Page 12 of Switch Hitter

You know what I find funny?

You ran when I tried to kiss you.

But you’ve never run when I make you moan my name

Heat floods my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Will glances at me. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I lie. “Just a little nauseous.”

Will’s expression says he’s not buying it, and Jake’s gaze flicks over too, both of them calling me out on my shit without saying a word. I stare out the window as the plane lifts, my stomach floating for a second, my heartbeat too loud.

My phone buzzes again, and I look because I’m weak.

Emiliano

Cobre.

Just that.

I swallow hard, fingers trembling as I type one word before I can talk myself out of it.

Sean

Stop.

I hit send.

Immediate regret hits like a wave. Part of me wants to take it back but it’s out there now.

My phone buzzes almost instantly.

Emiliano

No.

A laugh escapes me, broken and panicked.

Of course it’s no.

Emiliano Guerrero doesn’t take orders from anyone, least of all me.

I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket like it’s going to ruin me.

Somewhere under the guilt, the fear and the denial, my body softens at the thought that he’s still trying.

That he cares enough to keep coming. That I’m not just a hookup in the dark. Like I’m something worth chasing.

I hate myself for wanting that.

I hate myself for wanting him and I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I don’t.

We’re back in San Jose before my body catches up to the fact that I survived another cross-country flight. The team bus drops us at the apartments, everyone scattering with duffels and jokes and plans for naps. I should head upstairs and take a long shower. I should eat something that isn’t hotel eggs or toast.

Instead, I get in my car and drive.

St. Anthony’s is tucked down the road from a school, and the parking lot has a few cars in the slots, all the usual suspects for Wednesday prayer group. The doors are open, and inside, it’s dim and cool, the air smelling like old wood, candle wax, and the faint sweetness of incense that clings to the walls like memory.