Page 75 of Switch Hitter

I’m outside.

Saturday night’s game ended in another blowout win, but it’s the fact that Sean is waiting for me that has my stomach in knots. I don’t even try to pretend I’m calm. I’m out the doors in ten minutes, overnight bag on my shoulder, cap low, scanning the crowd until I spot him near the curb.

Sean is leaning against his car like he’s trying to look casual, but his jaw is tight and his eyes are too bright. He sees me and something in his shoulders drops.

Relief.

Like my presence makes his nervous system unclench. It’s the same for me when I see him. He takes my bag without asking and puts it in the backseat, then opens the passenger door for me.

“Hey,” I say softly when he raises his eyebrow at me.

Sean swallows. “Hi.”

His eyes keep shifting from my eyes to my mouth, looking like he wants to kiss me. But there are people around. Cameras. Phones. So I do the small thing; I gently slide my hand over his. He flinches, then leans into it.

“You ready?” I ask.

Sean huffs a shaky laugh. “No.”

I smile. “Me either. Real shit, I’m nervous.”

He glares. “If you’re nervous, we’re both fucked. I was counting on you being the level-headed one.”

“Nobody's getting fucked, so get in the car, pelirrojo. We’ve got a drive.”

“Don’t call me that,” he mutters.

I lean in, keeping my voice low. “You love it.”

Sean’s cheeks are pink. “Shut up.”

I grin and slide into the passenger seat. The second the doors close, Sean exhales, and he starts the car and pulls away from the stadium, city lights blurring past, and for a moment it’s just us.

Not Mets. Not Coyotes.

Just two men in a car, driving toward a defining moment in their relationship.

Monterey feels like a different planet compared to New York. The air changes first; it’s cleaner. The ocean smell crawls into the car like a calm hand on your chest. Not going to lie, I love it. Sean drives like he’s trying not to think. He keeps both hands on the wheel.

Ten and two, like a teenager who just learned how to drive. I watch him from the side, the way the dashboard lights catch the freckles across his nose and the way his lips press together when he’s overthinking.

“You’re quiet,” I say.

“I’m trying not to have a panic attack.” He huffs, then steals a quick glance at me. “If I weren't the one driving right now, my leg would be bouncing and I’d be breathing into a paper bag.”

I smile. “You want me to drive so you can crash out before we get there?”

Sean shoots me a look. “No. Don’t encourage me.”

I reach over and rest my hand on his thigh.

“You’re going to be okay,” I tell him, then run my fingers through his hair.

Sean swallows. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like you’re sure,” he mutters.