Summary:
Brady Donovan
With a baseball scholarship to Easton University and awesome family and friends, my life is pretty golden. Except, things have never come together for me in the romance department. Until Kellan Crawford walks onto the field as the team’s newest bat boy. Bells and whistles go off in my body, and just like that, I’m totally crushing on a guy for the first time in my life. Too bad he’s the coach’s son and officially off-limits.
Kellan Crawford
I’m working toward my statistics degree, so landing the bat-boy position with the Easton U Pirates is right up my alley. It keeps me close to the action on the field, even if that means hauling equipment, picking up sweaty jockstraps, and putting up with the players’ antics. My dad’s the coach, and his number-one rule is never to play favorites…which probably includes getting too friendly with the team captain. But Brady Donovan’s annoyingly perfect smile and protective nature are making that nearly impossible.
When something shifts between us at an away game, everything is thrown off-kilter. Donovan’s never been with a guy before, and I certainly don’t want to be his test case. But I can’t seem to help myself. He’s sweet and hot and somehow charms the baseball pants right off me. If Coach ever catches wind of this, he’ll bench us both. Disappointing my dad might kill me, but so would losing the guy who makes my heart pound harder than a home run in the bottom of the ninth.
So much for not playing favorites.
Summary:
Dominic Girard
My final baseball season with the Easton U Pirates feels bittersweet. I'd like to go out on a high note, graduate, and focus on the family business. But a certain pitcher is making senior year a challenge. Not only because Maclain is stubborn as hell, but because he makes me feel things I never have about another guy. With each snarky comment and hard-won grin, he reveals a little more of himself, and before I know it, I'm in over my head.
Mason Maclain
I'll be graduating college this year, which also means the end of baseball, a sport I've played my entire life. It feels like a significant chapter is coming to a close, leaving behind a void I'm unwilling to face. Something else I don't want to face? The impossibly charming Pirates catcher, whose quick wit and killer smirk poke holes in all my defenses. With each lingering look and quiet exchange, I want to push him away and pull him closer at the same time. I've never felt this intense draw before, and there's no way I'll ever admit it.
When Coach proposes a team-building activity to improve our chemistry on the field, little does he know things are heating up behind the scenes as well. A flicker of a connection sparks into a firestorm, and soon Girard and I are experiencing things for the first time—together. But outside the haven of our hotel room, reality infringes all too soon. I'm clinging to my fraying relationship with my dad, and for Girard, coming out is still scary, loving family or not. Resisting the pull to Girard seems futile, but I struggle at every turn. Any longer and I'll lose the only person who makes my pulse thud quicker than a fastball over home plate.
There's a pitcher-and-catcher joke in there somewhere.
Walking in on my best friend mid-hookup isn’t supposed to turn me on, but it’s only sex, right? Finding intimacy is a bit discouraging with a neurological disorder that affects my legs. But Elliot gets it—gets me. He’s my ride or die and always supportive. Always protective too. Not because he thinks I’m incapable, but because he cares.
When I invite him to my brother’s wedding, he becomes the ultimate date. And when we decide to blow off a little steam with each other, I’m trusting it won’t ruin our friendship.
Except it becomes more than jerking off after late-night study sessions…more than innocent touches, kisses, and sleeping in each other’s arms.
Falling for my best friend is scary, but Elliot checks all my boxes, the perfect score that was right in front of me all along.
**Perfect Score is a low-angst, best-friends-to-lovers romance and a complete standalone in the Easton U Pirates Universe.
Note: This 36K novella was once part of a promotional giveaway. No new content has been added.
Bat Boy #1
1
Brady
“How many games are left in the season?” Dad asked, scooping rice onto Mom’s plate from a large bowl in the center of the table.
“Twenty,” my sixteen-year-old brother, Ricky, answered without hesitation. He knew every single thing about my college baseball experience, from the schedule to the stats, and that had been the case ever since he caught the sports bug in elementary school. He absorbed baseball any way he could get it, from televised games during the major-league season to watching from the stands at my home games. Thankfully, my parents were supportive, the Easton University field was only about a forty-minute drive from my childhood home, and they enjoyed the sport as much as we did.
“How many of those are away games?” Dad asked with a smirk, knowing the answer would be forthcoming.
I kept my lips zipped tight as Ricky replied, “Eleven.”
“That’s right,” I said, then shoveled a bite of Mom’s stir-fry into my mouth.
Our official season began in February and lasted until the end of May, with workouts and practices beginning in the fall. We normally played one game during the week, a doubleheader on Saturdays, and a single game on Sundays. If it was an away game, we traveled by bus and sometimes stayed overnight, which led to all sorts of shenanigans that players would catch hell for if Coach ever found out, like sneaking girls into their rooms.
“We’ll be at your game against Turner State.” Ricky’s eyes rounded with excitement.
“Cool.” I high-fived him across the table. “Maybe you can help me with grounders after dinner.”
He fell silent and dug into his rice after that, careful to avoid all the pea pods on his plate and determined to get dinner over with so we could spend time together in the backyard. It was either that or building something together on Minecraft. My parents had put him in Little League once, but he would pick dandelions instead of focusing on catching the balls in the outfield. He’d rather watch sports than play them and, of course, discuss stats with whoever listened.
Mom winked at me, and I could tell she appreciated the effort I made with Ricky, but it really was a no-brainer. During the school year, I visited as much as my schedule would allow, and now that I rented a house near campus with two of my teammates, they were free to visit me as often as they liked.
“Think the Pirates have a shot at the finals this year?” Dad asked, referring to the NCAA Division II baseball tournament that took place after the season ended. It began with double-elimination brackets, leading up to the championship game, and Coach Crawford always played with that goal in mind. The Pirates were ejected early last year, but this time he thought we had a stronger team and a better shot. We worked hard because none of us liked disappointing Coach. It was as bad as disappointing our parents.
“We’d have to blow through regionals first.”
“You can do it,” my brother said with a huge smile, and it warmed my heart. “Besides, the team’s batting percentages have definitely improved this season.”
Fixating on facts was a feature of Ricky’s autism, and many times as a kid, I’d get super frustrated with my brother, which I felt guilty about as an adult. But as I got older, I understood him better—as well as his spectrum disorder—and knew that he just saw the world through a different lens, sometimes a cooler one.
Neuroatypical was the word I’d heard his new therapist using.
Honestly, my parents were awesome and had always supported my dreams, even when jealousy would rear its ugly head. I regretted those earlier stomping-and-pouting episodes when Ricky and his therapy appointments would take up most of their time. But the improvements he’d made, especially speech-wise, helped me appreciate what a struggle it had been for all three of them. It was the reason I stayed out of trouble—well, mostly. So I wouldn’t put any more pressure on my parents.
My best friend, Trent Hollister, called me The Golden Child, and not only for my unruly blond waves. He’d known me since grade school, we’d always played ball together, and he understood why I toed the line. No way I’d want my family to have any more setbacks. I’d worked hard enough to get a scholarship to Easton U so they didn’t have to worry about finances.
“Kellan says your fielding percentage is up too,” Ricky said once he swallowed a decent-sized piece of chicken, knowing Mom would urge him to clean his plate. This was one of the few meals he wasn’t as picky about.
“Did he now?” I replied in as nonchalant a voice as I could muster, even as my stomach gave me that strange, swooping feeling. It secretly thrilled me that Ricky discussed my stats with Kellan, the team’s resident brainiac-slash-bat-boy. Slash-adorable-as-hell-college-junior.
“Kellan will be there, right?” Ricky asked. Kellan always sought Ricky out and talked to him for way longer than he had to, and I’d be eternally grateful for that.
“As far as I know.” He was present at every home game and a lot of away games too, even though he wasn’t required to be. But it was obvious Coach depended on him a lot, for stuff that went above and beyond organizing the equipment. “I’m sure he’ll say hello if he sees you in the stands.”
Ricky fist-bumped the air. “Awesome.”
“Somebody has a crush on the coach’s son,” Mom said, and my head whipped up, my cheeks instantly heating like I’d stepped inside a sauna. Had I said my thoughts aloud?
“I don’t have crushes on boys, Ma. Only girls,” Ricky said in his matter-of-fact tone, and I breathed out because who knew how close to my truth they would get? I’d always wondered what my parents would think about my crush on Kellan Crawford.
“I only meant that you like Kellan’s personality—and who wouldn’t?” Mom playfully rolled her eyes. “Or maybe his brain. Speaking of brains…” Mom zeroed in on me. “How are your grades?”
She worried I’d fall behind as baseball season ramped up, but I was finally getting into my core classes in Exercise Physiology and enjoying them way more. The schedule afforded players time to keep up with the course load during the week, and most guys studied on the bus if they had any pressing tests or assignments.
Not that my dream didn’t include tryouts for a minor-league team, and then shooting for the big time under the lights. But I had to be smart and get a degree in something that interested me, in case that idea fell through. I wasn’t the only player with stars in his eyes, and there were only so many slots.
“My grades are fine, Mom.” It was true I’d struggled sophomore year with calculus and nearly failed the class. If I’d known a certain someone a bit better back then, I might’ve asked him to tutor me.
Stop thinking about Kellan Crawford. That would surely not go over well with Coach… But the truth was, it was Kellan who’d made me realize that I was very much into guys. I’d dated a handful of girls over the years, and never understood why I wasn’t as excited about sex as my friends were. Not that I was never turned on, just never felt that intense need—or whatever it was—to be around someone all the time.
Until Kellan Crawford walked onto the field as Coach’s new bat boy. The last guy in that position had gone off to college after assisting the team through his senior year of high school. Coach likely thought his son was the perfect choice since he lived near campus, knew all his dad’s habits, and was amazing with sports stats—was even going for a Statistics degree. He helped his dad with a little of everything, including unofficially analyzing the numbers from our data recorders and giving his opinion on the roster.
God, Kellan hated the bat-boy label. I could tell by how he ground his teeth every time our pitcher, Maclain, snapped his fingers at him like some jackass. And maybe also because most bat boys were younger, though there were some semi-famous older ones on major-league teams. Besides, what sports fanatic would turn down that job? Kellan was definitely much more than what some of the guys reduced him to—in fact, he was more like a clubhouse manager—but their attitude was one of the reasons I sometimes felt protective of him.
First time I saw him up close was during a fall practice, and it felt like I’d been struck by lightning—okay, cheesy, I know.
He kept adjusting his baseball cap as his chocolate-brown hair fell messily into his eyes, and when he’d bend over to retrieve a foul ball near the first base line, my eyes sometimes got stuck on his lean body and tight ass—and holy hell, that had never happened before. Never in the context of a guy. At least, I didn’t think it had.
“Brady?” Dad said, and I could tell it wasn’t the first time.
I shook my head to snap out of it. Jesus.
“Sorry, what’d you say?”
Mom stared at me, her brows furrowed. “I asked if you wanted to bring leftovers home to your roommates.”
“Is that even a real question?” I said with a laugh. We lived off takeout and leftovers.
After helping Mom clear the table, I went outside to play catch with Ricky, and he gushed about the grand slam he and Dad watched on TV last night.
By the time I drove back to my apartment, it was early evening. Hollister and I had decided to rent a place close to the university. At first it was just the two of us, and then he’d suggested Maclain could live there too, even if he were a pain in the ass some of the time. Okay, most of the time. But having him occupy the third bedroom helped pay the rent and groceries.
Miraculously, I found a parking spot right in front of our apartment, which almost never happened, and went inside with the leftovers.
“Please tell me you brought food,” Hollister said, eyeing the bag I was holding.
“Of course.” I pushed the door closed with my foot.
“Fuck yes.” Maclain placed his cell down. “We were about to order delivery, and I am so sick of pizza.”
“I hear you.” They followed me to the kitchen, where Hollister grabbed plates from the cupboard, and they dug right in.
I cracked open a soda, then headed to my room to get a jump-start on my biology assignment. Except I had trouble concentrating, so I decided on a shower instead.
After I adjusted the water pressure, I sighed in relief as I grabbed my cock and tried hard not to make any noise—nothing stayed secret for long in this house, even in my own room, and especially not in the bathroom we all shared. But jerking off would definitely help me relax enough to study.
My fist tightened as I stroked myself, picturing a certain set of hazel eyes that ensnared me in their web before flitting away. Kellan liked to remain invisible during games, afterward too, and in reality, bat boys were supposed to fade into the background as they helped gather equipment and took care of things in the clubhouse.
But I’d always wondered what it would be like to see him in a different light, where he was totally himself and could completely let go. I enjoyed those little glimpses inside him, which was why I teased him so much. His cheeks would turn a rosy pink even as he rolled his eyes.
Still, it felt wrong to be thinking about him this way. He was the coach’s son, after all. Before my erection fizzled, I tried picturing someone else—anyone else—I found attractive. But it was no use. No one else made me feel like this, like my skin was buzzing. Better to just get it out of my system so I could continue acting chill around him.
So I closed my eyes and imagined Kellan’s smooth, lean chest—I’d only gotten a peek here and there when he’d change in and out of a team shirt, but it was enough to fuel my fantasies. My fist flew as I pictured us nude in the locker room together, maybe even during a shower, which would never happen, but a guy could dream.
Popping a woody in front of my teammates had always proved disastrous. It happened every now and again for most of us, and the guys loved poking fun. It was enough to keep me nice and soft most game days, that was for sure.
But now, picturing what Kellan’s cock might look like fully erect and surrounded by a patch of dark, wiry hair at his groin was enough to make me shoot all over my hand. I tilted my head against the tile, wondering how I’d never felt this—this intense feeling about another person, about another guy. Was I going through latent puberty or something? Fucking hell.
Home Plate #2
Prologue
Ten Months Ago
Girard
I set down the dumbbell and ran a wrist across my sweaty forehead. The university weight room was pretty empty this time of morning, with most students off to classes. And though I recognized a couple of guys from other Easton U sports teams, I preferred to work out by myself. I enjoyed pumping iron when there were fewer distractions. Coach Crawford encouraged us to keep in shape and log in our workouts during baseball season, but our schedule was tight as it was, with at least three games a week and one practice. So having plenty of room to myself on the mats was just the sort of atmosphere I welcomed.
My neck prickled with awareness, and that was when I noticed Mason Maclain clocking in time with his roommates, Hollister and Donovan.
“Yo, Girard,” Hollister called out. Donovan waved, but Maclain barely made eye contact. It was always that way between Maclain and me—we only talked when necessary, and kept it to a minimum even when we were part of a larger group, which was pretty much always since we were all players on the Easton U Pirates.
I hoped they stayed on the other side of the room near the leg machines so I didn’t have to interact very much, and as they settled in, it looked like that was exactly their plan. I had a class in a couple hours and needed this workout to relieve some stress, and not only from the guy across the way.
But damned if Maclain didn’t make all my nerve endings buzz awake every time we were in the same room—and not always in a good way. Maclain was the most frustrating person on the planet, so of course he had to be the very person I had good chemistry with on the field. Fuck my life.
I watched briefly as Maclain slid behind one of the machines, the muscles in his legs bulging as they met resistance. When his arrogant gaze connected with mine across the row of treadmills, a little shiver rolled through me, one I couldn’t easily explain. I was a straight guy with a girlfriend, so it couldn’t possibly be attraction—at least I didn’t think so. I’d never thought that way about another guy in my entire life.
I averted my eyes before he noticed how he affected me, but not before giving him a quick once-over. Maclain wasn’t as ripped as me, most pitchers weren’t. But there was something about the guy that had always drawn my attention.
Maybe it was the fact that his prickly exterior didn’t match what I saw buried deep in his eyes—a barely restrained loneliness and bald need. For what, I wasn’t certain, because he’d never admit it in a million years. Except, the entire team knew by now that his dad was a dick who promised to attend his games but never showed, so there was that. And I felt bad for him, especially since he seemed to be filled with such hope at the beginning of each inning, only to be leveled by the bitter disappointment he had trouble disguising throughout the game. It seeped into his moods and interactions, and if he recognized that some people shied away from him because of it, he didn’t seem to care.
Still, maybe that was why I always gave him the benefit of the doubt. I also figured if I could somehow get to know him better, it might help us click on the field more, given he was our star pitcher and I was the Pirates’ catcher. Plus, I was damned curious what else made the guy tick. He sure didn’t make that easy…
Though I’d confess, the few times I’d been privy to one of his genuine smiles, it felt like a swath of direct, warm sunlight that always improved the mood. Probably because he didn’t give them freely or often, and Maclain in a decent headspace led to a good pitching game. That definitely had to be the reason.
My girlfriend barely tolerated him and even complained that I let Maclain get under my skin. For some reason, I got under his too—except for the times we’d totally meshed on the field, resulting in a big win. Then it felt amazing.
I turned my back and got lost in working out for the next hour, and by the time I was ready to hit the locker room, the weight room was empty. My teammates were no doubt already in class, and I was glad to have this time to myself before heading to my own.
My feet faltered as I passed by the shower area and spotted Maclain standing directly under one of the spigots. Rivulets of water rolled down the smooth skin of his back to his perfectly shaped ass. I’d seen it plenty of times in the Pirates’ clubhouse. In fact, all of us had seen each other’s junk as we changed and showered after games. But staring was a different thing altogether. And being here alone, without fear of repercussions, I looked my fill at his rock-hard thighs and calves, wondering if that made me a creeper or an admirer.
When he angled his body sideways, I noticed his eyes were screwed shut and his hand was fisting his cock. His very erect cock. I froze, the air getting trapped in my lungs. And holy shit, my body’s response to him was completely perplexing. It had been for a long time if I was being honest. I didn’t understand it before, but I supposed I was forced to now as my shaft began filling with blood and protruding against my thin sweats.
Still, I didn’t back away, baffled but entranced by his tight fist beating his meat into submission. Okay, I needed to leave before this got ugly. And even more confusing.
As I turned to go, I heard my name. At least I thought I did.
“Oh fuck, Girard.” His voice sounded hoarse and irritated.
Holy shit, was he calling me out?
But when I heard him groan, I glanced back just in time to watch him unload his jizz down the drain. All my nerve endings buzzed to life like a stadium under the lights, and I couldn’t move even if I tried. My feet were heavy, as if I were standing in drying cement, and my cock was really fucking hard.
Maclain opened his eyes and twisted the shower handle, then briefly glanced in my direction. He blinked rapidly, in stunned silence, his mouth hanging open as his chest heaved from his powerful orgasm.
It was as if all the sound in the room was blotted out as we stared at each other. Gawked was more like it.
And then suddenly everything was loud in the hollow space as his face contorted into a sneer. “The fuck you looking at?”
“I… Nothing. I thought I heard someone call my name.”
“Sure as hell wasn’t me,” he rumbled, reaching for his towel and drying off, ignoring what just happened, except…his hands were shaking.
My brain was all fuzzy, like maybe I’d imagined it or wished it into being. Was that even possible? What else could explain how goddamned uncomfortable it felt between us right then? I thrust aside the thought that Maclain had jacked off while thinking of me. It didn’t seem plausible, not where he was concerned.
“Yeah, okay.” My cheeks were on fire as I stumbled away. I couldn’t get out the door fast enough, and when I finally reached my car in the parking lot, I still felt too close. Too heated. Too…everything.
I growled in frustration as I turned the key in the ignition and got the fuck out of there. Maybe with some distance, everything would begin making sense. If not, the rest of our season was about to get awkward as shit.
Perfect Score #3
1
Elliot
After carefully closing the door behind me, I tiptoed into our apartment, remembering that my roommate, Morgan, was having a hookup with someone he’d met on an app. I’d seen him grinning and texting with someone all week but sort of hoped it didn’t actually play out. That might sound shitty, but Morgan didn’t have much luck on apps, even when he’d thought the guy sounded decent enough. God, listen to me. Like the dude was interviewing for a job instead of a one-night stand.
But Morgan was special—and he’d kick my ass if he heard me say that. I didn’t mean he was special because of his disability—he had Spastic Paraplegia—but because anyone who was lucky to spend enough time with him would see how cool and unique and addicting he was to be around. At least that was how I felt.
We’d met through the gay alliance club our moms had signed us up for in sixth grade, and I knew we’d be friends for life. He hadn’t known about his neurological disorder back then. The doctors hadn’t guessed it either, though he was always clumsy and didn’t like being barefoot—something about the floor feeling strange on his soles. His symptoms progressed gradually, his coordination worsening in high school, and I was glad I could be there for him when Morgan needed me most.
Thankfully, I’d texted Morgan first to ask if he wanted food, and he’d texted back our code word for hookups: BUSY. I’d tried to stay out as late as I could, but I figured if I went straight to my room and put my earbuds in, I’d be safe. No way did I want to hear any random sounds coming from my roommate, and not because he wasn’t adorable, but because I didn’t want to get turned on. It’d been a minute since I’d hooked up with somebody too.
We’d only begun sharing an apartment near campus our junior year at Easton U, so experiencing each other’s hookups instead of hearing about the aftermath was new and pretty fucking strange.
I made the mistake of stopping in the kitchen to pour myself a glass of cold water and nearly choked on the cool liquid when Morgan’s bedroom door flew open and out walked a dark-haired guy, hunched over as he struggled to shove his feet into his sneakers. I could tell the hookup went badly because he didn’t even greet me, just mumbled something and fled.
When Morgan walked into the room a moment later, his eyebrows drawn together in frustration, I wanted to kill the guy.
“Tell me you kicked him out because he was a complete tool,” I said in a warning tone.
“I wish.” He pushed back a strand of blond hair that’d fallen against his forehead. “He clearly is because as soon as I removed my sneakers, he was outta there, making an excuse about forgetting something he had to do.”
“Foiled by leg braces again.” I frowned, looking at his feet and seeing them bare. Without his supportive devices, his reflexes were unsteady, as evidenced by how he hung on to the edge of the kitchen counter. His arches were super high, and one of his soles was more bowed and twisted than the other. His balance had worsened over the years, which was one of the first indications that something was wrong.
“We’ve had this discussion before,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Even the least obvious disabilities freak able-bodied people out.”
“Maybe you didn’t catch the warning signs with this one. You used to be pickier,” I said, remembering how he’d had stuff he specifically looked for in a guy. “Someone like you,” he’d tease, “except I’d actually want to fuck him,” and I’d pretend to be offended. But it was pretty much the same for me. Neither of us was willing to cross that line, though. We’d heard of others who’d done the friends-to-lovers thing and ruined everything.
“I can’t afford to be picky right now. Not when I wanna get laid.”
“That’s not you,” I chastised like I was his older and wiser sibling or something. But I couldn’t help it, not when it came to his safety—and his feelings. “What’s come over you lately?”
“I’m sexually frustrated!”
“C’mere, I’ll cuddle you,” I said, gripping his shoulder. “I know that’s all you want.”
“No, this time, I want actual dick.” He pushed out of my grasp, headed for the cupboard, and retrieved another glass.
“Well, you got some…” I spread out my arms. “Only in personality form.”
He laughed, which was my goal, and it loosened the knot in my stomach.
My best friend really was a trooper. Our differences stood out through high school, but somehow, we’d made it work. I loved baseball and was in the lineup on one team or another all my life. But senior year of high school, I’d torn the rotator cuff in my throwing arm in a stupid stunt with a skateboard and had never recovered. Wasn’t like I was going to the big leagues or anything. But I could’ve at least tried for a scholarship. So now I just watched from the stands.
Morgan had never liked sports, hated gym class, and once he was diagnosed, it became evident why. The neurological disorder weakened his legs and affected his coordination. He got fitted for braces our junior year in high school so he could manage the stairs and, well, life.
Morgan always blew it off, but I knew how much it bothered him to be seen as different from everyone else. It took him a bit of time—grieving, his therapist called it—before he accepted it without qualms. He now saw his disability as part of him, said it made him unique, and once even told me he was grateful for it because it shaped his worldview. Like I said, he was cool and special as fuck.
We’d always bonded over stuff like video games and stupid Netflix series and, of course, being queer. It was a vulnerable time in our lives, but once I started exercising to strengthen my shoulder and encouraged Morgan to work on his upper body too, we got stronger together, and that was pretty cool. Likely, it also helped me decide to pursue a doctorate in physical therapy at the university. I’d been taking the prerequisite courses and would apply before graduating with my health science degree. The program would take me an additional three years, plus obtaining a license to practice, but I thought it was worth it. It was the only thing that really excited me, so I figured I was on the right path.
“How was the game?” Morgan asked once he’d downed his glass of water. “Did the Pirates win?”
“Yep.” I tried to attend as many home games as I could, especially since I knew some of the guys playing, like Vickers, who was one of the starting pitchers this year. We’d played little league together, some charity events, and were on rival teams in high school.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Did your crush hit a homerun for you again today?”
“He’s not my crush,” I scoffed. “Ramirez has a hot ass in baseball pants. What can I say?”
“That you’re as hard up as me?” he said, and we laughed. “Maybe Ramirez is closeted too, like Jasmine’s roommate was.”
Morgan worked at the university bookstore with Jasmine. She used to live with her best friend, Kellan, former Pirates’ batboy, now turned team statistician. Kellan fell in love with the team captain and resident shortstop, Brady Donovan, and they’d initially kept their budding romance secret because Kellan was the coach’s son.
“Kellan wasn’t closeted. Donovan was,” I pointed out.
“Weren’t the pitcher and the catcher too?” Morgan asked, referring to Maclain and Girard and trying to get his facts straight about all the drama that had followed the team the previous years. After graduation, Maclain and Girard had moved to the apartment above the Girards’ bowling alley, and they’d recently gotten engaged.
When I nodded, Morgan said, “That’s so hot.”
“And suddenly baseball just got more interesting for Morgan,” I teased. “Maybe you can attend some of the games and point out hot asses in baseball pants too.”
He scrunched his nose. “No thanks.”
I figured as much. Morgan would take his computer and programming languages any day of the week. He loved gaming too, and sometimes we’d sit across the room from each other, creating the same world. These were some of my favorite moments with him because his brain was brilliant and his smile contagious.
“So since your jackass hookup bolted, how about we watch a movie and snuggle in bed?”
It was a thing we did. In fact, one of the requirements for anyone we dated—not that either of us had any real success with relationships—was that they had to be cool with our friendship. My boyfriend in high school was jealous of Morgan, and I couldn’t dump his ass fast enough when he made fun of him one day. I never told Morgan the reason, but he’d probably guessed.
“Make some popcorn while I take a shower,” Morgan said. “I still smell like his cologne after he had his tongue down my throat.”
I made a face. “Does that mean we need to change your sheets?”
“We didn’t get that far, remember?”
I blew out a breath. “Good, because your bed is way cozier.”
“You just need a better mattress,” he replied, and he was right. Mine was a hand-me-down that was lumpy in certain spots. Mom had sent me one of those foam mattress toppers for Christmas, and that certainly helped, but it was more fun to hang out in Morgan’s room.
I pretended to pout. “But then I wouldn’t have a best friend to cuddle.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And that’s what you love about me,” I countered.
Morgan rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately.”
I heard him get in the shower while I placed the bag of popcorn in the microwave and got down a large bowl from the cupboard.
I changed into nylon shorts, took out the popcorn bag without burning my fingers, dumped it into the bowl, then waited for Morgan in his room. When I saw his discarded braces and sneakers in the corner of the room, my gut tightened again as I thought about his hookup—or lack thereof.
Hunkering down with Morgan was one of my favorite things in the world. That asshat didn’t know what he was missing.
Christina's sarcastic view of the world doesn't always match up with her life as a romance author but at least you know her characters will be flawed and real. She writes steamy slow burns with plenty of swoon, because who doesn't melt for those small, tender moments or grand, sweeping gestures?
She has books published in different sub-genres of romance, but mostly with LGBTQ characters because representation matters and everyone deserves a happily-ever-after.
You can find more info on her website. From there you can link to her Facebook reader group called The Swoon Room as well as her IG account and newsletter.
Bat Boy #1
Home Plate #2
Perfect Score #3
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