Page 8 of All Bats are Off (Rose City Roasters)

Brock

Championship Series

H ow many mojitos does it take to confess your feelings?

It sounded like a bad riddle, one that I would, hopefully, have an answer to before the evening ended. Or before the rum ran out—whichever came first.

The Buns of Steel bachelor auction was in full swing—live music, glittery auction paddles, a farm-to-table dinner experience—but all I could focus on was the rapid pom-pom-pom of my heart. The kind of pulse that came from waiting for something you weren’t sure you deserved.

Fuck, maybe this was a mistake.

I was already on my second mojito of the night, nursing it like it owed me rent. The whole room thrummed with charged, unfiltered joy—the kind that only happened when a city’s team punched their ticket to the World Series for the first time in, well, ever .

People were lit up, buzzed not just from booze, but from the kind of hope that made strangers high-five in line for the bathroom and dance to ‘90s pop music like it was the national anthem. Roasters jerseys and playoff merch were everywhere—some crisp and new, others soft with wear and superstition.

The entire scene was loud, bright, and a little chaotic—in the best way possible. But underneath it all was that collective hum of we’ve got this, that rare, beautiful moment when an entire city—no matter how small it was—let itself believe in something.

It wasn’t unusual for me to cover baseball-adjacent events like this—especially since Melody was a sucker for “celebrities in the wild” kind of content—but for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t holding a press badge, but rather my breath.

It had been two weeks since Tucker and I had spoken, and not for lack of trying, at least on my behalf. I’d texted, called, and even dropped by his apartment unexpected like a fucking creep.

Radiohead had nothing on me.

At one point, I’d even typed out a long, messy email that I’d (thankfully) deleted before sending—something about how I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew I didn’t want to do it without him.

Nonetheless, all my efforts had gone unanswered.

Which was why I was here, at a ridiculous, slightly unhinged public fundraiser where Roasters players were being auctioned off like steaks at a butcher counter.

“You always sulk in corners, or is tonight special?” an imposing figure boomed from my side.

I turned.

Roman Garcia, first baseman and Tucker’s roommate, stood a few feet away, a drink in his hand, his expression relaxed—but not careless.

“I was going for brooding,” I told him. “But sure, sulking works too.”

It had been a few months since I’d last seen Roman, but he looked exactly the same—like a big, friendly bouncer at a family cookout. Broad-shouldered, easy smile, and the kind of presence that made people instinctively relax around him . . . unless you pissed him off. Lurking under that teddy bear vibe was a monster, one who could probably deadlift a small car and who was fiercely loyal to his friends.

Especially Tucker.

He offered a wry smile and joined me at the bar. “I noticed you hanging back here. Figured you didn’t come for the wine spritzers and charcuterie spread.”

“You’ve never seen me tear into a baked brie.”

He sipped his drink and surveyed the crowd. “You know, I had to talk him into doing this thing.”

I raised an eyebrow. We both knew who he was talking about.

“The auction?”

He nodded. “He didn’t want to. Said he wasn’t in the mood to flirt with strangers. But I guilt-tripped him, you know, for charity and all that.”

That pulled a laugh out of me, even if it felt uneven.

Roman glanced sideways at me. “Call me an asshole, but I was also a little curious to see what you might do.”

I didn’t say anything. Every explanation I could think of sounded like an excuse. Instead, I just stood there, the silence stretching between us like thread pulled too tight, waiting to snap.

Roman pivoted to face me fully. Surprisingly, there was no malice in his eyes, just a seriousness that sat quietly underneath the surface.

“I know you’ve been trying to reach him,” Roman said. “And I know he hasn’t made it easy.”

I nodded. “He hasn’t made it anything .”

Roman studied me for a second. “Can you blame him?”

Not one bit.

“No,” I said quietly.

“He’s still hurt, or maybe just scared. It’s hard to tell with Tuck. He’s good at hiding both.”

He took a sip of his beer, then set it down carefully on the bar. “Look, I don’t hate you, Brock. I even like you . . . some days, so I’m just going to say this once. If you’re here because you want him back— really want him back—then I’m rooting for you. But if you’re here to ease your guilt or write some poetic ending to a summer fling, walk away now. My friend might seem like a fuckboy, but he’s not built for that.”

My chest tightened. This was a first for me—being read the riot act by a guy’s roommate and friend. And yet, I couldn’t help but be grateful for it.

Roman’s warning wasn’t about ego or territory; it was about love, the kind that ran deep and quiet, the kind that said “if you hurt my friend, you will answer to me.” It meant Tucker was cared for, and if I was going to have any place in his life, I would have to earn my way back through that kind of fire.

Bring it on, boys.

“I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about him,” I told Roman, laying it all on the line. “Because I miss him. And because I was a coward for not saying that sooner.”

Roman studied me for a beat longer, then nodded once. “Glad to hear it because he’s up next. So, if you’re planning to do something dramatic, now’s the time.”

With that, he patted me on the shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.

I directed my attention toward the makeshift stage, just in time to see Jared Pink gyrate his way off and into the arms of the elder gentlemen who had bid on him. The young gun pitcher was a showman, for sure, but as I had learned while writing an in-depth profile on him, there was a lot more lurking beneath the surface.

Kylani, the event’s auctioneer, banged her gavel. Her voice rang out, smooth and unapologetically flirty. “Alrighty, folks! Up next, you know him as number two on the field, but he’ll always be number one in our hearts. Give it up for the Roaster’s second baseman, Johnathan Tucker.”

The crowd exploded. Men and women whistled and cheered when Tucker stepped into the light. I was too focused on regulating my breathing.

There he was, tall, solid, and in desperate need of a haircut. His fluffy mullet had grown out long enough to reach the tops of his shoulders. He had traded in his typical tee for a charcoal blazer and black button-down, dark jeans, and a pair of well-worn boots I had seen him kick off at my place more than once. His mullet looked like it had grown out a few inches in a matter of weeks, and the curve of his mouth— fuck, that mouth —was twisted in a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

It hit me all at once. How much I missed him. Not just the look of him, but the feel of him. The quiet steadiness, the way he used to lace his fingers through mine without thinking and braid my hair after a bubble bath. The way he always listened more than he spoke, like he wanted to understand me even when I didn’t make any sense.

I hated that I couldn’t read him now.

He looked . . . guarded, more so than usual. Like someone who had built up a wall and was still testing its strength from the inside. And now, he was standing on a literal stage being auctioned off to the highest bidder.

It should’ve felt ridiculous.

Instead, it felt like my last shot.

Kylani waited for the crowd to settle, her grin practically carved from starlight. “We’ll start the bidding for this World Series-bound bachelor at a modest five-hundred dollars.”

A hand shot up near the front. “Five hundred,” someone called out, followed quickly by a shout of, “One thousand!” from another.

Damn, that was fast.

Not that I could blame them; Tucker was a fucking catch.

While people scattered amongst the room called out their bids, Tucker stood onstage with his hands in his pockets, shifting slightly from foot to foot. His smile was polite, careful, the kind you might practice in a mirror. Gone was the cool confidence I was used to, and I hated the fact that I was the one who had stripped that from him.

“Two thousand,” a raspy voice shouted from the back of the room.

Kylani fanned herself. “Whew, things are heating up faster than a summer doubleheader!”

Tucker’s eyes scanned the crowd, sweeping across the audience like he was checking for familiar faces. Or maybe the quickest way to make a clean escape.

My fingers clenched around my drink as the auction continued, and the dollar amounts skyrocketed.

“Twenty-four hundred.”

“Twenty-six.”

“Three thousand!”

The crowd fucking loved it, drunk on playoff fever and artisanal cocktails.

And then Kylani asked, “Do I hear thirty-one hundred?”

I stepped forward without thinking.

“Four thousand.”

There was a sharp gasp, followed by a ripple of murmurs across the crowd—disbelief, curiosity, maybe even a little awe.

But I barely noticed.

All my attention was fixed on Tucker.

His expression didn’t change much, not at first. Just a tiny shift—his brow twitched and his lips parted like he had forgotten how to breathe for a second. That makes two of us. But his eyes . . . they found mine and held .

No flinch or flicker. It was quiet chaos, that look.

Like we were saying everything we hadn’t said in weeks, all without uttering a single word. And for that one impossible, electric second, the noise, the auction, all of it dropped away.

It was just us.

Still tethered, unfinished.

Kylani banged her gavel again. “Sold to the gentleman by the bar. Come and claim your man.” Gladly. “And while you’re at it, be sure to give me the name and number of your hair stylist.”

I sidestepped the applause and wolf whistles and made my way toward the stage.

Roman gave me a wink as I passed him at the foot of the steps. I could barely acknowledge it—my eyes were already locked on Tucker as he descended.

Up close, he looked exactly the same and totally different. Same Tucker—same easy posture and stubborn tilt to his mouth—but there was something new in his eyes. Like he was still trying to believe I was standing here in front of him.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he echoed, shoving his hands into his pockets when, really, all I wanted was to feel them on me. “Congratulations.”

“On?”

“On your win.” He winked cheekily. “Quite the prize, if I do say so myself.”

I huffed out a laugh. “You don’t have to tell me.”

That earned me the tiniest twitch of a smile. Not his full, toothy grin—just a corner of his mouth lifting, like he was still deciding whether it was safe to let it out. We stood like that for a beat longer, both of us waiting, hoping for the other to say something first.

“Listen,” I finally started. “I owe you an apology, and one hell of an explanation.”

“Brock—”

“No, Johnny,” I cut in gently. “Please let me get this out before I lose my nerve and remember that people are probably watching.”

I could already feel the heat crawling up my neck. Too many eyes, too many voices blurring around us. My pulse was loud in my ears, and the words I’d been rehearsing all week suddenly felt clumsy and too big for my mouth. I didn’t do well with the spotlight or crowds or vulnerability in public.

There was a reason I wrote about athletes.

My hands tightened around the auction paddle I still hadn’t let go of, like I could anchor myself with it. I shifted my attention toward our feet. Tucker’s fingers brushed just beneath my chin, gentle and familiar. He tilted it up, just enough for me to meet his hooded gaze.

“Focus, Heller,” he said, voice low, steady. “It’s just me.”

Just me. Just us.

Something about the way he said it—soft but certain—cut through the noise around us. It was the kind of touch that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t push, just was . Like he wasn’t trying to rush me, but rather remind me that I didn’t have to do it alone.

I nodded, barely, and he dropped his hand—but not before his thumb lingered for the briefest second against my jaw.

“I didn’t take the job,” I told him, my voice steadier now. “Florida. I didn’t accept it. With the Miami Herald , I mean—I turned down their offer. I should’ve told you that night by the fucking bus, but I was scared.”

His expression softened, but he didn’t interrupt. Not this time.

I kept going because for once, I wasn’t going to leave things unsaid.

“I told myself it was better to say nothing than something that might hurt you more, but that was bullshit. I was just afraid. Afraid you’d hear the truth and . . . still walk away.” I shifted my weight, the nerves tightening again. “The truth is, I’ve never felt the way I felt with you. Not with anyone. And that scared me more than the job, more than disappointing my dad, more than any headline I’ve ever written. But the distance between us didn’t fix that; it just made me miss you more.”

Tucker’s expression softened. His shoulders eased, and something in his jaw unclenched. He was quiet for a moment, long enough that I started second-guessing everything I had just said.

Then he spoke.

“You should’ve told me,” he said softly.

I nodded. “I know.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I was hurt and, yeah, a little scared. You were the first person I let in for a long time. And then, when you dropped the Florida bomb, it felt like maybe I’d been stupid to believe it meant something.”

My chest tightened.

He shook his head, mostly at himself. “ But I also didn’t give you a chance to explain. I just . . . cut you off, cold tofurkey. Like that would somehow make it easier.”

His dry, rueful laugh gave me hope. “Spoiler alert, it didn’t.”

For the first time in weeks, my smile reached my eyes.

“I missed you,” he said, eyes steady on mine now. “Every fucking day.”

I swallowed the knot in my throat and gave him a half-shrug. “We both kinda suck at this, huh?”

“Yeah,” he replied, in between nervous laughter. “Real bad.”

We stood there toe to toe, both of us radiating nerves. The air between us sizzled with everything we hadn’t said, everything we’d been too afraid to risk. But I was done holding back. I’d spent weeks wondering if I’d blown my shot with Tucker—if I’d ruined my chance at love.

And now here he was, standing in front of me, open, imperfect, and still somehow mine.

Neither of us knew what would happen tomorrow. But I knew how I felt here and now, and I wasn’t going to waste the moment.

“But there’s nobody I would rather suck at love with than you, Johnathan Tucker.” His eyes flared with desire when I stepped forward. And before I could talk myself out of it, I added, voice low and sure, “I love you.”

There, I said it. Out loud.

No hiding, no edits.

The silence between us stretched, just long enough to make my stomach twist. Then, after what felt like forever but was probably only a few seconds, his lips parted.

“I love you, too.”

His voice cracked, like the words had been sitting in his chest too long, too heavy to carry alone anymore.

“I never stopped.”

And just like that, I could breathe again. Hell, I felt like I could fly, knowing that Tucker would be there to catch me if I fell.

He rocked forward on his toes, brushing the weight of his erection against my thigh. My eyes nearly rolled back into my head when he dragged his fingers over my ear, scraping my scalp in that delicious toe-curling way that only he and the woman who cut my hair could do. The shit-eating grin on his face told me he knew exactly how much his touch affected me.

“Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way . . .,” he murmured, his grin crooked and knowing, like he’d just hit a walk-off and was still rounding the bases in my head.

I opened my mouth to fire back something witty, but then he leaned in, close enough that his breath grazed my cheek.

“Wanna come home with me?”

I froze for half a second, not because of what he’d asked, but because of how he’d asked it. This wasn’t just about sex—though, there would be sex; we had a lot of catching up to do—and we both knew it.

Tuck’s eyes searched mine, like he needed me to understand the real question he was posing: are you in this with me fully? Thankfully, and perhaps for the first time, we were both on the same page.

I stepped in until we were chest to chest, his heartbeat echoing against mine.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I do.”

He reached for my hand, and I let him take it. And then, before I could say another word, Tucker tugged me closer and kissed me.

Not a shy, testing kiss either.

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.