

“It just . . . isn’t the time.”

And it never will be.

He must have heard something in my tone—avoidance, reluctance, dare I say fear—because he left it at that. Regret soured my stomach. It was either that or the cheese.

I shouldn’t have told him about the book. Talking about it made it real. It created expectations, which led to questions and even worse, inevitable disappointment, that thing I had spent the better part of my adulthood trying—and often failing—to avoid.

Just ask my father.

There was no job title, no award, and no amount of podcast downloads that could absolve me of his criticism. Even now—a decade into my career—he was constantly giving me grief about choosing sports journalism over the “real, hard-hitting” topics like global politics. The very thought of telling him that I wanted to write a book about baseball aliens kissing under the bleachers gave me hives.

“I take it you liked the sandwich,” Tucker said, gesturing toward my now empty plate.

“It was alright.”

That was a lie. It was the best thing I had ever put in my mouth, and that included a certain movie star’s uncut cock during a summer internship in New York.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “How about I buy you a drink to wash down all that cheese?”

Well, fuck.

There was no doubt about it—Johnathan Tucker was hitting on me and damn, did it feel good. But if the neon “danger” sign flashing through my brain was anything to go off, it was best—for both of us—to make a clean getaway while I still could.

Journalists weren’t accustomed to being in the hot seat. That was a position reserved solely for our victims. Scratch that, our subjects.

“I should get back to the city.” I nearly tripped over my Birkenstocks when I jumped to my feet.

“Hot date?”

“Nah, my friend hosts drag bingo every weekend at the Mayfly in Kenton, and he’s going to kill me if I miss it again.”

He took care of clearing the table while I packed up my notebook and Hydro Flask. I pretended not to notice the way he carefully sorted the soiled paper and plastic before discarding them in the appropriate bins.

Who knew that recycling could be such a turn-on?

“Thanks for this,” I told him as we walked side by side across the parking lot. “I know you guys already had a long weekend. Answering a few dumb questions while force-feeding me food was probably the last thing you were interested in doing tonight.”

Laughter roared out of him.

“Oh, Brock,” he croaked when he finally caught his breath.

“What?”

“You should know by now that I never do anything with anybody I’m not interested in.”