Page 88 of Switch Hitter

Emiliano laughs and kisses my forehead, then my cheek, then my mouth, slow and steady.

"Well, I guess that’s a problem for our teams to deal with,” he murmurs against my lips. “We’re just there to play.”

FIFTEEN

SEAN

San Jose sure knows how to make a thing out of a thing.

And right now, the thing is us.

By the time the Mets come to San Jose, the kiss has been clipped, replayed, analyzed, memed, and turned into everyone’s favorite new problem. Packed stadium. Cameras everywhere.

Commentators trying to sound chill while they absolutely aren’t. People in the stands wave homemade signs like this is a rom-com and they’ve paid for front-row seats to the romance.

One sign says O’MALLEY + GUERRERO = , which makes me want to die.

Another says KISS HIM, METS!, which makes me want to commit arson.

And the worst one… the absolute crime?

SWITCH HITTERS FOR LOVE with a heart drawn around it.

Fucking kill me now.

I glare at it from the on-deck circle, and the fan holding it beams like I just personally blessed her. I adjust my batting gloves and pretend I don’t feel Emiliano’s eyes on me from the mound.

Except I do.

I feel him like gravity.

He’s in full uniform, Mets blue crisp against the green field, cap low, jaw set, and expression calm. Pitcher calm. The kind of calm that makes you feel like he already decided how this goes.

I hate him and I love him.

The crowd buzzes louder when the PA announcer cues my walk-up. The first notes of “Tear You Apart” by She Wants Revenge crawl out of the stadium speakers like a confession, dark and sexy. A little feral.

Very us.

And the stands react immediately because everyone knows.

That song isn’t subtle. It’s a statement. It’s me walking up to the plate and letting the whole baseball world watch me own what I used to be terrified to name. I step out of the on-deck circle and into the batter’s box with my pulse loud in my ears.

This isn’t just an at-bat.

It’s a spotlight.

It’s me, out and loud, while my boyfriend stands on the mound and pretends he’s not proud as hell.

I tap the plate once, settle my stance, and look out at him.

Emiliano stares in like he’s about to ruin my day.

He probably is.

He sets, and I smirk.

He smirks back, just a fraction.