Page 61 of Switch Hitter

“Hey,” I say softly.

Sean swallows. “Hi.”

His eyes flick around, paranoid that someone will see.

“Relax,” I murmur. “No one’s looking. Actually, wait a second…”

Sure enough, his little gang of friends is peeking around the corner. Vaughn catches my eye and smirks, then a few of the guys tug him back, and they disappear.

“Never mind… must have been nothing.”

He huffs a laugh. “This is New York. Everyone’s always looking.”

“Then let them,” I say, and I brush my knuckles against his wrist subtly. “You ready?”

“For what?” he asks, his voice tight.

“For my family,” I smirk. “More specifically, my two sisters. They can’t wait to meet you.”

“I have three younger sisters, so I’m pretty good on that front.”

I lean in, voice low, just for him.

“I hope you like spicy food, pretty boy,” I murmur. “Because my mom cooks like love is a full-contact sport.”

Sean closes his eyes like he’s praying. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

“Maybe,” I say, guiding him toward the car. “But you’ll die fed.”

He shoots me a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

I grin. “Un poquito.”

Then I soften, my thumb brushing his wrist.

“But I’m proud of you,” I add quietly. “You’re still here.”

Sean’s throat works.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’m still here.”

TWELVE

SEAN

Emiliano’s car smells like him. Not necessarily like his cologne, not air freshener, just… Emiliano. Warm and clean, like he lives inside his own skin without apologizing for it. The city outside the windows is a blur of headlights and storefronts, and my body’s still humming from the game, from the adrenaline, and the way he sat in those stands like a quiet promise.

He drives one-handed, relaxed, like Queens streets are a language he speaks fluently. His other hand rests on the console, fingers tapping lightly to the beat of the music softly playing.

I sit in the passenger seat with my phone in my lap and my throat full of nerves.

We’re on our way to his mom’s, to his sisters. To the loud, warm Mexican family that already feels like a miracle I don’t deserve. And my brain, because it hates me, finally chooses now to remember something important.

My family chat. The one I silenced and haven’t opened it since I sent the message.

Since I dropped the grenade into the middle of their Easter plans and walked away like I wasn’t shaking. I swallow hard and unlock my phone.

Emiliano glances over. “You okay?”