Page 7 of Switch Hitter

Instead, he leans in.

Slow and careful, like he’s going to kiss me.

The softness of it detonates something inside me.

Panic.

No. No, no, no.

Not that.

We don’t do tender or intimate.

I jerk back so fast I nearly trip over my own feet.

Emiliano freezes, surprise flickering across his face.

“Sean—”

“Don’t,” I snap, voice ragged, buttoning up my pants and tightening my belt. “Don’t do that.”

His brows knit. “Do what?”

“Kiss me,” I spit, like the words taste like sin.

Emiliano’s expression hardens for half a second, hurt flashing hot behind his eyes.

Then his voice goes quiet.

“Why?” he asks. “You’ll let me do all that… but you won’t let me kiss you?”

The guilt roars back to life because the kiss means something. It means choice. It means admitting I’m not just here for hate and release.

I don’t answer him; I can’t.

So I do what I always do.

I run, shoving past him, heart in my throat, hands shaking as I yank open the dugout door.

Behind me, Emiliano says my name once, sharp.

“Sean!”

I don’t look back.

If I look back, I’ll stay.

And if I stay, I’ll have to face what this is.

I’m not ready to be that kind of man.

TWO

SEAN

Hotel rooms are the worst kind of quiet, especially when you’re alone. It’s not as peaceful as you imagine after a brutal loss. I feel trapped in a room with bad carpet that’s absorbed a thousand bad decisions and still hasn’t forgiven anyone for them.

I stand under the shower until the water goes lukewarm, scrubbing at my skin like I can take the night off me. Like it’ll erase the feel of his hands laced with mine, the chain link biting into my palms, his mouth at my ear, and the way he said Cobre like it belonged to him.