Page 2 of Switch Hitter

My fingers tighten around the fence until the metal bites, leaving little grooves in my skin. I press my forehead to the chain link for one stupid second, breathing slowly, as if I can pray my body back into obedience.

Just leave.

Go back to the clubhouse.

Be normal.

The problem is, normal never felt like this.

Footsteps echo behind me, unhurried. Not a teammate or the staff. Not even the stadium security. My spine goes tight anyway, like my body knows before my brain can catch up.

I don’t turn around.

I don’t have to.

The air changes warmer, and heavier, like someone just walked in and pulled all the oxygen toward himself.

Emiliano’s presence hits my back like a hand.

My throat tightens.

Of course he came.

Just like I waited.

I’m still here like a goddamn fool, hands on the fence and my heart in my mouth. His voice slides over my skin, calm as a prayer and twice as dangerous.

“You always do this,” he murmurs behind me, like we’re discussing pitch selection instead of the fact that I’m in an empty dugout. “You lose, and then you come looking for me.”

I bark a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “I didn’t come looking for you.”

He hums, unimpressed. “No?”

I feel him step closer. Not touching yet. Just close enough that my body tightens on instinct, recognizing the threat and the temptation as the same thing.

“You’re still in your uniform,” he adds, quiet, amused. “Still sweaty. Still mad.”

“I’m always mad when I’m around you,” I snap, staring straight ahead like if I don’t look at him, he can’t do this to me.

“Good,” he says. “That’s my favorite version of you.”

My fingers flex around the chain link. I should leave. I should do literally anything except stand here and let him talk to me like this.

But the thing about Emiliano Guerrero is he never rushes.

He doesn’t have to.

The motherfucker waits you out. Stares you down. Ballsy enough to throw the same pitch twice just to prove he can, just to see if you’ll flinch the second time.

And I always do.

“Go celebrate your win,” I spit. “Go take your little victory lap. Go get worshipped by the fans.”

He laughs softly, and it’s the most infuriating sound in the world because it means he’s enjoying this. My anger. My stubbornness. The way I can’t stop myself.

“I already celebrated,” he says, voice lowering. “Now I’m here for the part you like to pretend you don’t want.”

My jaw tightens.