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 The facade of the "perfect couple" becomes increasingly difficult to maintain as private desires begin to bleed into the public boardroom. While they manage to hold the line during meetings and presentations, the tension is a live wire waiting to snap. Every time they are forced to play their assigned roles, the contrast between the cold professional veneer and the scorching reality behind closed doors creates a dissonance that is impossible to ignore. They are playing with fire in an environment built on ice, and the closer they get, the more likely the entire structure is to collapse.

Dominic

The Unravelling

The sun spills into the penthouse, cold and clinical. I hate the light—it’s too exposing, too clean for the chaotic, dark mess I feel burning beneath my skin. I’ve spent my entire life perfecting the art of detachment, of viewing people as assets to be managed or obstacles to be overcome. Alexis was supposed to be a contract. A business arrangement. Simple. Clean. Effective.

I find her at the kitchen island, staring into a cup of coffee like it’s a portal to another life.

I’m dressed for a workout, but the gray sweatpants and black tee feel like a costume. My body is tight, coiled like a spring that’s been wound too far. I walk over, my movements deliberate, and place a hand on the counter near hers. The distance between us is negligible, yet it feels like a canyon. Her gaze snaps up, and for a second, I see the reflection of my own frustration in her eyes.

"You didn't sleep," I say. My voice is steady, but my patience is fraying at the edges.

"Hard to sleep when the rules have been incinerated," she replies, her voice rasping against the quiet.

I let out a low, humorless laugh. The sound is harsh in the silent kitchen. "The rules were a safety net, Alexis. You’re the one who decided to cut the rope. You knew exactly what you were doing the moment you walked into my penthouse. Don't act like this is a surprise."

She stares at me, and I see the exact moment she realizes I’m not the untouchable billionaire right now. I’m just a man losing his mind, trapped in a performance that stopped feeling like a script the moment she touched me. I reach out, my fingers hooking into her hair, and tilt her head back. It’s an aggressive, possessive gesture, a direct violation of the professional boundaries I’ve spent years constructing. I should pull away. I should walk out the door and let the professional distance return, but I don't. 

I can’t.

"We do exactly what we’ve been doing," I murmur, my voice dropping to a gravelly register. "We maintain the facade. We show our faces at the charity galas, the press conferences, and the dinners. We play the part of the perfect, untouchable couple. But the moment we are behind closed doors? The facade ends."

"And then?" she whispers, her breath catching as my thumb brushes her lower lip.

"Then," I say, and I don't bother hiding the hunger in my tone, "we see exactly how real we can make this."

The day is a brutal, calculated blur of boardrooms and forced pleasantries. I handle the mergers, I crush the competition, and I sign the contracts, but none of it feels real. My mind is a constant loop of her. I sit at the head of the conference table, my eyes ostensibly fixed on the spreadsheets, but every fiber of my being is focused on the thought of her.

The day is a brutal, calculated blur of press conferences and forced pleasantries. I handle the mergers, I crush the competition, and I sign the contracts, but none of it feels real. My mind is a constant loop of her. I’m currently stuck in my office, supposedly reviewing the quarterly projections, but all I can do is watch Alexis as she paces the length of the rug, refining the PR narrative for my next public appearance.

I sit at my desk, my eyes ostensibly fixed on the spreadsheets, but every fiber of my being is focused on her.

I watch her run through the talking points, her poise impeccable, her eyes sharp. She’s navigating the potential fallout of my upcoming interviews with the skill of a seasoned veteran, and it pisses me off that she’s this good. I’m obsessing over the way she holds her pen, the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking, the way she occupies the space in my office, making it feel less like a place of business and more like a stage where I’m the one being scrutinized. She has the audacity to look professional, collected, and entirely out of reach, all while my skin is vibrating with the memory of her touch from the night before.

I interrupt her during the analysis, perhaps unfairly, just to hear her shift her attention from the notes back to me. She doesn't miss a beat, but her eyes flare with a spark of defiance that nearly costs me my composure. Every time she speaks, I find myself dissecting the cadence of her voice, imagining it pitched differently, breathier, against my shoulder. It’s a dangerous distraction. I’ve never let a woman compromise my focus, and yet, here I am, unable to remember the details of a multimillion-dollar acquisition because I’m wondering if she’s wearing lace or silk beneath that skirt. My focus is splintered, and the irony isn't lost on me; I built my empire on the ability to remain impassive, and she is dismantling that foundation with nothing more than a glance.

By 6:00 PM, the drive to the private club in Midtown is a suffocating exercise in restraint. I bury myself in emails, but every cell in my body is tuned to the woman sitting inches from me. I can smell her—a scent that’s become a permanent fixture in my lungs, a dangerous cocktail of jasmine and something uniquely, maddeningly hers.

"You’re doing it again," I snap, finally abandoning the pretense of work. I toss the phone onto the leather seat.

"Doing what?" she asks, turning to me, her eyes challenging.

"Clenching your jaw. You’re overthinking the next few hours." I look at her, really look at her, and the volatile need I’ve been burying all day threatens to surface. "We are going to be charming. We are going to be the perfect, untouchable couple. And when we get home, the game changes."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" she challenges, a flicker of heat in her gaze.

I reach across the space, my hand closing over her knee. Her skin is warm, and the contact is like a lightning strike. "It’s an inevitability, Alexis."

At the club, the performance is pure torture. I have to sit there and watch other men look at her, and the urge to claim her is a dark, savage pulse in my veins. Every time I touch the small of her back, it’s a territory grab. Every time our knees press together under the table, it’s a countdown. I’m not just playing a role; I’m guarding something that is rapidly becoming my entire world. I watch her laugh at a joke—not mine—and I have to force myself not to stand up and demand that she focus solely on me. My grip on my martini glass is so tight I fear it might shatter.

The dinner feels eternal. I am performing for the investors, but my true audience is her. I watch her subtle shifts in posture, the way she handles the wine glass, the way her eyes dart to mine when she thinks I’m not looking. She is a woman of calculated grace, and I hate how much I want to ruin that composure. I want to see her undone by me, and only me. Every laugh she gives is a betrayal I’m keeping a tally of, even though I know it’s just part of the game.

By the time we leave, I’m done. The veneer is gone. The moment we’re in the garage, I don’t wait for the driver. I’m out of the car, my shadow looming over her, and I grab her wrist. She’s mine to handle.

In the elevator, I don't give her room to breathe. I slam her back against the mirrored wall, the impact grounding us both. I can see the wildness in her eyes, and it’s the only thing that makes sense in my world.

The air in the elevator is thick with the scent of her perfume and the sharp, metallic tang of my own rising adrenaline. I’m drowning in the sensation of her against me. The hard glass at her back, the soft, yielding heat of her body—it’s a sensory overload I’m terrified to pull away from.

"The performance," I growl, my face inches from hers. "You were perfect tonight. You played the doting wife so well that I almost hated you for it."

"You told me to," she gasps.

"I told you to be mine," I correct, my voice a low, gravelly vibration against her skin. "I didn't tell you to smile at those men. I didn't tell you to let them look at you like you were something they could have."

She tries to argue, but I cut her off, my mouth capturing hers in a kiss that is less of a greeting and more of a declaration of war. I lift her off her feet, my hands sliding to her thighs, and the way she wraps her legs around me is a surrender that nearly brings me to my knees. It’s an intoxicating, dizzying rush of power and desperation. I am the man who dictates the terms of every negotiation, but here, in the cold, confined space of this elevator, I am the one being negotiated out of my sanity.

"I'm done with the performance," I murmur, my lips tracing the line of her jaw. "I’m done with the dinner parties, and the polite conversation, and the six-month deadline. You want real, Alexis? I’m going to show you exactly how real this gets."

I carry her into the bedroom, the moonlight turning the room into a landscape of silver and shadow. I kick the door shut and toss her onto the bed, pinning her down. I don't ask for permission. I don't offer apologies.

The weight of her body beneath mine feels like coming home, even though I’ve never wanted a home before. The silk of her dress feels like an insult, a barrier I need to destroy. I want to feel the pulse in her throat, the heat of her skin, the raw, unadorned truth of her.

"Tell me," I demand, my voice a dangerous command. "Tell me you don't want to go back. Tell me you want this to be the end of the game."

"I don't want to go back," she breathes, her hands gripping my face, her eyes filled with an absolute surrender that breaks the final dam inside me. "I don't want to play the game anymore, Dominic. I want you."

I let out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for a lifetime. I descend on her, not just with passion, but with the intent to claim every inch of her. There is no more artifice. There is only the raw, aching reality of a man who has finally found the one thing he can’t control—and for the first time in my life, I don't want to. I want to burn.

Every touch, every kiss, every frantic movement is a way of claiming the space between us, of burning away the lies we've been living and replacing them with a fire that threatens to consume us both. I lose myself in the heat of her skin, the rhythm of her heart, the sound of her gasps. The world outside the bedroom walls—the boardrooms, the contracts, the PR strategies—all of it fades into insignificance.

My hands trace the curve of her waist before sliding down to grip her hips, pulling her flush against me. Her lips part in a silent invitation that I can't resist. When our mouths meet, it's not gentle—it's hungry, desperate. Her tongue slides against mine as one of her hands tangles in my hair, pulling just enough to make me groan against her lips.

There is only this. There is only her. The way her fingernails dig into my shoulders, leaving crescent marks that will remind me of this tomorrow, the way she arches into me when I trail kisses down her neck, the way she calls my name—it's a symphony of wreckage. I am destroying the version of myself that existed before her, and I am grateful for the ruin.

My fingers work at the buttons of her blouse, then the clasp of her bra. When her breasts spill free, I take one nipple in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the hardened peak while my thumb teases the other. Alexis's back bows off the bed, her breath coming in ragged pants.

My thoughts are no longer measured, no longer strategic. They are consumed by the sheer force of the collision. I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties, sliding them down her legs slowly, deliberately. My eyes meet hers as I position myself between her thighs, watching her pupils dilate with anticipation.

The control I've guarded for years is nothing compared to the absolute surrender of this moment. When I finally enter her, we both gasp. I start slow, watching her face as she adjusts to me, but her hands on my ass, pulling me deeper, tells me she wants more. I give it to her—harder, faster, deeper until the only sounds are skin slapping against skin and our mingled cries of pleasure.

As I lose myself in the friction and the heat, I realize that the unravelling I feared so much isn't an end at all. It's a beginning. God help me, I never want to be in control again. I want the fire. I want the wreckage. I want every single part of her, and I will tear down everything else to keep it.

When her inner muscles clench around me as she reaches her peak, I follow her over the edge, spilling into her with a guttural cry of her name. We collapse together, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in tandem, completely undone.

Come back for another chapter

Author Note: This chapter pivots to 'public vs. private.' The internal conflict here is about identity—who they are to the board versus who they are to each other. I wanted to show that the performance of being 'professional' is actually what creates the most friction, making the private moments that much more explosive.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Forced proximity is a dangerous game when the mutual attraction is this volatile, pushing them to the very edge of their self-imposed boundaries. Every shared look across a crowded room and every moment alone in the elevator acts as a catalyst, accelerating the inevitable. They are trying to treat this as a simple transaction, a means to an end, but their bodies seem to have a much more intense agenda. As they navigate the claustrophobic confines of their shared professional life, the struggle to remain professional becomes a losing battle, and the cracks in their armor are starting to show.

The Art of the Performance

Alexis

The bar at the St. Regis is a suffocating display of wealth, all polished wood and gold-trimmed glass. My skin feels hypersensitive, tingling wherever Dominic’s hand remains anchored to my waist. I am an observer in my own life, watching myself play this role—the doting, beautiful wife—while my internal landscape is an absolute disaster of adrenaline and attraction.

"Another round?" Dominic asks, his voice smooth, completely detached from the electric charge currently arcing between our bodies. He signals the bartender for a dry martini, extra olives, without even glancing at me. He knows my drink as well as he knows my next move. A pang of something sharp and dangerous pierces my chest.

"You're quiet," he observes, sliding the drink toward me. He’s leaning back now, his posture relaxed, contrasting sharply with the taut, coiled energy I feel radiating from him.

"I'm observing," I reply, tracing the rim of my glass. "Isn't that what the wife is supposed to do? Listen to the titans of industry and offer a supportive smile?"

Dominic chuckles, a low sound that draws a few heads in our direction. He reaches out, his fingers hooking around the back of my neck, pulling me closer so that our foreheads almost touch. It’s an intimate gesture, one that makes the men at the table stop their conversation to watch. "You’re doing more than listening, Alexis. You’re playing the part with a terrifying level of precision. It makes me wonder what else you’re capable of."

"Is that a compliment, Mr. Cross?"

"It’s a warning," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear. "Don’t get too comfortable in the lie. The moment you start believing it, you’re vulnerable."

"And you?" I challenge, my voice dropping, emboldened by the martini and the sheer proximity of his body. "Are you vulnerable, Dominic? Or is this just another profitable merger for you?"

He pauses, his gaze darkening. For a split second, the polished mask of the untouchable power player slips, revealing something raw and uncontained underneath. He doesn't answer. Instead, he shifts his grip, his hand sliding down to the small of my back, guiding me to stand.

"We’re leaving," he announces, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

"We just got here," I protest, though my heart is already racing at the prospect of being alone with him again.

"The point is made," he says, ushering me toward the exit with a firm hand. "I’ve shown everyone exactly who you are, and I’ve seen enough of how they look at you."

The walk to the car is a blur of cool night air and the sudden, jarring silence of the city. Once inside the black SUV, the driver partition slides up, and the world—and the pretense—vanishes.

Dominic doesn't wait. He crosses the distance between us in a single, fluid movement, his hand slamming against the leather of the seat behind my head. He traps me in the corner, his body a solid, impenetrable wall of heat.

"You were looking at them," he growls, his face mere inches from mine.

"I was looking at the room," I argue, though my breath is hitching. "It’s my job to be seen, isn't it? That is, after all, what our contract says I need to master."

You’re paying for my focus, Alexis," he snaps, his hand moving to grip my chin. “And you were looking at the wrong thing." The aggression is shocking, but it’s the possessiveness that sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated need straight to my core. "When we’re in public, you look at me. You talk to me. You breathe for me. I don't care how many 'practice' rules you think we have—you don't acknowledge them."

"You're awfully possessive for someone who's only teaching me something," I gasp, my hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the hard, frantic rhythm of his heart beneath his shirt.

"I'm a man who knows what he wants," he whispers, his lips hovering over mine. "And right now, I want to know if you’re as good at this when there isn't an audience."

He doesn't wait for my response. He kisses me—not the polite, performative brush of lips from earlier, but a hard, devastating claim. It tastes of scotch and intensity, a desperate, hungry friction that has me arching into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He groans, a sound of pure frustration, and his hand slides down to my hip, pressing me into the seat until there isn't an inch of space left between us.

This isn't practice. This is a collision. And for the first time since I signed that contract, I don't want to be anywhere else.

The air in the back of the SUV is thick with the scent of leather and the heavy, intoxicating musk of Dominic’s cologne. His kiss is a visceral dismantling of every barrier I’ve spent the last three years building. It’s not the measured, elegant courtship of a practice scenario; it’s a desperate, searing collision that leaves me breathless and wanting more. My hands are buried in his hair, pulling him closer, my nails digging into the silk of his jacket as I try to pull him into my own skin.

Dominic pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine. He’s breathing as hard as I am, his chest heaving against my own, and his eyes are dark, stormy pools that hold no trace of the professional detachment he wore just an hour ago.

"Shit! This is not… " he rasps, his voice rough and uneven, "what we agreed to."

"You started it," I whisper back, my voice trembling. I’m leaning into him, my body traitorously seeking the friction of his, the heat of his hands on my hips, the raw, unadulterated weight of him. I feel exposed—not just by the way my dress has ridden up, but by the fact that he has managed to strip away the Alexis St. James persona in mere minutes.

He lets out a harsh, jagged laugh and shifts, pulling back just enough to create a sliver of space between us. It’s an agony, a sudden cooling that leaves me shivering. "I did. I started it. And I would do it again, except we are currently being chauffeured through Manhattan by a man who is paid to see absolutely nothing."

He reaches out, his thumb catching my lower lip, tracing the path his teeth just took. The touch is bruising, possessive, and it makes my knees weak. "We need to get to the penthouse. We need to talk about the rules."

"The rules," I repeat, the words feeling alien on my tongue. "Is that what we’re calling this?"

"The rules are the only thing keeping us from crossing a line that can't be uncrossed," he says, his jaw tight. He sits back, adjusting his cuffs, the mask of the billionaire businessman slipping back into place with a precision that should be reassuring but is, in fact, terrifying. "Tonight was a test, Alexis. You passed. But don't mistake a momentary lapse in discipline for a change in the contract."

I stay silent, the sting of his words lingering in the air. I want to argue, to tell him that there was nothing lapse with the way he held me, the way he claimed me in that car. But I don't. I just stare out the window as the city flashes by—a blur of neon and glass—feeling the phantom sensation of his hands still burning against my skin.

When we finally arrive at the penthouse, the silence is deafening. Dominic walks ahead of me, his steps long and purposeful. He doesn't look back to see if I’m following, but I do. I follow because I’m drawn to him, because the gravity he exerts is impossible to resist.

Inside, the suite is vast and echoing, a stark, modern cathedral of glass and shadows. Dominic doesn't stop until he reaches the study. He pours two glasses of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light, and hands one to me without looking at me.

"The gala at the St. Regis was a success," he says, his voice detached, as if he’s reporting on a quarterly merger. "The board members are convinced. My associates believe we are the picture of domestic stability. The objective has been met."

"And the rest of it?" I ask, my hand trembling as I lift the glass to my lips. The burn of the alcohol is a welcome distraction from the fire still raging in my blood. "The kiss? The… collision?"

Dominic turns then, his eyes burning with a dark, intense light that makes my breath hitch. "The kiss was a calculated risk. I needed to see if the chemistry was as palpable as I suspected it was when you hired me. I needed to know if you were truly committed to the performance."

"And? Am I committed enough for you?" I challenge, my voice dropping, my eyes locked on his.

He walks toward me, slowly, deliberately, until he’s looming over me, his shadow swallowing me whole. He reaches out, his fingers sliding under my chin to force me to look up at him. "You’re more than committed, Alexis. You’re lethal. And that is exactly what makes you so dangerous to my peace of mind."

He leans in close, his voice a mere vibration against my skin. "We are going to finish this contract. We are going to play the part of the devoted couple until the ink on the final document dries. But you need to understand one thing, and you need to understand it right now."

"What’s that?" I whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"There is no more 'practice' after tonight," he murmurs, his lips grazing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine that threatens to undo me. "From here on out, every touch, every look, every moment we spend alone… it’s going to be real. And I think we both know that neither of us is going to survive it."

He pulls back, leaving me reeling, his expression unreadable as he walks toward the bedroom. I stand alone in the study, the echoes of his words vibrating in the silence, and for the first time, I realize that I’m not playing a part anymore. I’m exactly where I want to be—trapped in a web of his making, and terrified that when the six months are up, I won't know how to walk away.

I take another drink, the liquid smooth and hot, and watch him go. The game has changed, and I’m playing for keeps. And heaven help me, I think I’m already losing.

I set the glass down on the desk with a quiet clack that echoes in the stillness of the penthouse. I shouldn't follow him—I know that. I should walk out the front door, hail a cab, and retreat to the safety of my own place. But the thought of that empty space feels like a prison compared to the gravity pulling me toward his bedroom.

I’m not playing a part anymore.

I cross the floor, my footsteps silent on the marble, and push the heavy door open. The room is dark, save for the faint, silver moonlight spilling across the duvet. He is already there, a shadow in the dim light. I don't say a word. I just move toward him, ready to show him exactly how real I can make this.

Come back for another chapter

Author Note: Chapter two is all about the 'leaks' in their armor. We’re moving from the agreement to the reality of working side-by-side. I wanted to highlight the physical anxiety that comes with being forced to be near someone you’re trying to ignore. It’s that specific 'office romance' ache where you have to remain composed while your entire nervous system is screaming.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 The contract is signed, the terms are set, and the illusion of professional detachment is already fraying at the edges. They both know the rules of this arrangement—keep it professional, stay within the lines, and never let the personal collide with the business. But as they step into the orbit of their new partnership, the cold, calculated distance they’ve established feels more like a challenge than a boundary. The air between them is thick with unvoiced tension, and it is becoming clear that their carefully constructed facade is already beginning to crumble under the weight of an attraction they never agreed to.

Alexis

The Contract 

The office is sterile, glass-walled, and far too bright, but the man sitting across from me is anything but cold. Dominic Cross is all sharp edges and expensive tailoring, watching me with an intensity that makes the air in the room feel thin.

"You want a practice husband," he says, his voice a low, gravelly tenor that vibrates right down to my toes. He doesn't look like a man who takes instruction. He looks like a man who expects the world to bend to his will.

"I want to be prepared," I counter, refusing to let my gaze falter. I force my shoulders back, channeling every ounce of my resolve. I’m Alexis St. James, for God’s sake. I run a PR firm, I manage a dozen high-net-worth clients, and yet here I am, paying a man to teach me how to be a wife. "I have everything else mapped out—my career, my future, my life. But this? This is the one thing I keep failing at. I’m tired of being the woman who gets left behind because she doesn't know how to play the game."

He leans back, his fingers interlacing on the mahogany desk. There’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips, the kind that promises trouble. "And you think I’m the man for the job?"

"I think your reputation precedes you," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "They say you’re the best at navigating the complexities of high-society unions. You know exactly what’s expected. You know how to make a woman feel like the center of the world—even if it’s an act."

He stands up, and the sheer scale of him seems to shrink the office. He walks around the desk, stopping just inches from me. The scent of him—sandalwood and something uniquely him—hits me like a physical force.

"I don't do things by halves, Alexis," he says, his eyes locking onto mine, dark and unreadable. "If I’m your husband, even for practice, I expect total compliance. I set the pace, I set the rules, and you don't argue. Do you understand?"

My pulse hammers against my ribs, a traitorous, frantic beat. "I understand."

"Good girl," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips before snapping back to my eyes. "The first rule is simple: I decide when we practice, where we practice, and what the goals of that practice are. No outside interference. No dating other men while under my instruction."

He pulls a thick, leather-bound contract from a drawer and slides it across the wood. It looks less like a business agreement and more like a set of shackles.

"Sign, and we begin tonight."

I pick up the pen, my fingers brushing his. The contact is electric, a shock of static that leaves my skin humming. I scrawl my name, the ink dark and permanent against the white paper.

"Tonight?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Dominic reaches out, his thumb catching the edge of my chin, tilting my head back so I’m forced to meet his gaze. He doesn't look like a tutor anymore; he looks like a predator.

"I’ll pick you up at seven o'clock. Wear something you'd wear to an embassy gala. And Alexis?"

"Yes?"

"Don't be late."

The clock on the wall of my apartment ticks down with agonizing slowness. 6:45 PM. I’m staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror, trying to breathe, but my chest feels like it’s being compressed by an invisible hand. I chose the dress—a silk slip in deep midnight blue that clings to every curve—not because it’s "practice" attire, but because I need to feel like I’m in armor.

When the buzzer sounds at 7:00 PM on the dot, I’m standing by the door. I open it, and Dominic is there. He’s changed into a tuxedo that looks like it was cut from the shadows themselves. He doesn't say a word as he steps inside. He just looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on the dip of the neckline before meeting my gaze with a dark, heavy hunger that isn't supposed to be part of the contract.

"You're on time," he notes, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

"I don't like to be kept waiting," I reply, my voice failing me slightly.

He steps into my personal space, his hand coming up to touch the bare skin of my shoulder. His fingers are searing, a stark contrast to the cool silk of my dress. "Good. We’re heading to the St. Regis. We’re meeting a few of my colleagues. and they expect me to arrive with a partner who can hold her own."

"And what do you expect from a partner?" I ask, my pulse quickening.

Dominic leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "I expect you to be the most beautiful thing in the room, but save your best for the right moment. Tonight, you don't speak unless spoken to, and you never, ever let anyone else catch your eye. You belong to me for the next four hours. Do you think you can handle that?"

I swallow hard, my entire body thrumming with a dangerous, forbidden electricity. I know I should be terrified—I should be pulling away—but instead, I find myself leaning into him.

"I can handle it," I whisper.

"We'll see," he murmurs, pulling back. He offers me his arm, his expression as unreadable as a stone wall. "Let’s go, Alexis. Practice is in session.”

The drive to the St. Regis is a masterclass in silent tension. Dominic sits on the far side of the leather-clad interior, but he might as well be sitting on top of me. The air in the car is heavy with the scent of his cologne—something dark, woody, and expensive—and I’m painfully aware of every breath he takes. My hands are folded tightly in my lap, my knuckles white, as I try to process the fact that I’m actually doing this. I’m Alexis St. James, a woman who prides herself on absolute independence, and I just signed away my agency to a man who looks like he’s one word away from taking complete control.

"Stop clenching," Dominic says, his voice cutting through the hum of the city lights passing outside the window. He doesn’t even look at me; his eyes are fixed on the blurred architecture of Fifth Avenue.

"I'm not clenching," I lie, my voice tighter than I intended.

He turns then, his gaze heavy and assessing. He reaches out, his hand wrapping firmly around my wrist, pulling my hands apart and forcing them to rest flat on the seat between us. His fingers are large, calloused, and searingly hot. He doesn't pull his hand away, and the heat of his palm against the back of my hand is a distraction I can’t afford.

"You’re vibrating with nerves," he murmurs, his tone shifting from authoritative to almost… observant. "In a room with your PR clients, you’re the most confident woman I’ve ever seen. Here, you’re a mess. Why?"

"Because this is different," I breathe, turning my head to look at him. "This isn't a strategy meeting. This is… personal."

"Nothing about this is personal, Alexis," he corrects, his voice dropping an octave. "This is a role. You are my wife and I am your husband. If you can’t separate your panic from your performance, you’ll never make it through the night."

He lets go of my wrist, and the sudden absence of his touch leaves a cold, aching void in its wake. I hate that I want him to reach back out. I hate that I’m already craving the weight of his hand against my skin.

The car pulls up to the entrance of the St. Regis, the valet stepping forward instantly to open the door. Dominic exits first, his silhouette framed by the golden glow of the lobby lights. He turns, offering a hand to help me out. As I place my fingers in his, he leans down, his lips brushing the side of my neck—a gesture that looks like a lover’s caress to the valet and the passing crowd, but feels like a claim.

"Remember," he whispers against my skin, his voice a low vibration that sets my nerves on fire. "I lead. You follow. And try not to look like you’re contemplating murder."

I pull back just enough to shoot him a sharp, sideways glance, my lips pursed in a thin line of calculated restraint. It’s a look that says I’m complying for now, but the leash isn't as short as he thinks.

We walk into the lobby, and the world shifts. This is his element. The chandeliers, the polished marble, the hushed murmurs of the elite—Dominic Cross moves through it like he owns the very air. He doesn't walk with me; he walks for us, his hand resting at the small of my back, a firm, possessive pressure that leaves no doubt in anyone’s mind who I belong to.

We reach the bar, where two men—business associates, I assume—are already waiting. They stand as we approach, their eyes darting to me with the kind of predatory interest that makes my stomach turn.

"Dominic," the taller one says, extending a hand. "And this must be the lady of the hour."

Dominic’s hand tightens on my waist, pulling me an inch closer until I’m flush against his side. "This is Alexis. My wife."

The word hangs in the air, thick and impossible. I look up at him, expecting to see a hollow look, but his eyes are dark, focused on me with an intensity that feels entirely too real.

"Alexis," the man repeats, his eyes raking over my dress. "Stunning. Tell me, how do you handle a man like Dominic? He’s famously difficult to keep satisfied."

The question is bait, coarse and crude. I feel the urge to snap back, to give him a piece of my Fontaine-sharp tongue, but I remember Dominic’s warning. I lead. You follow. I look at Dominic, my breath catching in my throat as he gazes down at me, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles against my lower back.

"He’s not difficult," I say, my voice steady, though my heart is slamming against my ribs. I force a smile—a polite, practiced thing that doesn't reach my eyes. "He just likes things done his way. And luckily, I’ve mastered the art of getting exactly what I want in the process."

The men laugh, but Dominic doesn't. He just watches me, his eyes hooded, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. It’s the look of a man who just discovered that his student might be more than he bargained for.

"You see boys," Dominic says, his voice a smooth, dangerous velvet. "I don’t settle for anything less than perfection."

He guides me to a velvet-backed chair, but before I can sit, his hand snakes out to catch my arm, pulling me back until I’m trapped between him and the table. He leans in close, his scent enveloping me, making the world outside this circle seem to dissolve.

"You’re doing well," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips. "But your hands are still trembling. You’re afraid of them, aren't you?"

"I’m not afraid," I lie, my voice a breathy gasp.

"You are," he counters, his thumb brushing over my pulse point. "You’re afraid of the attention. You’re afraid of the expectations. And most of all, you’re afraid of how easy this is becoming for you."

He leans in closer, his lips so close to mine I can feel the warmth of his breath. "That’s the most dangerous part of the practice, Alexis. When you stop acting, and you start… wanting."

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Author Note: In this chapter, we establish the power balance—or lack thereof. The trope here is 'forced proximity' through a legal lens. I wanted to focus on how quickly professional boundaries become prisons when you are stuck with someone you have a history with. The tension here isn't just about what is happening, but the silent, mutual acknowledgment that the contract is a lie.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 The viral video is out, the GM is calling for blood, and the "Secret" is officially front-page news. As the Beacons finish their series in New York, Elena and Leo are forced to face the reality of their choices. The Anchor has a decision to make: keep holding down a legacy that’s weighing him down, or drop the weight and follow the girl who finally made him feel alive.

Chapter Six

Losing the Lead 

Elena

The air in Citi Field is different than Fenway. It’s louder, brasher, and tonight, it feels like it’s vibrating with a tension I can’t quite put my finger on.

I’m standing in the media well, my camera lens trained on Leo as he warms up Liam. Through the viewfinder, he looks exactly like the man the world knows—stoic, immovable, the veteran who doesn't flinch. But I see the slight tightness in his jaw that wasn't there three days ago. I see the way his eyes flick toward me for a microsecond every time he stands up.

We’ve been perfect. Since the Pierre, we haven't touched. We haven't even spoken in the same room. I’ve been the "Sunshine" girl, and he’s been the "Wall."

But the internet is a bloodhound.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—a constant, rhythmic vibration that’s been going off since the third inning. I don't have to look at it to know what it is. A fan in the stands at the last game caught a video of us in the parking garage. It’s grainy, dark, and blurred, but the silhouette of a six-foot-three catcher pinning a blonde woman against a concrete pillar is unmistakable.

The caption on the viral TikTok: Is the veteran finally crumbling?

"Elena? A word."

I don't even have to turn around. Howard’s voice is like a bucket of ice water down my spine. He isn't looking at the field; he’s looking at his phone.

"In the tunnel. Now," he says, his voice devoid of any emotion.

I follow him into the shadows of the concrete corridor, the roar of the crowd muffled by the thick walls. My heart is a frantic thing, beating against my ribs like a trapped bird. This is it. This is the moment the "tactical catastrophe" becomes a reality.

"I told you to be a pro, Elena," Howard says, turning to face me. He holds up his phone, the grainy video of the parking garage playing on a loop. "I told you the fans hate a distraction. This has ten million views in four hours. The PR department is in a tailspin."

"Howard, I—"

"I don't want to hear it. You’re talented, but you’re a liability. I’m pulling you from the road trip. You’re heading back to Boston tonight. We’ll discuss your severance on Monday."

The world tilts. I knew the risks, but hearing it out loud—the finality of it—makes my stomach drop. I’m not just losing a job; I’m losing the right to be near the man who finally made me feel seen.

"Is that it?" a low, dangerous rumble echoes from the mouth of the tunnel.

I spin around. Leo is standing there, still in his full catching gear, his mask dangling from one hand. He’s covered in dirt, sweat dripping down his neck, looking every bit the warrior Howard expects him to be.

"Guzman, get back to the dugout," Howard snaps. "This doesn't concern you."

"Like hell it doesn't," Leo says, stepping into the light. He looks massive, his shadow stretching across the concrete until it touches my boots. "You want to fire someone for a 'distraction'? Fire me. I’m the one who followed her into that garage. I’m the one who didn't stop."

"Leo, don't," I whisper, reaching for his arm. "You have a legacy. You have the Hall of Fame to think about."

"I’ve spent fifteen years thinking about my legacy," Leo says, his eyes fixed squarely on Howard. "I’ve spent fifteen years being untouchable. And you know what I found out? People who keep others out are lonely, Howard. They don't have anyone to go home to. They just sit there until they crack."

He turns to me, and the look in his eyes is so raw, so honest, that it takes my breath away. He reaches out, his thick, dirt-stained fingers cupping my jaw in front of the GM, in front of the security guards, in front of the whole damn world.

"I’m thirty-six," he says softly. "I’ve got maybe two years left of being the pro. But I’ve got the rest of my life to be the man who loves this girl. If that’s a distraction, then I’m done being an anchor."

Howard looks between us, his mouth hanging open. He’s a businessman, but even he can see when a play is over. He looks at the video on his phone, then at the star player who’s willing to walk away from forty million dollars for the girl with the camera.

"You're an idiot, Guzman," Howard mutters, shaking his head. "A talented, stubborn idiot."

"I'm a man who’s finally playing for the right team," Leo counters.

Howard sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Go. Get back to the game. We’ll handle the PR. But Elena? You’re off the socials for the rest of the season. You work for the front office now. No cameras on the field. Understood?"

"Understood," I breathe, a laugh of pure relief bubbling up in my chest.

Howard walks away, muttering about "rookie mistakes" and "veteran headaches."

I look up at Leo, my hands finding the buckles of his chest protector. "You just almost threw away your entire career for me."

"It wasn't a throw-away," he says, pulling me into a kiss that tastes like victory and grit. "It was an investment."

The roar of the crowd surges as the inning ends, but for the first time, the noise doesn't matter. My composure hasn't crumbled. It’s just been rebuilt into something stronger.

Something that has a door. And I’m the only one with the key.

Leo doesn’t let go of my hand as we walk out of the stadium.

The cameras are there, of course. The flashes strobe against the concrete walls of the tunnel, but Leo doesn't flinch. He doesn't pull his hand away or walk three paces ahead like he’s ashamed. He keeps me tucked against his side, his large palm warm and solid against mine, a living shield against the noise of the city.

By the time we reach his truck, the adrenaline has settled into something deeper—a quiet, humming heat that makes every breath feel heavy.

"You're sure about this?" I ask as he pulls out onto the New York streets, heading for the bridge back toward Boston. "The front office is going to be a nightmare on Monday."

Leo reaches over, his hand landing on my thigh, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive circle over the denim of my jeans. "Elena, I’ve spent fifteen years playing for a crowd. I’m done. The only person I’m worried about disappointing is the woman sitting in this seat."

The drive back to Boston is a blur of city lights and low-volume jazz, the silence between us charged with the kind of electricity that only comes after a battle won. When we finally pull up to his condo—a sleek, modern space overlooking the harbor—the air in the truck feels thick enough to choke on.

He doesn't wait for me to get out. He’s around to my side of the truck in seconds, hauling me out and pinning me against the door before I can even find my footing.

"Leo—"

"I’ve been wanting to do this since I watched you walk out of that hotel room this morning," he rasps, his mouth finding the sensitive skin below my ear. "No more service elevators. No more hiding."

He carries me inside, his boots echoing on the hardwood floor of his darkened living room. He doesn't stop until we’re in his bedroom, the moonlight reflecting off the water of the harbor and spilling across the massive bed.

He drops me onto the mattress, but before I can move, he’s over me, his weight a grounding, familiar pressure. This isn't the frantic desperation of the cold plunge or the shaky adrenaline of the garage. This is a claim.

"Leo," I whisper, my hands sliding up his chest to find the pulse at the base of his throat. It’s racing.

"I'm not being stoic tonight, Elena," he mutters, his fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls my head back, exposing my throat to his hunger. "I’m just a man who’s been starving for you since the first day you walked into my clubhouse."

He strips away my clothes with a focused intensity, his eyes never leaving mine. When I’m finally bare beneath him, he takes his time. His hands, rough and calloused from a lifetime of catching heat, roam over my curves like he’s memorizing a new map. He tastes every inch of me, his mouth hot and demanding, until I’m arching off the sheets, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Please," I moan, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him into the heat of me.

He enters me with a slow, deep thrust that makes my vision go white. It’s different now. The stakes are gone, replaced by a devastating intimacy that makes my heart ache. Every movement is a promise. Every time he groans my name into the crook of my neck, I feel the last of his armor falling away.

We move together in the moonlight, a slow, rhythmic dance of skin and sweat. He’s powerful, his veteran strength channeled into a slow-burn pleasure that builds until I’m shaking, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps. When the peak finally hits, it’s a landslide—a crashing wave of sensation that leaves me clinging to him as if he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

Leo follows seconds later, a low, guttural sound escaping him as he collapses against me, his heart thudding against mine in a frantic, beautiful rhythm.

We stay like that for a long time, the only sound the distant hum of the Boston traffic and the soft lap of the harbor against the pier below.

Finally, Leo pulls back, his eyes searching mine in the dim light. He looks younger than I’ve ever seen him—the lines of tension around his eyes smoothed away, the "Grumpy" mask completely gone.

"So," he says, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "The stoic man has a door."

I laugh, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "And I think I’m the only one who has the key."

"You are," he says, his expression turning serious. He pulls me back against his chest, tucking the covers around us. "From here on out, Sunshine, we do this our way. No GMs. No TikToks. Just us."

"Just us," I agree, closing my eyes as the scent of him—leather, salt, and something purely Leo—wraps around me like a blanket.

The season isn't over. There will be more games, more fans, and more headlines. But as I drift off to sleep in the arms of the man who gave up everything to keep me, I realize that the best stories aren't the ones you capture on a camera.

They’re the ones you live when the lights go down.

The sun rises over the Boston Harbor in a wash of pale gold, spilling across the hardwood floors of Leo’s bedroom. I wake up to the smell of expensive coffee and the sound of a low, gravelly voice talking on the phone in the other room.

"I don't care about the optics, Howard. I'm not in the lineup today anyway. My knees need the rest, and I'm taking it... No, she's staying here. We'll be in on Monday."

A click, then silence.

I sit up, pulling Leo’s discarded gray jersey over my head. It’s huge on me, the hem reaching mid-thigh, smelling of him and the laundry detergent he probably pays a service to use. I find him in the kitchen, leaning against the granite island, staring out at the water. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants, his back a map of the physical toll fifteen years in the league has taken.

He hears me come in and turns, a slow, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Coffee’s ready, Sunshine."

I hop up onto one of the barstools, my legs swinging. "You just told the GM of a major league baseball team to kick rocks."

"I told him I was busy," Leo says, sliding a mug toward me. He walks around the island and stands between my knees, his hands landing on my waist. "Was I lying?"

"Technically, no." I take a sip of the coffee—it’s strong and dark, exactly like him. "But Monday is going to be a bloodbath. You know the press is going to be waiting at the gates."

Leo’s expression darkens for a second, his composed mask trying to pull itself back together, but then he looks at me—really looks at me—and the tension leaves his shoulders. "Let them wait. I’ve spent my whole life worrying about the next pitch, the next game, the next contract. I’m thirty-six, Elena. I’ve made enough money to buy this harbor. What I haven't made is a life."

He pulls me closer, his forehead resting against mine. "Last night, in that tunnel... it was the first time I felt like I was winning something that actually mattered. If the price of that is a few nasty headlines, then it’s a bargain."

I reach up, my fingers tracing the faint scar on his chin from a foul tip three seasons ago. "I’m not used to being the prize, Leo. I’m the one who stays behind the lens, remember? I’m supposed to make you look good."

"You make me feel good," he rasps, his hand sliding up the back of my neck, his thumb grazing my jawline. "That’s a hell of a lot more important."

The air in the kitchen shifts, the domesticity of the morning suddenly charged with that familiar, heavy heat. Leo doesn't just want me; he’s possessive of this moment, of this peace we’ve carved out of the chaos. He leans in, his kiss slow and thorough, tasting of coffee and a promise he finally feels free to keep.

He hoists me up onto the granite counter, his hands sliding under the hem of the jersey I stole from him. The cold stone is a shock against my skin, but Leo is a furnace, his body pressing me back until I’m leaning against the cabinets.

"Leo," I breathe, my heart starting that frantic, happy dance again. "The coffee..."

"The coffee can wait," he mutters against my throat. "I’ve got forty-eight hours before I have to be a legend again. Right now, I just want to be the man who gets to keep the girl."

He doesn't rush this time. He takes his time, his mouth exploring every inch of my skin that he didn’t get to mark last night. It’s a different kind of spice—one rooted in the relief of being known, of being safe. When he finally pulls me back to his bedroom, the sun is high over the harbor, and for the first time in my life, I don't feel like I’m looking for the perfect shot.

I’m in it.

I look at the man who spent fifteen years being untouchable, and I realize he didn't just open a door for me.He tore the whole thing down. And as we fall back into the sheets, the only thing I’m thinking about isn't the 40,000 people in the stands or the GM on the phone.

It’s the way Leo Guzman says my name when there’s no one else around to hear it.

The End. 

Author’s Notes: And that is a wrap on the first novelette phase of Leo and Elena! Watching the "Anchor" finally stand up to Howard was the catharsis I think we all needed. This sets the perfect stage for the 40k expansion—there’s so much more of their story to tell back in Bos

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

New York City is the perfect place to disappear, and Room 1204 at The Pierre is a world away from the dirt and noise of the diamond. Behind the heavy velvet curtains, the age gap doesn't matter and the league's rules don't exist. It’s just a man who’s been starving for a connection and a woman who’s tired of watching her life through a viewfinder.

Room 1204 

Guzman

The Pierre is the kind of hotel that makes a man like me feel like a glitch in the system. It’s all gold leaf, white marble, and bellhops who look like they’ve never broken a sweat in their lives. I’m a catcher from the South Side with knees that sound like gravel in a blender; I don’t belong in a place this quiet.

I’m currently pacing the length of Room 1204, my heart doing a heavy, erratic thud against my ribs. I’ve checked the clock four times in the last ten minutes.

We arrived in New York three hours ago. The flight was a test of my sanity. Elena was sitting three rows ahead of me, her head visible over the top of her seat. She didn't look back once. She was busy on her laptop, probably editing more footage of me being a "hero," while I sat there gripped by the memory of her legs wrapped around my waist in the cold plunge pool.

I told her not to be late. Now I’m wondering if I should have told her not to come at all.

Howard’s words from yesterday are a cold weight in my gut. “The fans love a hero, but they hate a distraction.”

I’m the distraction. Or she is. Or we’re a goddamn train wreck waiting to happen on Broadway.

A soft, hesitant knock sounds at the door.

I’m there in two strides. I don't look through the peephole. I know the rhythm of that knock. I pull the door open, and for a second, the air simply leaves the room.

Elena is standing there, wearing a trench coat cinched tight at her waist and boots that make her look five inches taller. Her hair is down, waving over her shoulders, and her eyes are bright with that terrifying, beautiful defiance I’ve come to crave.

I don't say a word. I reach out, grab the lapel of her coat, and haul her inside, slamming the door shut and locking it in one fluid motion.

"You're late," I growl, pinning her against the wood.

"Three minutes, Leo," she whispers, her breath hitching as she looks up at me. "I had to make sure Ricci was tucked into his room first. He was looking for someone to grab late-night pizza with."

"If he saw you come in here—"

"He didn't." She reaches up, her fingers grazing the stubble on my jaw. "Stop being so composed for five minutes. Just be the man who invited me here."

I let out a low, ragged exhale and bury my face in the crook of her neck. She smells like NYC rain and that citrus scent that’s become my personal brand of torment. I don't just want her; I’m starving for her. It’s a physical ache, a deep-seated need to prove that what happened in the training room wasn't a fever dream.

I pull back just enough to look at her. "You have no idea what you're doing to me, Sunshine. I haven't slept. I haven't thought about a single scouting report for tomorrow's game. My head is a mess of you."

"Good," she says, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips. "I like you messy, Leo."

She reaches for the belt of her trench coat, undoing the knot with deliberate slowness. I watch, mesmerized, as the coat falls open. Underneath, she’s wearing a slip dress of dark green silk—the color of the monster at Fenway. It’s thin, held up by straps that look like they’d break if I breathed on them too hard.

"God help me," I mutter, my hands finding her hips.

I lift her easily, her light frame a perfect counterpoint to my bulk. I carry her toward the king-sized bed, the silk of her dress sliding against my palms. When I lay her down on the white linens, she looks like a goddamn masterpiece—young, vibrant, and completely mine.

I strip off my shirt, the cool air of the room hitting my skin, but I’m burning from the inside out. I join her on the bed, my large body overshadowing hers, my knees finally finding a rest that has nothing to do with ice and everything to do with her.

"Leo," she breaths, her hands roaming over my chest, tracing the scars and the muscle. "No cameras. No GMs. Just this."

"Just this," I agree, my mouth finding hers.

This isn't the rushed, desperate heat of the stadium. Here, in the quiet luxury of The Pierre, I have time. I want to show her why a veteran is better than a rookie. I want to mark every inch of her skin until she forgets there’s a world outside this room.

I trail kisses down her throat, my hands exploring the curves of her body through the silk. She’s so soft, so responsive, her moans a sweet, frantic melody that drowns out the noise of the city thirty stories below. When I finally slide the straps of that dress down her shoulders, the look she gives me isn't one of a girl. It’s the look of a woman who knows exactly what she wants.

I pull the silk down, exposing her to the amber glow of the bedside lamp. She’s perfect—all cream and soft curves—and the sight of her in my bed, in my space, makes the possessiveness in my chest flare into a goddamn wildfire.

"You're so beautiful it hurts to look at you," I rasp.

I don’t wait for an answer. I move over her, my weight a grounding pressure that seems to anchor us both to the mattress. My hands, calloused and thick from a lifetime of manual labor, look dark against her pale skin as I cup her breasts. She arches into me, a soft, broken sound escaping her lips that makes my blood boil.

This is the part I didn’t expect—the way she makes me feel powerful and protective and absolutely wrecked all at once.

I slide my mouth lower, tasting the heat of her stomach, the curve of her hip. She’s trembling, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her nails marking my skin. Every time she gasps my name, I lose another piece of my resolve. I’ve spent my career being the anchor, the one who stays calm when the bases are loaded and the count is full. But with Elena, I’m the one swinging for the fences, desperate to catch a piece of the sun.

"Leo, please," she whimpers, her legs tangling with mine.

I shift, stripping out of my clothes until there’s nothing left but the raw, electric tension between us. When I move back between her thighs, I pause, my forehead resting against hers.

"If we do this, Elena... if I take this from you tonight, there’s no going back to just being the catcher and the girl with the camera. You understand that? I’m going to want you in the dugout. I’m going to want you in the tunnels. I’m going to be looking for you every time I put on that mask."

"I'm already looking for you," she whispers, her eyes dark with a heat that matches my own. "I have been since the day I walked into that clubhouse. Don't stop, Leo. Don't you dare stop."

I don't. I enter her with a slow, deliberate thrust that draws a sharp cry from her throat—not of pain, but of pure, unadulterated relief. We’ve been building to this since that first spark in the locker room, and the reality is a thousand times more intense than the fantasy.

She’s tight and hot, her body molding to mine as I begin to move. It isn't a game. It isn't a "vibe." It’s the most honest thing I’ve done in years. I watch her face as I move, watching the way her eyes flutter shut and the way her lips part. I want to see every second of her undoing.

I pick up the pace, my movements turning more primal as the friction builds. The room smells of expensive hotel soap and the dark, musky scent of skin on skin. The only sound is the rhythmic creak of the bed and our synchronized, ragged breathing.

I’m a veteran; I know how to pace myself. But Elena is a force of nature. She meets every thrust with a tilt of her hips, her hands roaming over my back, pulling me closer, deeper, until I’m lost in her.

"Leo... oh god, Leo..."

She shatters beneath me, her body tightening in a series of rhythmic pulses that send me right over the edge. I let out a low, guttural roar, my muscles locking as I spend myself inside her, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.

I collapse against her, careful not to crush her with my full weight, my breath coming in jagged gasps. We stay like that for a long time, the silence of the room returning slowly as the adrenaline fades.

I roll onto my side, pulling her back against my chest, my arm draped over her waist. She feels small in my arms, but she’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel truly invincible.

"You okay?" I mutter, my voice a wreck.

She turns in my arms, her face glowing in the dim light. She looks thoroughly loved, thoroughly ruined, and completely mine. "I'm better than okay," she whispers, leaning up to kiss the tip of my nose. "I think I just found my favorite story."

I pull the covers over us, shielding us from the cold air of the room. Tomorrow, we’ll have to go back to the stadium. TTomorrow, I’ll have to be the stoic veteran and she’ll have to be the girl with the lens.

But tonight, in Room 1204, the only thing that matters is the girl in my arms and the fire we just started.

"Go to sleep, Sunshine," I mutter, kissing her temple. "We’ve got a long season ahead of us."

"Leo?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't call it a lapse in judgment again."

I huff a laugh, my eyes finally closing. "I wouldn't dream of it."

The morning light in New York is different than Boston—sharper, colder, and far less forgiving. It cuts through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains of The Pierre like a blade, landing right across my eyes.

I don’t move. I can’t. Because for the first time in a decade, my left arm is completely numb, pinned beneath the soft, warm weight of the girl who just dismantled my entire life in the span of six hours.

Elena is sprawled across my chest, her blonde hair a chaotic silk web against my skin. She’s still deep in sleep, her breathing slow and rhythmic. In the harsh light of day, the age gap doesn't just feel like a number; it feels like a responsibility. She looks so young, so untouched by the cynicism that usually rots a clubhouse. And I look like... well, a man who’s spent fifteen years catching fastballs with his face.

I reach out with my free hand, my thumb tracing the line of her shoulder. I want to wake her up and do it all over again. I want to call in sick, skip the Mets series, and stay in this room until the world forgets we exist.

But the 10:00 AM team bus doesn’t care about my mid-life crisis.

"Elena," I whisper, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged through a gravel pit. "Sunshine, wake up."

She stirs, a small, sleepy moan escaping her lips as she nuzzles into my neck. "Five more minutes, Leo. The light is perfect for a nap."

"The light is perfect for getting us both fired if you're not out of this room in twenty minutes," I grumble, though I can't help the way my hand slides down to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

She opens one eye, squinting at me. A slow, wicked grin spreads across her face as she remembers exactly where she is. "You're grumpy in the morning. I should have added that to your scouting report."

"I'm not grumpy. I'm realistic." I sit up, gently dislodging her so I can swing my legs over the side of the bed. My knees give their customary pop-pop-crack, a brutal reminder of the game I have to play in four hours. "If we walk out of here together, it’s over. You need to head down first. Use the service elevator if you have to."

The playfulness in her eyes dims, replaced by that sharp, observant look she gets behind the camera. She sits up, the white sheet bunched around her chest, looking at me with an intensity that makes me feel exposed.

"Is that how it’s going to be, Leo? Secret hallways and service elevators?"

I stop, my back to her, my head hanging low. "It has to be. For now. You heard Howard. He’s looking for a reason to call you a distraction and fire you. I won't let that happen."

I feel her hand on my back, her palm warm against my spine. "I’m not ashamed of you, Leo. I hope you know that."

"I know," I rasp, turning to look at her. "It’s not about shame. It’s about survival. I’ve got maybe two seasons left in these legs, Elena. I can handle the fallout. You’ve got your whole career ahead of you. I won't be the reason you lose it."

She looks like she wants to argue, to tell me that she can handle Howard, but she just nods, leaning forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to my shoulder. "Ten minutes. I’ll see you at the stadium. I’ll be the girl with the camera, and you’ll be the man everyone expects you to be."

"Exactly," I say, though the word feels like ash in my mouth.

She dresses quickly, sliding back into that dark green silk dress and the trench coat. She looks like a different person—polished, professional, and miles away from the woman who was screaming my name three hours ago.

She stops at the door, her hand on the handle. "Leo?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't look for me in the dugout today. Just play the game."

She slips out before I can respond, the click of the lock sounding final.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, the silence of the room pressing in on me. I look at the white linens, still wrinkled from our bodies, and the scent of citrus still lingering in the air.

I’m the veteran. I’m the anchor. I’m the man who knows how to manage a game.

But as I stand up to head for the shower, I realize I’ve lost control of the count. I’m down in the dirt, the bases are loaded, and for the first time in my life, I don't want to get out of the inning.

I want to stay right here.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Author’s Notes: We finally went all-in on the spice. I wanted this chapter to feel like a sanctuary for them—a place where Leo could finally stop being the "Anchor" for the world and just be a man. The Pierre provided the perfect backdrop for that level of intimacy, didn't it?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 The hydrotherapy room is usually a place of silence and recovery, a sanctuary of ice and white tile. But when Elena walks in, the temperature spikes. The air is thick with the scent of wintergreen and unspoken promises, and the cold water of the pool is the only thing keeping them from losing control in the middle of the stadium. The "Second Strike" is here, and this time, there’s no turning back.

The Cold Plunge 

Elena

The playback screen is frozen on the exact moment my life became a tactical catastrophe.

I’ve watched the clip sixty-four times. In the frame, Leo isn't just a catcher; he’s a force of nature. He’s airborne, a blur of gray and grit, his massive body eclipsing the sun as he reaches over the railing to save me. But it’s the look on his face—caught in forty-k resolution—that makes my breath hitch. It isn't professional concern. It’s a terrifying, primal possessiveness.

If I can see it, anyone can.

“Elena? Howard wants the ‘Save’ reel live by five o'clock. We need to capitalize on the Hero Catcher trend while it’s hot.”

I jump, my hand slamming onto the spacebar to pause the video before my assistant can see the way Leo’s thumb was digging into my waist in the aftermath. “On it,” I say, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. “Just finishing the color grade.”

“Great. The fans are calling him ‘Captain America.’ It’s the best engagement we’ve had since the season opener.”

I wait until the door clicks shut before I let out a jagged breath. My body is a traitor. Every time I look at Leo on the screen, I feel the ghost of his hands under my shirt in that parking garage. My skin still feels sensitive, branded by the heat of a man who told me to stay away and then kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him alive.

I’m twenty-four. I’m supposed to be the digital native, the one who understands how to curate a life behind a lens. But Leo Guzman has pulled me out from behind the camera and into a reality that’s far too loud and far too hot.

I spend the afternoon editing. I crop the frames tight, cutting out the lingering looks and the way my hands were shaking against his chest. I curate a version of the truth that keeps us both employed. But as the sun begins to dip below the stadium roof, casting long, orange shadows across the turf, I realize I can’t do this. I can’t be the Sunshine girl during the day and a ghost in a parking garage at night.

I check the schedule. The team is staying in town tonight before a road trip to New York tomorrow. Leo will be in the training room. He’s always in the training room, icing the knees he nearly blew out just to get to me.

I grab my gear and head for the locker room tunnels. The air down here is cooler, smelling of damp concrete and the quiet weight of history. I don't go to the media office. I follow the scent of wintergreen and the low hum of the ice machines.

I find him in the hydrotherapy room. He’s submerged up to his waist in the cold plunge pool, his head leaned back against the tile, his eyes closed. His chest is bare, his skin glistening with moisture, the hard ridges of his abs reflecting the fluorescent lights.

He looks like a god carved from granite, isolated and lonely in his own fortress.

“The Hero Catcher video is live,” I say, my voice echoing off the tile.

Leo doesn't open his eyes, but his jaw tightens. “I told you to stay away, Elena.”

“You also told me you weren't going to stop,” I counter, stepping closer to the edge of the pool. The cold air rising from the water makes the points of my breasts ache against my bra. “Which version of Leo Guzman am I supposed to believe today?”

He opens his eyes then. They’re dark, turbulent, and fixed squarely on me. “The one who’s trying to save your career. Howard is watching. The fans are watching.”

“Then let’s give them something else to look at.” I reach for the hem of my polo. My heart is a drum, a frantic, rhythmic beat that tells me I’m past the point of safety.

Leo’s hands grip the edge of the pool, his knuckles turning white. “Elena, don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don't want the man who jumped over a railing for me? Don't want the only person in this building who sees me as more than a content creator?” I pull the shirt over my head, dropping it to the tile. I’m standing there in just my bra and shorts, the cool air prickling my skin. “I’m not a kid, Leo. And I’m tired of playing by your rules.”

He lets out a low, guttural growl, his gaze sweeping over me with a hunger that feels like a physical touch. He doesn't move, but the water around him ripples with the tension rolling off his body.

“I’m twelve years older than you,” he rasps, his voice sounding like it’s being dragged over gravel. “I have nothing left to give but a broken body and a career that’s flickering out. You’re just starting. You’re the sun, and I’m just… the dirt.”

“Then let’s get dirty,” I whisper.

I step out of my shorts and climb over the edge of the pool. The cold water is a shock, a freezing needle-prick that makes me gasp, but I don’t stop until I’m standing between his legs. The contrast is staggering—the freezing water below, and the furnace of his body in front of me.

Leo’s hands find my waist, hauling me forward until our chests collide. The shock of the cold vanishes, replaced by a heat so intense I think I might melt.

“You have no idea,” he mutters against my lips, his breath hot and smelling of coffee and desperation. “No idea what you do to me.”

“Show me,” I breathe.

He doesn’t wait for a second invitation. His mouth crashes onto mine, his tongue demanding entry as he pulls me up until I’m wrapped around him, my legs hooked over his thick, muscular thighs. The water sloshes over the edge of the pool, a rhythmic slap-slap against the tile that matches the frantic pace of my heart.

His hands are everywhere—on my back, my hips, my hair—as if he’s trying to memorize the feel of me before the world finds out. He’s the Anchor, but right now, he’s a landslide, and I’m the one being swept away.

I reach for the waistband of his compression shorts, my fingers fumbling with the wet fabric. He groans into my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he helps me, kicking the fabric away until there’s nothing between us but the freezing water and a heat that could burn the stadium down.

The cold of the water is a sharp, jagged edge, but it only makes the fire where we’re connected feel more lethal. Leo’s hands are massive against my skin, his fingers splayed across my lower back as he hoists me higher, pinning me against the tiled wall of the pool.

"You're freezing," he mutters, his voice a dark, rough vibration against my chest. "Your skin is like ice, Elena."

"Then warm me up," I breathe, my fingers digging into the hard, wet muscle of his shoulders.

He doesn't need another word. He shifts, his movements powerful and deliberate even in the resistance of the water. He’s spent his life mastering his body, and now every ounce of that strength is focused on me. When he enters me, it’s a slow, agonizing slide that makes the world tilt on its axis. I let out a broken cry, my head falling back against the cold tile as he fills the hollow ache I didn’t even realize I was carrying.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register he uses on the diamond.

I open my eyes, my vision blurred by the steam rising from our bodies and the tears of sheer sensation. He’s staring at me with an intensity that should be terrifying. This isn't about my title anymore. This is the man who just gave up everything for a reflex.

He begins to move, a heavy, rhythmic pace that echoes the sloshing of the water against the pool's edge. Every thrust is deep and grounding, a veteran’s precision meeting a lover’s desperation. The cold water swirls around us, but I’m burning from the inside out. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down until his face is buried in the crook of my shoulder, his ragged breaths hot against my skin.

"Leo," I moan, my name sounding like a prayer and a plea.

"I've got you," he rasps, his grip on my hips tightening until I know I’ll have bruises tomorrow—blue-and-purple reminders that I belong to a man who doesn't know how to be gentle when he’s starving. "I've got you, Sunshine."

The friction, the heat, and the rhythmic thwack of water against stone build until the tension snaps. I shatter first, my body coiling tight as a wave of pure, white-hot pleasure crashes over me. I bury my face in his neck to stifle a scream, my nails marking the skin of his back. Seconds later, Leo follows, a low, guttural roar vibrating through his chest as he spends himself inside me, his forehead dropping to mine as he shakes with the force of it.

We stay like that for a long time, tangled together in the darkening hydrotherapy room, the only sound the hum of the ice machine and our synchronized, heavy breathing.

Finally, Leo pulls back, his eyes searching mine. The Grumpy mask is gone, replaced by something raw and incredibly vulnerable. He reaches up, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip.

"Now what?" he asks softly.

"Now," I say, reaching for my discarded shirt on the tile, "we figure out how to keep the world from finding out that the Wall just came down."

I climb out of the pool, the air hitting my wet skin like a slap. I pull my clothes on, my hands trembling. Leo watches me, his gaze heavy and possessive.

"Elena," he calls out just as I reach the door.

I turn back. He’s still in the water, looking every bit the legend he is, but there’s a new fire in his eyes.

"The road trip to New York," he says, his voice regained its steady, commanding edge. "My hotel room. 1204. Don't be late."

I smile—a slow, sassy smile that I know is going to drive him crazy all through the flight. "I’m never late for a story, Mr. Guzman."

Walking through the tunnels of a major league stadium after you’ve just been thoroughly wrecked by its star catcher is a specific kind of sensory overload. Every flicker of a fluorescent light feels like a spotlight. Every distant clang of a locker door sounds like a gavel.

I keep my head down, my damp hair tucked behind my ears, praying the glow everyone talks about in romance novels isn't an actual, visible aura. My skin is still buzzing, the phantom weight of Leo’s hands and constant pressure on my hips.

I reach the media office and stop at the door, taking a long, steadying breath. Sunshine, I remind myself. Bright, professional, and completely unbothered.

I push the door open. Howard is standing over my desk, looking at my monitor.

"The engagement is through the roof, Elena," he says without looking up. "The veteran saving the girl. It’s the highest-performing clip in the history of the franchise."

"That’s... great, Howard," I say, my voice sounding miraculously steady as I walk to my chair. I sit down, the cool plastic of the seat a sharp contrast to the heat still radiating from between my thighs. "I knew the fans would appreciate the human side of Leo."

Howard turns to look at me then. His eyes are sharp, the eyes of a man who hasn't kept a team profitable for twenty years by being oblivious. He looks at my damp hair, then at the slightly wrinkled collar of my polo.

"You look tired," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "It's been a long day. The road trip to New York starts early tomorrow. Make sure you get some rest."

"I will. Just finishing up the captions for the morning post."

"Good." He walks toward the door but pauses with his hand on the frame. "And Elena? Keep that lens focused on the field. The fans love a hero, but they hate a distraction. Let’s make sure Leo stays a hero."

The door clicks shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small room.

The threat isn't even veiled anymore. It’s a roadmap. If I trip, Leo falls. If Leo falls, I’m the one who gets swept out with the trash.

I turn back to my monitor, but I don't see the analytics or the frame rates. I see the hydrotherapy room. I see the way Leo looked at me—like I was the first thing he’d actually wanted in a decade.

I pull up the travel itinerary for tomorrow. Flight 402. LaGuardia. Hotel: The Pierre.

I find his name on the rooming list. Room 1204.

I shouldn't go. I should stay in my own room, order room service, and pretend the cold plunge pool never happened. I should be the professional Howard expects me to be.

But then I remember the way Leo’s voice sounded when he told me not to be late. The way he called me Sunshine like it was a secret language only the two of us spoke.

I hit 'save on my project and shut down the computer. My heart is a frantic, erratic beat in my chest, a mix of terror and a hunger I can't name.

I’m the girl who’s supposed to manage the vibe of the Boston Beacons. But as I walk out of the stadium and into the cool Boston night, I realize the vibe has shifted.

My composure hasn't just come down. It’s been replaced by something much more dangerous. Something that doesn't care about analytics, or GMs, or the thirty-six-year-old knees of a veteran catcher.

It’s just us. And in New York, there won't be any cold water to keep the fire from spreading.

I reach my car and catch my reflection in the window. My eyes are bright—too bright. I look like a girl who’s found a secret and doesn't know how to keep it.

I start the engine, the hum of the car a low vibration that matches the one under my skin.

"Room 1204," I whisper to the empty car.

I’ve spent my life looking through a viewfinder, trying to find the perfect shot. But for the first time, I don't want to capture the moment.

I want to live in it until it burns me alive.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Author’s Notes: This chapter was all about that high-contrast tension—the freezing cold of the hydro-pool versus the sheer heat of that first real encounter. It’s gritty, it’s visceral, and it’s the moment their "Secret Romance" becomes a tactical catastrophe. How are we feeling after that one?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 A stray ball, a screaming crowd, and a split-second decision that changes the trajectory of the season. When Leo Guzman vaults over that railing to protect Elena, it isn't just a highlight reel moment—it’s a crack in the professional armor he’s worn for fifteen years. The "reflex" save was caught in 4K, and now the whole world is wondering why the veteran catcher just risked his knees for the girl with the camera.

Off the Bag 

Guzman

The sun is a relentless, blinding eye in the center of a cloudless Boston sky. At 12:45 PM, the humidity is already thick enough to chew, and the stadium turf is radiating a heat that makes the air shimmer.

I hate day games. I hate the glare, I hate the way the coffee sits heavy in my gut, and today, I especially hate myself.

I’m standing at the top of the dugout steps, adjusting my sunglasses and trying to find a rhythm that doesn't involve the memory of Elena’s hands on my bare skin. My neck still feels the ghost of her fingers. My mouth still tastes like the citrus of her lip gloss.

A massive, career-ending lapse in judgment, I’d called it.

I’m a damn liar. It wasn’t a lapse; it was a revelation. And that’s the problem.

“Hey, Guz, you okay? You’re staring a hole through the on-deck circle,” Ricci says, slapping me on the shoulder as he passes by with a handful of sunflower seeds.

“Fine,” I growl. “Just the sun.”

“Right. The sun.” Ricci grins, oblivious to the war inside my head. “Check out the new ‘Behind the Scenes’ reel Elena posted this morning. The fans are going nuts. She caught a shot of you wrapping your wrists that looks like a goddamn Nike ad. Very brooding. Very Anchor-like.’”

My stomach does a slow, agonizing roll. She posted it? After I basically chased her out of the training room like a coward, she went back to her office and edited footage of me?

I look toward the camera well on the first-base side. There she is.

She’s wearing a white Beacons polo tucked into high-waisted shorts, her blonde hair pulled into a high, swinging ponytail. She’s laughing at something a security guard said, her gimbal steady in her hand. She looks completely fine. Professional. Unbothered.

I, on the other hand, haven't slept more than three hours, and my heart is currently trying to exit through my ribs.

I turn away, retreating into the shade of the dugout to put on my gear. Chest protector. Shin guards. Mask. I strap the armor on, piece by piece, hoping the weight of it will crush the Leo who wants to apologize—who wants to pull her back into a dark room and finish what we started—and leave only the Catcher.

By the third inning, we’re locked in a scoreless duel with Toronto. The heat is punishing. Behind the plate, it feels like sitting in an oven. Every time I stand up to throw the ball back to Liam, I catch a glimpse of her. She’s moving around the stadium, always in my peripheral vision.

She isn’t just taking photos. She’s working. She’s talking to fans, filming the mascot, doing the job she was hired to do. And she’s ignoring the hell out of me.

It should be exactly what I wanted. It’s infuriating.

Bottom of the fifth. One out. I’m up at the plate.

The Toronto pitcher is a fireballer, a kid with a ninety-nine-mile-per-hour heater and zero control. I dig my cleats into the dirt, my focus finally sharpening. This is the only place the world makes sense. No cameras, no age gaps, no Sunshine. Just the ball and the bat.

He winds up. It’s a slider, breaking low and away. I lay off. Ball one.

The next pitch is a high, tight fastball. It’s a brush-back, a get off my plate message. I don't move. I let it sizzle past my chin, the wind of it cooling the sweat on my face.

I glance toward the dugout. Elena is right there, her camera lens focused squarely on me. She isn't smiling now. Her face is pale, her eyes wide behind the camera. She’s scared for me.

I shouldn't care. I should look at the pitcher.

The third pitch comes in—a hanger. A mistake. I drive it deep into left-center, a line drive that screams off the bat. It’s a double, maybe a triple if my knees hold up. I round first, my lungs burning, and slide into second just as the throw coming in from the outfield skips into the dirt.

Safe.

The crowd is deafening. I stand up, brushing the dirt off my jersey, and look toward the stands. Elena is leaning over the railing, her camera forgotten for a second. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat.

I’m okay, I want to say.

I don’t care, her expression says.

But then, the game takes a turn.

The next batter, Ricci, gets under a high pop-up. It’s a foul ball, screaming back toward the first-base side—directly toward the camera well where Elena is standing.

She isn't looking. She’s busy checking the settings on her camera, her back turned to the field.

“Elena! Look out!” someone yells.

My heart stops. The ball is a white blur, traveling at a hundred miles per hour.

I don't think. I don't consider the rules or the career-ending optics. I’m off second base before the ball even reaches its apex. I’m sprinting across the diamond, my knees screaming, my lungs on fire.

She looks up just as the ball clears the dugout roof. She’s frozen, her gimbal held up like a useless shield.

I’m over the railing in a blur of gray jersey and dirt. I reach over her, my large frame shielding her completely as the ball slams into the concrete wall an inch above my hand.

The impact vibrates through my arm, but I don't feel the pain. I only feel her. She’s tucked against my chest, her small hands clutching my forearms, her breath hitching against my neck.

The stadium goes silent for a split second before a low murmur rippling through the crowd.

“You okay?” I rasp, my face buried in the crook of her neck. I can smell the citrus again.

“Leo,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “You… you left second base.”

I pull back, my hands still gripping the railing on either side of her, effectively pinning her in place. I’m staring at her, my chest heaving, my walls completely dismantled in front of forty thousand people.

“I don’t give a damn about second base,” I growl.

The umpire’s whistle is a shrill, piercing wake-up call that snaps the world back into focus.

“Guzman! Get back to the bag!”

I don’t move. Not for three long, agonizing seconds. I stay braced over her, my shadow swallowing her whole, making sure the trembling in her shoulders has stopped. Elena is looking up at me, her eyes blown wide, searching mine for something I’m not ready to give.

“Go,” she breathes, her fingers digging into the muscle of my forearm one last time before she pushes me away. “Leo, go.”

I vault back over the railing, my cleats hitting the dirt with a heavy thud. I don't look at the stands. I don't look at the dugout where the manager is standing with his arms crossed, his face a mask of pure confusion. I jog back to second base, my heart hammering a rhythm that has nothing to do with the sprint and everything to do with the way her scent is now clinging to my jersey.

The rest of the inning is a blur. Ricci flies out, I’m stranded at second, and I have to trot back to the dugout to put my catching gear on for the top of the sixth.

The silence in the dugout is different now. It’s not the quiet of focus; it’s the quiet of a locker room that just saw a veteran do something completely uncharacteristic.

“Hell of a catch, Guz,” Ricci says, trying to break the tension as I strap on my shin guards. “Didn't know you had that kind of range. Usually, you don't move that fast for anything unless it’s a steak or a championship ring.”

“She wasn't looking,” I say, my voice flat. I keep my eyes on the buckles of my gear. “I wasn't going to let her get clocked by a foul ball.”

“Sure,” Liam says from the end of the bench. He isn't smiling. He’s a pitcher; he lives and dies by observation. He’s looking at me like he’s seeing a new pitch in my repertoire, one he doesn’t know how to catch.

I ignore them both. I grab my mask and head back out to the plate.

But the damage is done. Every time the jumbo-tron shows a replay of the game, they aren't showing my double into left-center. They’re showing the legendary Leo Guzman abandoning his post to shield the Social Media Manager. It’s heroic. It’s humanizing.Leo Guzman abandoning his post to shield the Social Media Manager. It’s heroic. It’s humanizing.

It’s a neon sign pointing right at the thing I’m trying to hide.

The game ends in a 4-3 loss. The clubhouse after a loss is usually a place of grim silence, but today there’s a buzzing energy. I head straight for the showers, wanting to wash the salt, the dirt, and the memory of her off my skin.

I’m halfway through drying off when a shadow falls over my locker.

It’s the GM. Howard. He’s holding a tablet, the screen paused on the exact frame where I’m leaned over the railing, my face inches from Elena’s.

“Guzman,” he says, his voice devoid of its usual joviality. “A word.”

I pull on a t-shirt, not bothering to hide the way my knees buckle slightly as I stand. “If this is about leaving the bag, Howard, I’ll take the fine. It was a reflex.”

“I don’t care about the fine, Leo. You’re a veteran; you know the risks.” He turns the tablet toward me. “But the optics on this? The ‘Social Media’ angle? Elena’s already been flagged by three different outlets asking if there’s a story here. You know the rules about staff and players.”

“There is no story,” I say, my jaw tightening until it aches. “I saved an employee from a concussion. That’s the story.”

Howard looks at me for a long time, his eyes searching for the lie. I’ve been with this team long enough that he knows my tells, but I’ve spent fifteen years perfecting my demeanor. I don't give him anything.

“Good,” he finally says, tapping the tablet against his palm. “Because she’s doing great work. The metrics are up. I’d hate to have to let a talent like that go because of a reflex.”

The threat is veiled, but it’s there. If I touch her, she’s the one who pays. It’s always the staff, never the star.

He walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of the locker room with the taste of copper in my mouth. I grab my bag and head for the exit, taking the long way around to avoid the media office. I can't see her. Not now. Not when the stakes just got a name and a face.

I’m almost to the parking garage when I hear the quick, light step of someone running to catch up.

“Leo! Wait.”

I don't stop. I can't. “Go home, Elena.”

“No,” she says, reaching out and grabbing the strap of my bag, forcing me to swing around.

We’re in the shadows of the concrete pillars, the air cool and smelling of exhaust. She’s still in her work polo, her face flushed from the heat and the run.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes searching mine. “For the ball. For… everything.”

“I told you, it was a reflex,” I say, my voice sounding like it’s being dragged over broken glass. I step into her space, looming over her, trying to use my size to intimidate her into safety. “You need to stay away from me, Sunshine. Howard is already asking questions. You want to keep this job? You keep that camera pointed at someone else.”

“I don’t care about the questions,” she says, her voice surprisingly fierce. She reaches up, her palm landing on my chest, right where it had been last night. “And I think you’re a liar, Leo Guzman. You don't move that fast for a reflex. You move that fast for something you're afraid to lose.”

I look down at her, the age gap, the GM’s threat, and the fifteen years of my career all screaming at me to walk away. But then she stands on her tiptoes, her breath warm against my chin, and my composure doesn't just crack.

It falls.

I should push her away. I should turn my back and walk to my truck, drive home to my empty condo, and ice my knees until I go numb. That’s what the Anchor would do. That’s what a man who wants to keep his forty-million-dollar legacy intact would do.

But my hands have a mind of their own. They drop my bag to the oil-stained concrete and find her waist, pulling her flush against me. The impact of her body hitting mine is the only thing that’s felt right all day.

"You have no idea what you’re playing with," I rasp, my head dipping until our noses brush. "This isn't a reel, Elena. There’s no edit button here. If I touch you again, I’m not stopping."

"Then don't stop," she whispers, her hands sliding up my neck to tangle in the hair at the nape of my head. She’s vibrating, a live wire of adrenaline and defiance. "I’ve spent my whole life being told I’m too young, too fast, too much. But you look at me like I’m the only thing keeping you on your feet."

I let out a low, broken sound—part growl, part surrender. I don't just kiss her; I claim her. My mouth crashes onto hers with the weight of every year I’ve spent playing by the rules. It’s desperate and dirty, a collision in the shadows of the garage that tastes like the citrus of her lips and the salt of my sweat.

I back her up against one of the concrete pillars, my body pinning her to the cold stone. She wraps a leg around my waist, pulling me closer, her soft moans muffled by my lips. The contrast is agonizing—her small, lithe frame against the sheer bulk of my gear-heavy muscles. I’m a beast, and she’s the only thing that makes me feel like a man.

My hand slides under the hem of her Beacons polo, my rough palm meeting the silk of her skin. She gasps into my mouth, her back arching against the pillar as my thumb grazes the underside of her breast. The stakes Howard just laid out—the threats to her job, the optics, the fine—they all burn away in the heat radiating off her.

"Leo," she whimpers, her head falling back as I trail kisses down her throat, marking her. "Someone will see..."

"Let them look," I growl against her skin, my teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below her ear.

But as I reach for the clasp of her bra, the heavy thump-thump of a bass-boosted car stereo echoes through the garage. Headlights sweep across the pillars, illuminating us for a terrifying, jagged second.

I freeze, my body acting as a shield, burying her face into my chest so only the back of my jersey is visible. The car—a flashy red sports car that can only belong to one of the rookies—roars past, the tires screeching as it turns toward the exit.

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

I pull back, my chest heaving, my hands shaking as I smooth her shirt down. Elena looks up at me, her hair a mess, her lips swollen and red. She looks thoroughly kissed, thoroughly ruined, and completely mine.

"Go," I say, my voice a jagged wreck of what it used to be. I grab my bag off the floor, not looking at her. "Go home, Elena. Before I forget that I’m supposed to be the one protecting you."

I don't wait for her to move. I turn and head for my truck, the sound of my own heart beating like a drum in the hollow garage. I don't look back, but I can feel her eyes on me, a constant, burning heat.

I reach my truck and climb in, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. I look in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see the man I’ve been for fifteen years standing behind me. But the person looking back isn't as solid as he used to be. He’s a man who just gave the enemy the keys to the kingdom.

And God help me, I can't wait for her to use them.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Author’s Note: That save wasn't just about baseball; it was a physical manifestation of Leo’s protective streak. Now that the world has seen the "Anchor" move that fast for her, Howard and the front office are going to be circling like sharks. The stakes are officially rising—who’s ready for the fallout?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 A stray ball, a screaming crowd, and a split-second decision that changes the trajectory of the season. When Leo Guzman vaults over that railing to protect Elena, it isn't just a highlight reel moment—it’s a crack in the professional armor he’s worn for fifteen years. The "reflex" save was caught in 4K, and now the whole world is wondering why the veteran catcher just risked his knees for the girl with the camera.

Off the Bag 

Guzman

The sun is a relentless, blinding eye in the center of a cloudless Boston sky. At 12:45 PM, the humidity is already thick enough to chew, and the stadium turf is radiating a heat that makes the air shimmer.

I hate day games. I hate the glare, I hate the way the coffee sits heavy in my gut, and today, I especially hate myself.

I’m standing at the top of the dugout steps, adjusting my sunglasses and trying to find a rhythm that doesn't involve the memory of Elena’s hands on my bare skin. My neck still feels the ghost of her fingers. My mouth still tastes like the citrus of her lip gloss.

A massive, career-ending lapse in judgment, I’d called it.

I’m a damn liar. It wasn’t a lapse; it was a revelation. And that’s the problem.

“Hey, Guz, you okay? You’re staring a hole through the on-deck circle,” Ricci says, slapping me on the shoulder as he passes by with a handful of sunflower seeds.

“Fine,” I growl. “Just the sun.”

“Right. The sun.” Ricci grins, oblivious to the war inside my head. “Check out the new ‘Behind the Scenes’ reel Elena posted this morning. The fans are going nuts. She caught a shot of you wrapping your wrists that looks like a goddamn Nike ad. Very brooding. Very Anchor-like.’”

My stomach does a slow, agonizing roll. She posted it? After I basically chased her out of the training room like a coward, she went back to her office and edited footage of me?

I look toward the camera well on the first-base side. There she is.

She’s wearing a white Beacons polo tucked into high-waisted shorts, her blonde hair pulled into a high, swinging ponytail. She’s laughing at something a security guard said, her gimbal steady in her hand. She looks completely fine. Professional. Unbothered.

I, on the other hand, haven't slept more than three hours, and my heart is currently trying to exit through my ribs.

I turn away, retreating into the shade of the dugout to put on my gear. Chest protector. Shin guards. Mask. I strap the armor on, piece by piece, hoping the weight of it will crush the Leo who wants to apologize—who wants to pull her back into a dark room and finish what we started—and leave only the Catcher.

By the third inning, we’re locked in a scoreless duel with Toronto. The heat is punishing. Behind the plate, it feels like sitting in an oven. Every time I stand up to throw the ball back to Liam, I catch a glimpse of her. She’s moving around the stadium, always in my peripheral vision.

She isn’t just taking photos. She’s working. She’s talking to fans, filming the mascot, doing the job she was hired to do. And she’s ignoring the hell out of me.

It should be exactly what I wanted. It’s infuriating.

Bottom of the fifth. One out. I’m up at the plate.

The Toronto pitcher is a fireballer, a kid with a ninety-nine-mile-per-hour heater and zero control. I dig my cleats into the dirt, my focus finally sharpening. This is the only place the world makes sense. No cameras, no age gaps, no Sunshine. Just the ball and the bat.

He winds up. It’s a slider, breaking low and away. I lay off. Ball one.

The next pitch is a high, tight fastball. It’s a brush-back, a get off my plate message. I don't move. I let it sizzle past my chin, the wind of it cooling the sweat on my face.

I glance toward the dugout. Elena is right there, her camera lens focused squarely on me. She isn't smiling now. Her face is pale, her eyes wide behind the camera. She’s scared for me.

I shouldn't care. I should look at the pitcher.

The third pitch comes in—a hanger. A mistake. I drive it deep into left-center, a line drive that screams off the bat. It’s a double, maybe a triple if my knees hold up. I round first, my lungs burning, and slide into second just as the throw coming in from the outfield skips into the dirt.

Safe.

The crowd is deafening. I stand up, brushing the dirt off my jersey, and look toward the stands. Elena is leaning over the railing, her camera forgotten for a second. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat.

I’m okay, I want to say.

I don’t care, her expression says.

But then, the game takes a turn.

The next batter, Ricci, gets under a high pop-up. It’s a foul ball, screaming back toward the first-base side—directly toward the camera well where Elena is standing.

She isn't looking. She’s busy checking the settings on her camera, her back turned to the field.

“Elena! Look out!” someone yells.

My heart stops. The ball is a white blur, traveling at a hundred miles per hour.

I don't think. I don't consider the rules or the career-ending optics. I’m off second base before the ball even reaches its apex. I’m sprinting across the diamond, my knees screaming, my lungs on fire.

She looks up just as the ball clears the dugout roof. She’s frozen, her gimbal held up like a useless shield.

I’m over the railing in a blur of gray jersey and dirt. I reach over her, my large frame shielding her completely as the ball slams into the concrete wall an inch above my hand.

The impact vibrates through my arm, but I don't feel the pain. I only feel her. She’s tucked against my chest, her small hands clutching my forearms, her breath hitching against my neck.

The stadium goes silent for a split second before a low murmur rippling through the crowd.

“You okay?” I rasp, my face buried in the crook of her neck. I can smell the citrus again.

“Leo,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “You… you left second base.”

I pull back, my hands still gripping the railing on either side of her, effectively pinning her in place. I’m staring at her, my chest heaving, my walls completely dismantled in front of forty thousand people.

“I don’t give a damn about second base,” I growl.

The umpire’s whistle is a shrill, piercing wake-up call that snaps the world back into focus.

“Guzman! Get back to the bag!”

I don’t move. Not for three long, agonizing seconds. I stay braced over her, my shadow swallowing her whole, making sure the trembling in her shoulders has stopped. Elena is looking up at me, her eyes blown wide, searching mine for something I’m not ready to give.

“Go,” she breathes, her fingers digging into the muscle of my forearm one last time before she pushes me away. “Leo, go.”

I vault back over the railing, my cleats hitting the dirt with a heavy thud. I don't look at the stands. I don't look at the dugout where the manager is standing with his arms crossed, his face a mask of pure confusion. I jog back to second base, my heart hammering a rhythm that has nothing to do with the sprint and everything to do with the way her scent is now clinging to my jersey.

The rest of the inning is a blur. Ricci flies out, I’m stranded at second, and I have to trot back to the dugout to put my catching gear on for the top of the sixth.

The silence in the dugout is different now. It’s not the quiet of focus; it’s the quiet of a locker room that just saw a veteran do something completely uncharacteristic.

“Hell of a catch, Guz,” Ricci says, trying to break the tension as I strap on my shin guards. “Didn't know you had that kind of range. Usually, you don't move that fast for anything unless it’s a steak or a championship ring.”

“She wasn't looking,” I say, my voice flat. I keep my eyes on the buckles of my gear. “I wasn't going to let her get clocked by a foul ball.”

“Sure,” Liam says from the end of the bench. He isn't smiling. He’s a pitcher; he lives and dies by observation. He’s looking at me like he’s seeing a new pitch in my repertoire, one he doesn’t know how to catch.

I ignore them both. I grab my mask and head back out to the plate.

But the damage is done. Every time the jumbo-tron shows a replay of the game, they aren't showing my double into left-center. They’re showing the legendary Leo Guzman abandoning his post to shield the Social Media Manager. It’s heroic. It’s humanizing.Leo Guzman abandoning his post to shield the Social Media Manager. It’s heroic. It’s humanizing.

It’s a neon sign pointing right at the thing I’m trying to hide.

The game ends in a 4-3 loss. The clubhouse after a loss is usually a place of grim silence, but today there’s a buzzing energy. I head straight for the showers, wanting to wash the salt, the dirt, and the memory of her off my skin.

I’m halfway through drying off when a shadow falls over my locker.

It’s the GM. Howard. He’s holding a tablet, the screen paused on the exact frame where I’m leaned over the railing, my face inches from Elena’s.

“Guzman,” he says, his voice devoid of its usual joviality. “A word.”

I pull on a t-shirt, not bothering to hide the way my knees buckle slightly as I stand. “If this is about leaving the bag, Howard, I’ll take the fine. It was a reflex.”

“I don’t care about the fine, Leo. You’re a veteran; you know the risks.” He turns the tablet toward me. “But the optics on this? The ‘Social Media’ angle? Elena’s already been flagged by three different outlets asking if there’s a story here. You know the rules about staff and players.”

“There is no story,” I say, my jaw tightening until it aches. “I saved an employee from a concussion. That’s the story.”

Howard looks at me for a long time, his eyes searching for the lie. I’ve been with this team long enough that he knows my tells, but I’ve spent fifteen years perfecting my demeanor. I don't give him anything.

“Good,” he finally says, tapping the tablet against his palm. “Because she’s doing great work. The metrics are up. I’d hate to have to let a talent like that go because of a reflex.”

The threat is veiled, but it’s there. If I touch her, she’s the one who pays. It’s always the staff, never the star.

He walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of the locker room with the taste of copper in my mouth. I grab my bag and head for the exit, taking the long way around to avoid the media office. I can't see her. Not now. Not when the stakes just got a name and a face.

I’m almost to the parking garage when I hear the quick, light step of someone running to catch up.

“Leo! Wait.”

I don't stop. I can't. “Go home, Elena.”

“No,” she says, reaching out and grabbing the strap of my bag, forcing me to swing around.

We’re in the shadows of the concrete pillars, the air cool and smelling of exhaust. She’s still in her work polo, her face flushed from the heat and the run.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes searching mine. “For the ball. For… everything.”

“I told you, it was a reflex,” I say, my voice sounding like it’s being dragged over broken glass. I step into her space, looming over her, trying to use my size to intimidate her into safety. “You need to stay away from me, Sunshine. Howard is already asking questions. You want to keep this job? You keep that camera pointed at someone else.”

“I don’t care about the questions,” she says, her voice surprisingly fierce. She reaches up, her palm landing on my chest, right where it had been last night. “And I think you’re a liar, Leo Guzman. You don't move that fast for a reflex. You move that fast for something you're afraid to lose.”

I look down at her, the age gap, the GM’s threat, and the fifteen years of my career all screaming at me to walk away. But then she stands on her tiptoes, her breath warm against my chin, and my composure doesn't just crack.

It falls.

I should push her away. I should turn my back and walk to my truck, drive home to my empty condo, and ice my knees until I go numb. That’s what the Anchor would do. That’s what a man who wants to keep his forty-million-dollar legacy intact would do.

But my hands have a mind of their own. They drop my bag to the oil-stained concrete and find her waist, pulling her flush against me. The impact of her body hitting mine is the only thing that’s felt right all day.

"You have no idea what you’re playing with," I rasp, my head dipping until our noses brush. "This isn't a reel, Elena. There’s no edit button here. If I touch you again, I’m not stopping."

"Then don't stop," she whispers, her hands sliding up my neck to tangle in the hair at the nape of my head. She’s vibrating, a live wire of adrenaline and defiance. "I’ve spent my whole life being told I’m too young, too fast, too much. But you look at me like I’m the only thing keeping you on your feet."

I let out a low, broken sound—part growl, part surrender. I don't just kiss her; I claim her. My mouth crashes onto hers with the weight of every year I’ve spent playing by the rules. It’s desperate and dirty, a collision in the shadows of the garage that tastes like the citrus of her lips and the salt of my sweat.

I back her up against one of the concrete pillars, my body pinning her to the cold stone. She wraps a leg around my waist, pulling me closer, her soft moans muffled by my lips. The contrast is agonizing—her small, lithe frame against the sheer bulk of my gear-heavy muscles. I’m a beast, and she’s the only thing that makes me feel like a man.

My hand slides under the hem of her Beacons polo, my rough palm meeting the silk of her skin. She gasps into my mouth, her back arching against the pillar as my thumb grazes the underside of her breast. The stakes Howard just laid out—the threats to her job, the optics, the fine—they all burn away in the heat radiating off her.

"Leo," she whimpers, her head falling back as I trail kisses down her throat, marking her. "Someone will see..."

"Let them look," I growl against her skin, my teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below her ear.

But as I reach for the clasp of her bra, the heavy thump-thump of a bass-boosted car stereo echoes through the garage. Headlights sweep across the pillars, illuminating us for a terrifying, jagged second.

I freeze, my body acting as a shield, burying her face into my chest so only the back of my jersey is visible. The car—a flashy red sports car that can only belong to one of the rookies—roars past, the tires screeching as it turns toward the exit.

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

I pull back, my chest heaving, my hands shaking as I smooth her shirt down. Elena looks up at me, her hair a mess, her lips swollen and red. She looks thoroughly kissed, thoroughly ruined, and completely mine.

"Go," I say, my voice a jagged wreck of what it used to be. I grab my bag off the floor, not looking at her. "Go home, Elena. Before I forget that I’m supposed to be the one protecting you."

I don't wait for her to move. I turn and head for my truck, the sound of my own heart beating like a drum in the hollow garage. I don't look back, but I can feel her eyes on me, a constant, burning heat.

I reach my truck and climb in, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. I look in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see the man I’ve been for fifteen years standing behind me. But the person looking back isn't as solid as he used to be. He’s a man who just gave the enemy the keys to the kingdom.

And God help me, I can't wait for her to use them.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Author’s Note: That save wasn't just about baseball; it was a physical manifestation of Leo’s protective streak. Now that the world has seen the "Anchor" move that fast for her, Howard and the front office are going to be circling like sharks. The stakes are officially rising—who’s ready for the fallout?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 A stray ball, a screaming crowd, and a split-second decision that changes the trajectory of the season. When Leo Guzman vaults over that railing to protect Elena, it isn't just a highlight reel moment—it’s a crack in the professional armor he’s worn for fifteen years. The "reflex" save was caught in 4K, and now the whole world is wondering why the veteran catcher just risked his knees for the girl with the camera.

The First Strike 

Elena

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in three years of managing the digital souls of professional athletes, it’s that the bigger the man, the bigger the armor. And Leo Guzman? He isn’t just wearing armor; he’s built a fortress, complete with a moat and a "No Trespassing" sign written in pure, unadulterated grump.

I sit in the media office an hour after the final out, the glow of my dual monitors the only light in the room. The stadium is quiet now, that eerie, hollow silence that follows a win. We took the game 4-2, and the footage I caught is gold.

I scroll through the burst shots I took of Guzman behind the plate. In the high-def RAW files, you can see everything the fans miss. You can see the way his eyes narrow behind the cage of his mask, calculating the batter’s stance like a grandmaster playing chess. You can see the tension in his massive shoulders, and the way his hands—thick and scarred from years of work—steady the younger pitchers with just a pat on the hip.

He’s magnificent. He’s also a total pain in my ass.

I click on a shot I took in the dugout before the game. It’s a close-up of him wrapping his wrists. The light hits the hard line of his jaw and the slight silver at his temples. I shouldn’t linger on it. I’m twenty-four, and I’m a professional. I’m here to build a brand, not to crush on a veteran catcher who looks like he’d rather eat his catching mitt than give me a ten-second soundbite.

But when he looked at me in the dugout—when he called me a "ghost"—there was a flicker of something in his eyes. It wasn't just irritation. It was a challenge.

"Focus, Elena," I mutter to myself, dragging a clip of Ricci doing a victory dance into the editing timeline.

My phone buzzes on the desk. It’s a text from my roommate, Sarah. How’s the new job? Did the 'Anchor' crumble yet?

I huff a laugh and type back: The Anchor is reinforced with steel and stubbornness. But I think I found a loose link.

I turn back to the screen, but I can’t stop thinking about the way his skin felt against mine when I handed him that water. It was just a second—a fraction of a heartbeat—but it felt like a static shock. He’s so grounded, so heavy in his own skin, that standing next to him makes me feel like I’m floating away.

I’m the "Sunshine" girl. That’s my brand. I’m the one who brings the "vibe" and the "energy," but being around Leo makes that persona feel exhausting. He doesn’t want the energy. He wants the truth.

I pull up the team’s content calendar. Tomorrow is an optional practice day, which means the veterans will be in the training room and the weight room while the rookies are out on the field. It’s the perfect time to catch him without the crowd.

If I can get him to sit down for a "Five Questions" segment, the engagement would be through the roof. The fans are obsessed with him because he’s so mysterious. He doesn’t do Instagram. He doesn’t do Twitter. He just plays, wins, and disappears.

I want to be the one who makes him stay.

I save my project and head for the door, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. As I pass the training room, I see a sliver of light under the door.

I shouldn’t. It’s late. He’s probably gone.

But my hand is already on the handle.

I push it open just an inch. The room smells of liniment and wintergreen. Leo is there, sitting on a training table with his back to me. He’s shirtless, a bag of ice strapped to his shoulder and another to his knee.

He looks smaller like this—not in size, because the man is built like a mountain range—but in spirit. He’s slumped over, his head in his hands, the weight of the game finally catching up to him.

I feel a pang of something sharp in my chest. It isn’t just content anymore.

"You know," I say softly, pushing the door open all the way. "Most people go home after work."

He doesn't jump. He just slowly lifts his head, his dark eyes meeting mine in the mirror across the room. He looks exhausted. He looks human.

"And most people," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in the small room, "know how to take a hint, Elena."

"I’m not most people," I counter, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. "I’m the girl who’s going to make you a star on the internet."

"I don't want to be a star," he grunts, wincing as he adjusts the ice pack on his shoulder. "I want to be able to walk to my car without my meniscus screaming at me."

I walk over, stopping just a few feet away. Up close, the age gap feels like a physical canyon between us. He’s lived a whole life on this field. He has scars I haven't even dreamed of yet.

"Let me help," I say, reaching for the strap of the ice pack that’s slipping down his arm.

"Elena—"

"Shh," I whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I’m just fixing the foundation, Leo. Remember?"

As my fingers touch the cool skin of his shoulder, he goes perfectly still. The air in the room shifts, turning heavy and thick with the things we aren't saying. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer power of the man, and for the first time, I wonder if I’m the one who’s actually in over her head.

He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even breathe. He just sits there, a statue of corded muscle and bruised skin, while my fingers work the Velcro strap. My touch is light, but the contact feels like it’s searing through my fingertips.

"You shouldn't be in here," he says. The growl is still there, but the edge is gone, replaced by a rasp that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "It’s past midnight, Elena. The cleanup crew is already halfway through the bleachers."

"Then it’s a good thing I’m not afraid of the dark," I whisper. I tighten the strap over his bicep, my knuckles grazing the warm, damp skin of his chest. He’s a map of a decade-long war—faint white scars from surgery, the angry red mark where a foul tip must have caught him earlier tonight. "You’re a mess, Leo. How do you even stand up after nine innings of this?"

He finally moves, but it isn’t to retreat. He rotates on the table, forcing me to step back or be swallowed by the space between his knees. I don't step back. He looks up at me, his face inches from mine, and the sheer masculinity of him—the scent of salt, wintergreen, and something purely him—makes my head swim.

"I stand up because I have to," he says, his voice dropping into a dark, private register. "Because the second I don't, some twenty-two-year-old kid is waiting to take my spot. In this game, you’re only as good as your last game."

"I’m not a scout," I say, my voice trembling just enough to betray me. I reach out, my palm landing on the center of his chest, right over his heart. It’s thumping—a slow, heavy rhythm that feels like a war drum. "I’m not looking for a reason to replace you."

Leo’s hand comes up, his thick fingers wrapping around my wrist. His grip isn't aggressive, but it’s absolute. He could snap me like a twig, but instead, he just holds me there, pinned against the heat of his skin.

"Then what are you looking for?" he asks. His dark eyes drop to my mouth, and the hunger there is so raw it makes my knees go weak. "Why are you following me into empty rooms, Elena? You want a story? Or are you looking for trouble?"

"Maybe I’m looking for the man who calls me 'Sunshine' when he thinks I’m not listening," I breathe. I lean in, my breath hitting the stubble on his jaw. "Maybe I want to see if the Anchor is as cold as everyone says it is."

He lets out a low, guttural sound—half-laugh, half-groan. "Trust me," he rasps, his grip on my wrist tightening as he pulls me a fraction of an inch closer. "I am anything but cold right now."

The air in the training room is stifling, thick with the kind of tension that usually precedes a disaster. I can see the internal battle behind his eyes—the veteran catcher trying to be the adult, the professional, the man who knows better, clashing with the man who hasn't been touched like this in a very long time.

He lets go of my wrist, but only so his hand can slide up to the back of my neck. His palm is massive, his fingers tangling in the loose strands of my hair. It’s a possessive, heavy move that tells me exactly where his head is.

"I’m twelve years older than you," he mutters, more to himself than to me. "I’ve got teammates who have sisters your age. This is a bad idea. A tactical catastrophe."

"I’ve always been a fan of catastrophes," I whisper, my eyes fluttering shut as his thumb traces the line of my jaw. "And I don't remember asking for a strategy report, Leo."

He growls, a sound of pure surrender, and then his mouth is on mine.

It isn't a gentle kiss. It isn't a "getting to know you" exploration. It’s a collision. It’s fifteen years of suppressed frustration and three years of loneliness crashing into the girl who dared to look behind the mask. He tastes like the water I gave him and the dark intensity of the night.

His hand on my neck pulls me in deeper, while his other hand finds my waist, hauling me up against the edge of the training table until I’m fully standing between his thighs. The contrast is staggering—my softness against his hard, athletic frame; my frantic energy against his grounded, overwhelming strength.

I moan into his mouth, my hands sliding up his back, feeling the ridges of his spine and the heat radiating off his skin. He’s so big, so solid, that I feel completely enveloped, hidden from the rest of the world in this small, shadowed room.

He pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Elena," he warns, his voice sounding like it’s being dragged over gravel. "If we don't stop now, I’m not going to be able to let you walk out that door."

"Then don't," I whisper, my hands reaching for the hem of my shirt. "Don't let me go, Leo."

Leo’s hands are like brands on my skin, his fingers digging into my waist as if he’s trying to anchor himself. He looks at me—really looks at me—and I see the war of the decades playing out in his eyes. He wants me. He wants to pull me onto that table and forget that he’s a veteran with a legacy to protect and I’m the girl hired to make sure he looks good on a smartphone screen.

"You're going to be the death of me, Sunshine," he rasps, his voice thick with a dark, heavy hunger.

I reach for the button of my jeans, my eyes locked on his, but before I can find the metal, the heavy clack-clack of dress shoes echoes in the hallway outside.

Leo freezes. His grip on my waist turns from possessive to protective in a heartbeat, hauling me back so I’m shielded by the bulk of his body.

"Guzman? You still in there?" It’s the General Manager’s voice. Low, authoritative, and way too close.

The air in the room vanishes. My heart isn't just thumping now; it’s a panicked bird hitting the bars of a cage. If he walks in and sees the Social Media Manager standing between the star catcher’s knees at one in the morning, my career is over before I’ve even finished my first reel.

Leo doesn't panic. He’s the Anchor for a reason.

"Yeah," he calls out, his voice miraculously steady, though his eyes are still dark with the heat of the last five minutes. "Just icing down. Be out in ten."

"Good. Don't stay too late. We need those knees functioning for the day game tomorrow." The footsteps retreat, fading into the distance of the concrete tunnel.

The silence that follows is deafening. The spell is broken, shattered into a thousand jagged pieces by the reality of our world. Leo lets go of me, his hands dropping to the training table as he exhales a long, shaky breath.

"Go," he says, not looking at me.

"Leo—"

"Elena, go. Now." He looks up, and the wall he put up is back. It’s higher and thicker than it was before. "That was a mistake. A massive, career-ending lapse in judgment."

"It didn't feel like a mistake," I whisper, my lips still tingling from the pressure of his.

"It doesn't matter how it felt," he grunts, reaching for his discarded shirt and pulling it over his head with a wince. "You have a job to do, and I have a season to finish. We don't do this. I don't do this."

I stand there for a moment, feeling the cold air of the training room settle into the spaces where his heat used to be. I want to argue. I want to tell him that he can't just kiss me like that and then hide behind his fear.

But I see the way his hands are shaking as he reaches for his gym bag. He’s rattled. The legendary Leo Guzman is terrified of what just happened.

"Fine," I say, my voice regaining its "Sunshine" professional edge, even if it hurts. "I'll see you at the stadium tomorrow, Mr. Guzman. I’ll make sure to stay behind the camera."

I don't wait for him to respond. I turn and walk out, my shoes clicking a lonely rhythm on the concrete.

I reach the media office and collapse into my chair, my head spinning. I look at the monitor, at the photo of Leo wrapping his wrists. He was right about one thing—this is a catastrophe.

I pull up my personal notes app—the one I use to vent when the job gets too much. I don't write about the light or the framing. I write one sentence that I know I’ll never post.

Observation: The Wall didn't crumble. He just opened the gate, and I’m the one who’s trapped inside.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Author’s Outro: That save wasn't just about baseball; it was a physical manifestation of Leo’s protective streak. Now that the world has seen the "Anchor" move that fast for her, Howard and the front office are going to be circling like sharks. The stakes are officially rising—who’s ready for the fallout?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 Elena is used to being the observer, the girl safely tucked behind the lens of a Sony A7R. She knows how to curate a "vibe" and edit out the flaws, but no amount of post-production can fix the way Leo Guzman’s glare makes her heart stutter. He’s the league's most immovable force, and today, her lens is fixed squarely on the one man who wants nothing to do with her social media circus.

Focus and Friction

Guzman

My knees have a vocabulary of their own, and today, they’re screaming in a language that sounds suspiciously like retirement.

Every time I stand up from my locker, there’s a symphony of pops and cracks that reminds me I’ve spent fifteen years crouching behind home plate, absorbing the impact of ninety-five-mile-per-hour fastballs and the weight of a franchise that expects me to be the anchor.

I reach for the bottle of ibuprofen in my locker, shaking out two pills and swallowing them dry. The clubhouse is a hive of chaos. The Philly trip was a mess—not on the scoreboard, we won the series—but in the atmosphere. Finn and Liam are acting like they’ve shared a secret that the rest of us aren't privy to, and as the veteran catcher, it’s my job to manage the battery. It’s hard to manage a battery when the pitcher and the center fielder are vibrating on a frequency that feels like a live wire.

I just want a quiet pre-game. I want my heat rub, my coffee, and my scouting reports. I don't want a "vibe," and I definitely don't want a camera.

"Guzman! My man! Look alive!"

I don't even have to turn around to know who it is. Ricci. The rookie shortstop has enough energy to power the stadium lights, and he’s currently trailing after someone I haven't seen before.

I slowly turn, leaning my hip against my locker. Standing next to Ricci is a woman who looks like she was manufactured out of pure sunlight and caffeine. She’s holding a gimbal with a sleek camera attached to it, a ring light clipped to her phone, and a smile that makes my teeth ache.

"Guzman," Ricci chirps, "This is Elena. She’s the new Social Media Manager. She’s doing a 'Day in the Life' series for the Beacons' TikTok."

Elena steps forward, her eyes bright and observant. She’s younger than me—a lot younger. She has that polished, effortless look of someone who knows exactly how to frame a shot to make it look like a dream. "It’s nice to finally meet the legendary 'Anchor' in person," she says, her voice smooth and surprisingly steady. She doesn't look intimidated by the fact that I’m six-foot-three and currently wearing a scowl that usually scares away most reporters.

"It’s Guzman," I grunt, turning back to my locker. "And the 'Anchor' doesn't do TikToks."

"Oh, I’m not asking for a dance, Mr. Guzman," she says, and I can hear the suppressed amusement in her tone. "I’m asking for authenticity. The fans want to see the grit. The prep. The stuff that makes you the best catcher in the league."

I pull my jersey over my head, the fabric muffled against my ears for a second before I pop through the collar. "The 'grit' isn't for public consumption. It’s for the diamond. Get Ricci to do it. He loves the attention."

"I already got Ricci," she counters, stepping into my peripheral vision. She’s close enough that I can smell her—something bright and citrusy that cuts through the scent of leather and old sweat in the room. "And Ricci isn't the heart of the defense. You are."

I pause, my hand hovering over my catching mitt. I look at her properly then. She isn't just a girl with a camera; she’s a strategist in her own right. She’s trying to play me.

"I have a game to prep for, Elena," I say, using her name for the first time. It feels strange on my tongue—too soft for this room. "Go find someone who isn't busy trying to keep their knees from exploding."

She doesn't flinch. She actually steps closer, tilting her head as she looks at the bottle of ibuprofen still sitting on the shelf of my locker. "Maybe that’s the story," she whispers, her voice dropping so Ricci can't hear. "The veteran who plays through the pain to keep his team on top. That’s more viral than a dance trend, don’t you think?"

I feel a jolt of something that isn't pain. It’s a spark of pure, unadulterated irritation mixed with a curiosity I haven't felt in years. She’s bold. Too bold for her own good.

"Out," I say, pointing toward the door. "Now."

She smiles—a slow, knowing thing that tells me she’s already won this round. She backs away, raising her camera for a split second and clicking a single photo before I can stop her.

"See you at batting practice, Guzman," she calls out over her shoulder as she disappears into the hallway.

I stare at the space where she was standing, my heart rate doing something it shouldn't be doing an hour before first pitch. I’ve spent my whole career building a wall that no one can get over.

But as I grab my mitt and head for the tunnel, I have a sinking feeling that Elena just found a crack.

The tunnel to the dugout is a concrete throat, cool and damp, and usually, it’s where I find my focus. I count my steps. I adjust my cup. I become the machine the Beacons pay forty million dollars to keep behind the plate.

But today, the "Day in the Life" girl is a ghost in my head.

I emerge into the afternoon sun, the heat of the field hitting me like a physical blow. The stadium is still mostly empty, just the grounds crew and a few early birds in the bleachers, but the air is already thick with the smell of mown grass and popcorn.

"Guzman! Target practice!"

Liam is on the mound, his arm looking loose and lethal. He looks at me, then his eyes flick toward the sidelines. I follow his gaze.

She’s there. Elena. She’s swapped the gimbal for a long-lens camera, crouched near the netting like a hunter. The way she’s positioned—low to the ground, jeans tight over her thighs, hair pulled back into a messy knot—isn't just "sunny." It’s professional. She’s tracking Liam’s delivery with a precision that makes me realize she wasn't kidding about wanting the grit.

I don't go to her. I go to Liam.

"You're high on the release," I mutter as I squat into my stance, the familiar groan of my patellar tendons providing the soundtrack.

"I’m fine, Guz," Liam says, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looks more relaxed than he did in Philly, almost glowing. It’s annoying. "The ball is moving exactly where I want it."

"It’s drifting. Fix it."

I snap my mitt shut on a ninety-eight-mile-per-hour heater, the sound echoing through the quiet park. Usually, that sound—the pop of perfect contact—is the only drug I need. But as I throw the ball back, I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye.

Elena hasn't moved, but her camera is pointed at me now. She’s catching the grit. The sweat rolling down my neck, the way my jaw sets when the pain in my knees flares, the tension in my forearms.

She’s too young to understand what she’s looking at. She sees a story; I see a ticking clock.

I’m thirty-six. In baseball years, that’s ancient. In catcher years, I’m a fossil. She looks like she’s barely twenty-four, all smooth skin and "viral" potential. She belongs in the world of filtered photos and fifteen-second clips. I belong in the dirt.

By the time batting practice ends, I’m fuming. Not because of the game, but because everywhere I turn, she’s there. She’s in the dugout, filming Ricci’s handshake. She’s near the bat rack, catching a candid shot of Finn staring at the scoreboard.

She’s like a summer storm—impossible to ignore and moving too fast to catch.

I’m heading toward the water cooler when she intercepts me. She doesn't have the camera up this time. She has a bottle of electrolyte water—the expensive kind the trainers keep in the back.

"You're dehydrated," she says, holding it out.

I stare at the bottle, then at her. "I have my own water."

"The one you left by the weight rack? It’s room temperature now." She nudges the cold bottle toward my chest. "Take it, Guzman. You’re the Anchor,' remember? If the foundation gets dry, the whole thing crumbles."

I take the bottle, our fingers brushing for a fraction of a second. Her skin is warm—not the sweaty, desperate heat of the field, but a soft, human warmth that makes me feel suddenly, sharply aware of how cold I’ve been lately.

I pull back, my grip tightening on the plastic. "You think you've got me figured out because you read a media guide?"

"I don't need a media guide to see a man who’s tired," she says softly. The "sunny" mask slips for a second, and I see something in her eyes that isn't for TikTok. It’s empathy. And it’s the last thing I want from her. "I’m not the enemy, Leo."

My birth name. No one calls me Leo. To the fans, I’m the Anchor. To the guys, I’m Guz.

"Don't call me that," I say, my voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that usually ends conversations.

"Why? Because it makes you feel like a person instead of a position?" She doesn't back down. If anything, she steps into my space, challenging me. "I’m here to tell the story of the Boston Beacons. And whether you like it or not, Leo Guzman, you’re the most interesting chapter I’ve found."

She turns and walks away before I can say another word, her ponytail swinging with a rhythm that mocks my lack of a comeback.

I unscrew the cap and take a long, cold pull of the water. It tastes like citrus and defiance.

I look toward the center field scoreboard. Three hours until first pitch. Three hours to get my head back in the game and out of the media office.

But as I watch her disappear into the tunnel, I know I’m in trouble. Because for the first time in fifteen years, I’m not thinking about the count. I’m thinking about the girl.

I find a corner of the dugout that’s relatively shadowed, a rare pocket of peace as the stadium speakers begin their pre-game thump. I’m wrapping my wrists, the athletic tape biting into my skin with a familiar, grounding pressure.

"The light is perfect in here."

I don't even look up. "Are you a ghost, or do you just enjoy haunting me?"

Elena doesn't answer with words. Instead, I hear the soft click-whirr of her camera lens adjusting. I look up then, catching her through the viewfinder. She’s leaning against the railing, her back to the field where the grounds crew is finishing the chalk lines. The stadium lights have just kicked on, humming to life and casting long, cinematic shadows across the concrete.

"I’m a storyteller, Leo. And right now, the story is the calm before the storm." She lowers the camera, letting it hang by its strap. "You look like a gladiator preparing for the arena."

"I’m a man putting on tape so my joints don't fail," I grumble, though the 'gladiator' comment hits a chord of vanity I usually keep buried. "Go take pictures of the rookies. They actually want to be seen."

"Everyone wants to be seen," she says, her voice barely audible over the growing crowd noise. She walks over, sitting on the bench a few feet away. She’s close enough that I can see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose and the way her eyes aren't just brown—they’re the color of expensive bourbon. "Some people just want to be seen for the right things."

I stop winding the tape. "And what do you think I want to be seen for?"

"The weight," she says simply. "The fact that you carry this entire pitching staff on your shoulders and you never ask for a break. You’re thirty-six, and you’re still the first one in the dirt and the last one out. I think you’re afraid that if people see the man behind the mask, they’ll realize you’re human. And if you’re human, you can be replaced."

The air in my lungs feels suddenly thin. She’s too sharp. She’s a decade younger than me, living in a world of digital filters, yet she just stripped me down to the bone with one observation.

"You're overstepping," I say, my voice like gravel.

"Maybe," she whispers. She stands up, smoothing her hands over her jeans. "Or maybe I'm the only one in this stadium who isn't looking at your stats. Good luck tonight, Anchor. Don't forget to breathe."

She disappears toward the camera well before I can respond, leaving behind that citrus scent and a silence that feels louder than the fans.

Five minutes later, the national anthem begins.

I stand on the top step of the dugout, my hat over my heart. The anthem usually acts as my mental trigger—the moment Leo Guzman dies and 'The Anchor takes over. I scan the field. I see Finn in center field, already bouncing on the balls of his feet. I see Liam on the mound, staring at the rubber with a cold, terrifying focus.

And then I see her.

She’s crouched behind the backstop, her long lens pointed toward the plate. She isn't looking at the flag; she’s looking at me through the glass.

Play ball.

The umpire’s call cuts through the air, and I trot out to the plate. The walk feels different tonight. My knees still ache, and the weight of the chest protector feels heavy, but there’s a new kind of electricity under my skin.

I drop into my crouch, the dirt puffing up around my cleats. Liam looks in, waiting for the sign. I hold up one finger—the fastball. I want to feel the sting of it. I want the world to be simple again.

But as Liam winds up and the first pitch of the game screams toward my mitt, I don't see the ball. For a split second, I see a flash of blonde hair and a knowing smile in the front row.

Thwack.

The ball hits my mitt with a sound like a gunshot. The umpire yells "Strike!" and the crowd goes wild.

I throw the ball back to the mound, my movements mechanical and perfect. But inside, I'm shaking. I’m the veteran. I’m the one in control.

But as I hunker down for the next pitch, I realize I’m not just playing a game anymore. I’m being watched. And for the first time in my career, I’m terrified of what she’s going to see.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Author’s Outro: And just like that, the "Sunshine" girl and the grumpy "Anchor" have officially collided. I wanted to establish that visceral tension early on—the kind of friction that you can feel through the screen. Elena is playing with fire, and Leo looks like he’s ready to let it burn. What did you think of that first look?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix