Page 6 of All Bats are Off (Rose City Roasters)

Brock

Roasters 90–51

I f somebody had told me two months ago that come Labor Day, I would be curled up in bed, watching Top Chef reruns with Johnathan Tucker, I would have spat out my kombucha.

Nonetheless, here I was, clothed only in boxer briefs, nestled against Tucker’s side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like we had been doing this for years.

So much for a casual hookup. There was nothing casual about spooning with the Roasters’ second baseman on a rainy Tuesday morning.

Tucker’s arm rested across my stomach, his breath, steady and calm, fanning the back of my neck. He had dozed off about an hour ago, after an early morning practice and what I was bold enough to admit—at least to myself—was very enthusiastic sex.

I stared at the muted TV screen across the room, pretending I wasn’t memorizing the shape of his hand splayed across my waist, the way his fingers twitched occasionally like he was still gripping a bat. At first glance, Tucker had always seemed like one of those guys who had to be “on”—loud, cocky, the kind of athlete who flirted with the camera and collected first dates like they were baseball cards. And maybe that was who he was to everyone else.

But not here.

With me, he was . . . easy.

Not always, of course. He got grumpy when the team lost, especially since they were only leading their division by a few wins, and anytime the other press pundits hounded him about his less than stellar batting record against left-handed pitchers. Generally speaking, though, Tucker was mature beyond his years.

He listened. He remembered things I said, beyond baseball stats and locker room gossip.

Just last week, he’d asked me about my alien romance novel, which he had taken to calling Space Blue Balls , for obvious reasons. One thing had led to another, and before I’d known it, we had outlined the entire plot on index cards—the most progress I had made in nearly a year. To celebrate, we’d reenacted a few of the spiciest scenes, without the double-pronged alien dong that was.

It was getting harder and harder to convince myself that this thing between us was just fun, a few months of casual hookups, quiet mornings, and making out in the shadows of dugouts and hotel elevators.

Tucker gave great elevator.

I wasn’t supposed to feel safe with him. And I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to feel this—whatever this was. Close. Comfortable. More .

It was that last one that made my stomach churn with both nerves and, dare I say, anticipation?

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I reached for it, careful not to wake him. Melody, my editor.

Melody

Still planning to swing by the office today? I’ve got something big to run by you.

Those words should have been exciting. I’d spent five years grinding out coverage in this city, taking every late-night beat, rain-delay interview, and half-baked locker room quote, just to build a name for myself in the world of sports journalism. And I had. Mission accomplished.

Now “something big” was here, and my stomach clenched like I was waiting on a bad call.

I slipped out of bed. Tucker stirred a little but didn’t wake, just rolled onto his back, one hand brushing the spot where I’d been.

I paused for a second, watching him through the light leaking through the blinds. His mouth was parted, his brow smooth for once—no game face, no swagger, just Tucker. The version of him nobody else got to see. I felt something twist in my chest, low and quiet.

Somehow, I forced myself to walk away. It only took a few minutes to rinse off and change my clothes, and another twenty to make it downtown where the Portlandia Press offices were. The entire elevator ride up to the twenty-second floor, I kept replaying Melody’s message in my head, trying to decipher the meaning behind her words. “Something big” could mean anything in this business—a surprising trade, sex scandal, catastrophic injury. But I’d been doing this long enough to know opportunity and danger came dressed in the same suit.

The newsroom was quiet when I walked in—just a couple of editors nursing coffee and glaring at their screens like the headlines had personally offended them. Most of us worked in the field, so it wasn’t unusual for the office to be empty.

When I rounded the corner, Melody was already up, standing at the window with a mug in her hand, the skyline stretched out behind her. The corkboard behind her desk was cluttered with game programs and media credentials from a dozen World Series, a credit to her tenure in and passion for the industry.

She looked up when I walked in, eyes bright behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence.”

“Please, I was here last week.”

“I remember.” She rubbed a hand over her pregnant belly. “Melody Jr. here has been craving more of those beignets you brought back from New Orleans.”

I smiled. The Roasters had swept their series in New Orleans, and Tucker and I had celebrated with beignets and blow jobs.

“I got a call yesterday,” she said. “ Miami Herald . They’re on the hunt for a new sports editor. Young blood, someone who knows the players and the politics. Someone with a voice.”

I blinked.

“They asked for you by name, Brock.”

A laugh stumbled out of me, part disbelief, part panic. “That’s . . . that’s incredible. I didn’t even know they were hiring.”

“They weren’t. Not officially.” Melody’s gaze sharpened. “Look, between the paper and your podcast, you’ve been turning heads. I knew it was only a matter of time until somebody swept in and made you an offer. And trust me, it’s a good offer.”

I swallowed.

She leaned forward. “Plus, you’d be running an entire department, which means full editorial control. I think you’d kill it, Brock, but I also think you’ve got to be honest with yourself about what you want. This job would mean relocating. New city, new league. You’d lose a lot, but you’d gain more.”

She didn’t need to say it—the thoughts and questions were already racing around my mind at a thousand miles per second. Starting fresh in a new city, three-thousand miles away from friends and family, would be a major change, but I had done it before. Could I do it at thirty-four, though?

Could I do it without him ?

This was everything I had worked for, everything my family expected of me—except for my father; no promotion would ever be enough for dear old Dad. The decision should have been easy, and yet all I could think about was Tucker. More specifically, what this could mean for us.

If there even was an us to speak of.

How was I supposed to walk away from the thing I hadn’t meant to fall into, but somehow couldn’t stop wanting?

Melody’s voice softened. “You don’t have to decide today, but they want an answer by the end of the month.”

Two weeks wasn’t much, but I’d take it.

I nodded. “I appreciate it, Mel.”

Somehow, I made it back to the atrium. The elevator ride down felt like floating underwater—muted, distant, like the world had taken a few steps away from me and left me in slow motion. I barely registered the chime of the doors opening onto the lobby, the polite smile from the security guard, or the gust of wind that hit me the moment I stepped outside.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I should have turned left toward the parking garage. Instead, my feet carried me straight ahead, out onto the busy sidewalk, where the city buzzed around me in complete disregard of the storm raging in my head.

I didn’t know how long I stood there, staring blankly at the passing cars and the blur of people weaving around me. Everything felt too loud and too far away all at once—I longed for the safety of my comforter and Tucker’s arms.

And maybe a honey-drizzled goat brie.

I shoved my hand into my pocket just as my phone vibrated against my thigh.

Of course it was him.

I hesitated, thumb hovering over the green icon. Despite my passion for queer romance novels, I had never been one to believe in fate or . . . cosmic signs from the universe. That was more of my older sister’s, Gwen’s, thing. But there was no denying that Tucker had impeccable timing, like some kind of sixth sense for when my world started to unravel.

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat and pressed answer.

“Hey,” I managed, voice rougher than I expected.

“Hey yourself. I hope you don’t mind, but I commandeered your bathtub.”

He didn’t have to tell me. I could hear him sloshing the water around in the background.

“By the way, why am I only now finding out about your collection of bath salts? It smells like a lavender-chamomile crime scene in here.”

I almost smiled—but the weight in my chest didn’t budge.

“Help yourself.”

“Also,” he added with a dramatic sigh, “your water pressure is objectively superior. I’m jealous. Just thought you should know.”

There was a beat of silence on the line. Then another.

“Heller,” Tucker said, his tone shifting. “You okay?”

I didn’t answer right away. The world kept moving around me, and I just stood there, stuck between one version of my life and another.

“I’m okay,” I choked out. “Just standing on the sidewalk like a moron, trying to get my brain to work.”

Tucker was quiet for a moment.

I heard another faint slosh of water, then his voice again—lower now, softer. “Tell me where you are.”

I looked up at the imposing skyscraper. “Outside the Portlandia Press building.”

“Stay there,” he ordered sternly. Rut roh, he’s pulling out his soft dom bedroom voice. “I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

“Tucker, no. You’re in my bathtub.”

“Not anymore. I’m already toweling off.”

“You can’t—”

“I can and I will.”

“ Johnny .” I swallowed the sob in my throat. “Seriously, I’m in a shit mood. I don’t really feel like I can—”

“I’m not asking you to fuck me, Brock. I just . . .” Cars zoomed past me while I waited patiently for him to gather his words. “I want to make you dinner and then cuddle the shit out of you. Please, just let me take care of you, okay?”

The words settled deep in my ribs. I stood there, traffic rushing past, the scent of roasted coffee and car exhaust in the air, and for the first time, I let myself feel the truth of it—I didn’t want to be alone with this. Not tonight.

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear. “Yeah,” I said, voice quiet. “You can come get me.”

There was no hesitation on the other end. “On it,” Tucker replied. “I’m dripping all over your tile, by the way. You’re welcome.”

A breath of laughter escaped me—small but real.

“Don’t go wandering off. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

I shook my head, the corners of my mouth tugging upward despite everything. “Drive safe.”

“You’re worth speeding for,” he said and hung up before I could argue.

By the time we returned to my apartment, the sky had shifted into a dusky gray-blue, and the city felt quieter than usual, like even the noise knew I wasn’t in the mood.

Tucker shoved my ass into the shower the second we got back, insisting that it would make me feel better.

He wasn’t wrong. The hot water did ease the knot between my shoulders, though it didn’t quite reach the one in my chest. Steam curled around me as I stood under the spray, letting the water beat against the back of my neck like it might wash the indecision away. My forehead rested against the cool tile, my eyes closed, chest tight. I could still hear Tucker’s voice from earlier—teasing, warm, steady—and it made my gut twist tighter.

I needed to tell him about the offer. I knew that. But saying it out loud meant acknowledging what it could mean for us. And I wasn’t sure if I was ready to find out what would happen after that.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom thirty minutes later, the scent of garlic and melted cheese drifted in from the kitchen. I dried off, pulled on a T-shirt and sweats, and padded barefoot into the other room.

Tucker was plating dinner like it was something he did every night—barefoot, shirtless, one dish towel slung over his bare shoulder like he worked the line at a bistro.

A guy could get used to this.

“That smells incredible,” I said.

He looked up and grinned. “I know you eat vegan-ish, but I also know that cheese—along with showers—cures all wounds, so I made eggplant parmesan with a cashew béchamel. Deal with it.”

My chest tightened—not from stress this time, but from something warmer, more dangerous.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Of course I did.” He set the plates down on my dining table set for two. “You had an off day, and nobody wants to cook dinner when they’ve had an off day. Besides, I owe you for the bubble bath.”

I sat down across from him, trying to find something clever to say, but all I could manage was, “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

We ate in the quiet comfort that only came when someone actually gave a damn. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone had made me dinner without expecting anything.

Halfway through the meal, which tasted as delicious as it smelled, Tucker looked over at me. “You gonna tell me what happened today?”

My fork clanked against the plate harder than before. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it yet.”

He nodded. “Is there anything I can do?”

I swallowed my pride and tilted my head up, enough to meet his concerned gaze. “Believe me, you’ve already done enough.”

“Okay,” he said gently. “I just want you to know that I’m here if you want to talk.”

I studied him for a moment—barefoot in my dining room, hair still damp from his rushed escape out of my bathtub, eyes steady and patient. Tucker had this way of giving without asking for anything in return. Maybe that was why the guilt pressed so hard against my ribs.

He deserved more than silence. He deserved the truth.

I took a breath, dragging my fingers through my hair. “I don’t have the best relationship with my dad,” I started, staring down at the half-empty plate in front of me.

“I thought this might have been a work—”

“No, today was a work thing, but there’s more to it.” Tucker was quiet, letting me talk. “My dad has always had this . . . idea of who I’m supposed to be, what I’m supposed to do and write, and for as long as I can remember, every time I hit a milestone, he just moves the goalposts.”

Great. I had taken to using football metaphors with a baseball player.

“When I got my job with the Press , he told me not to get comfortable, that I would never make a name for myself doing sports recaps. When I got promoted to head sportswriter, it was, ‘Anyone can do color commentary, Brock. You should be chasing real journalism.’ And now, I’m being offered an editing job—bigger paper, more money—and all I can think is . . . even if I take it, it still won’t be enough for him.”

“You ever tell him that?”

I snorted. “You don’t tell my dad anything. He’s the kind of man who says things like ‘tough love builds character’ and means it.”

Tucker nodded slowly. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” I admitted, voice quieter than I meant it to be.

He reached across the table, brushing his fingers against mine. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re kind of incredible. And not just because of your job or fuckable mouth.”

“Yeah?” I asked, voice catching a little.

He smiled, soft and crooked. “Yeah. Brock, you . . .”

To my surprise, a flush crept up his cheeks—subtle but unmistakable. Tucker, always so bold and unshakable, was blushing, and for a moment, it disarmed me more than anything he’d said.

“You could be writing box scores or hard-hitting political exposés or gay alien romance—I’d still think you’re the best part of my day.”

That did it.

Something shifted in me then—the wall I had built out of instinct and habit had finally, finally started to give.

And in the quiet that followed, I realized I wasn’t afraid of needing someone anymore.

Not someone.

Tucker.

I reached for his hand this time, lacing our fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. And just like that, the decision I’d been dreading all day didn’t feel so impossible anymore.