Page 89 of Switch Hitter

The catcher gives the sign, and Emiliano nods once. Then he pauses, glove hiding his mouth like the cameras can’t read his thoughts.

But I know him.

He’s about to shit-talk.

“Pelirrojo,” he calls, his voice carrying just enough.

I lift my chin. “Mili.”

The crowd reacts instantly, with little oohs and laughter, like they’re watching two villains flirt at prom.

Emiliano’s eyes narrow. “You sure you wanna call me that out here?”

I shrug, exaggeratedly. “You’re my boyfriend. That’s what boyfriends do.”

The crowd loses it, and I can practically hear the commentators melting down in the booth.

His mouth tilts into the most lethal smile. “Okay. Then don’t cry when I strike you out.”

“You wish, baby.”

He laughs, low, and his voice drops into Spanish like it’s a private knife.

“Te voy a hacer ver bien pendejo,” he murmurs.

My stomach flips and I lean forward, gripping the bat tighter. “Come on, baby. I know you can do better than that.”

The catcher shifts like he’s trying not to laugh.

Emiliano’s eyes flash, and the crowd gets louder because they can feel the heat even if they don’t know the words.

He shakes his head slowly, like he’s disappointed in me.

“Cállate,” he says, but the edge of his smile gives him away. “Focus.”

“Oh, I’m focused,” I say sweetly.

He inhales, and then he throws.

A fastball that cuts to the side of the plate like it’s got an attitude problem.

Foul ball.

The ump shouts and Emiliano’s eyes stay locked on me like I’m a problem he’s delighted to solve. He steps off the rubber, glances toward first like he’s checking a runner, and then looks back at me.

“You always swing too early when you’re mad,” he calls.

I grin. “You always talk too much when you’re nervous.”

That makes him go still, because he is nervous, even if he’ll die before he admits it. He adjusts his grip on the ball, his calm face back in place.

“Nervous?” he repeats, voice light. “No, no. You’re the one that’s nervous. I’m having fun.”

I point the bat at him. “Keep running your mouth, Guerrero. I’ll put this in the bleachers.”

Emiliano’s smile goes sharp. “Promise?”

My cheeks heat, and he sets again.