Playing Dirty

Carmen

I told Ava this was a bad idea. She said I needed fun. I said I needed therapy.

She won.

Obviously.

So here I am—back in Savannah after seven years away, sitting in a stadium full of half-drunk fans, pretending I’m not seconds from walking out.

It smells like beer, fried food, and hot summer skin. The air is thick enough to chew, the kind that sticks to your neck and makes everything feel a little too alive.

Floodlights burn across the diamond, painting the players in gold and shadow.

The Coastal League calls this show Banana Ball—half sport, half performance art. They dance, they taunt, they rip shirts, they flirt with cameras.

It’s baseball for people with short attention spans and a thirst for chaos. It's basically foreplay in uniform.

Ava’s beside me, vibrating in her seat, half in love with every man on the field.

“I can’t believe you’ve never been to one of these! Wait until you see Diago Cruz—he’s pure sex with a bat.” She swoons, her voice cutting through the roar of the crowd as the teams take the field.

Then she’s on her feet—eyes wide, mouth open, practically drooling.

She elbows me hard. “Oh my god, there he is. Diago Cruz.”

Yeah. I see him.

Hard not to.

I knew him long before the world did.

Diago Cruz, the Savannah Heatwaves’ golden sin. Tattoos crawling up his neck and down his arms.

Black-and-gold jersey clinging to a body built for bad ideas.

That smirk that always made me wonder if he was just teasing—or if he’d actually been one step away from wrecking my entire life.

He used to call me trouble.

Never touched.

Never tried.

Not while Kai was around.

Now he’s the league’s rockstar—the headline act everyone warns you about too late.

The crowd loses it when he walks out. He twirls his bat, breaks into some choreographed routine with his teammates—hips rolling, teammates clapping, bass thundering through the bleachers. And the fans lose their minds.

The noise vibrates through my ribs. I shouldn't be staring.

But I am.

It’s obscene.

It’s art.

It’s everything I used to pretend didn’t get to me. My thighs press together on instinct.

Pathetic muscle memory.

The heat between my legs stirs, uninvited, as I watch his body move. Sweat already glistens on his skin under the lights, his jersey stretching tight across his chest with each thrust of his hips.

The crowd chants his name, and he feeds off it, grinding the air like he's fucking the night itself.

Ava grabs my arm, her nails digging in with excitement.

“Look at him go! God, I’d let him do anything to me right here in the stands.”

I force a laugh, but it comes out shaky. “You’re insane. It’s just a game.”

My words feel hollow.

Inside, my heart hammers, memories flooding back—late nights whispering about what could be, his breath hot on my ear while Kai slept down the hall. The forbidden pull that almost broke us all.

Diago steps up to the plate, bat in hand, but instead of swinging, he turns to the stands.

His eyes lift, scanning the crowds of adoring fans.

He stops.

Right on me.

That grin falters for a heartbeat. Then it twists slow, deliberate, dirty.

He tips his cap like he’s staking a claim, tongue sliding along his bottom lip.

The gesture hits me low in the gut, a promise of things he never delivered but always dangled.

Heat floods my face.

My core.

I shift in my seat, the rough plastic biting into my thighs as I clench them tighter. My pussy aches with a dull throb, wet heat building despite my best efforts to ignore it.

Seven years, and one look from him unravels me.

He remembers.

Of course he does.

That night we almost crossed the line, his hand brushing my hip, his voice rough as he said,

“You’re playing with fire, Carmen.”

Ava squeals, oblivious. “He’s looking this way! Holy shit, do you think he sees me?”

“Coincidence,” I lie, staring anywhere but him.

If he remembers how that almost ended last time, he’ll look away fast.

But he doesn’t.

His gaze lingers, dark and hungry.

The announcer’s voice slices through the chaos, booming over the speakers like a thunderclap.

“And batting for the Carolina Cougars—your MVP, Kai Maddox!”

The energy in the stadium flips in an instant—from wild chaos to something almost reverent.

Fans hush, then erupt in a different kind of roar, the kind that builds slow and heavy.

Kai.

My first everything.

The golden boy who left me behind for the big leagues, the one I spent years pretending not to google when I couldn’t sleep at night, scrolling through highlights just to see if he still looked at the world like it owed him nothing.

He’s pure control—every movement precise, deliberate, infuriatingly calm.

He walks onto the field in his blue and white uniform like the golden boy the league worships—tall, broad-shouldered, his posture screaming discipline.

That clean-cut face that launched a hundred sponsorships, blond hair tucked neatly under his cap, eyes the exact shade of the sky before a storm.

No tattoos snaking over his skin.

No cocky smirk twisting his lips.

Just focus.

Always that unrelenting focus.

He’s everything Diago isn’t—polished, controlled, the safe harbour I once clung to.

My breath catches in my throat as he steps into the batter’s box, the floodlights catching the sharp line of his jaw.

Lean muscle shifts under the fabric of his jersey, his grip on the bat steady, like he’s already mapped out the pitch in his head.

I remember those hands—gentle but firm, tracing my skin in the quiet hours after Diago had crashed out from a party.

Kai was like home.

Steady.

The one who promised forever until the draft call came and he packed his bags without a backward glance.

Once upon a time, they were brothers. Best friends, teammates, inseparable through high school games and late-night dreams of making it big.

Until the draft.

Until Kai got picked first, shipped off to the minors while Diago stayed behind, grinding in the independents.

The rest burned fast and ugly—a fracture that split them, and me, right down the middle.

I feel it even now, that old tension stretched across the diamond like barbed wire, humming under the surface.

Diago is first to bat. He adjusts his stance at the plate. The pitcher winds up, but Diago’s focus stays locked on me, his hips shifting in a subtle roll that makes my breath catch.

The ball cracks off his bat, sailing into the outfield, but he doesn’t run right away.

Instead, he strips off his jersey in one fluid motion, tossing it into the crowd.

His torso gleams under the lights—tattoos snaking over ripped abs, down his arms and kissing his neck.

A trail of dark hair leading down to the waistband of his pants.

Fans scream, women throwing bras, but his eyes never leave mine.

He mouths something I can’t hear over the chaos, but the shape of it feels like my name.

My nipples harden against my bra, friction sparking as I cross my arms.

I want to hate how my body responds, how the forbidden spark ignites something desperate inside me.

Ava’s pushing me toward fun.

But this?

This is danger wrapped in temptation.

I’ve spent years building walls, controlling the chaos Diago represents.

Yet here I am, pulse racing, imagining his hands on me—rough, claiming, finally breaking every rule.

He jogs the bases, slow and cocky, hips swaying with each step. Teammates slap his back, but he glances up again, that smirk deepening.

It’s teasing, flirtatious, a silent invitation to the edge we danced on before.

The crowd’s energy pulses around us, public and electric, making the air feel charged with possibility.

My skin prickles, sweat trickling down my spine, pooling at the small of my back.

Ava leans in, her breath warm against my ear. “You okay? You look flushed. Is it the heat or... him?”

I swallow hard, forcing my voice steady. “Just the beer. Let’s get another.”

But as I stand, Diago rounds third, his gaze pinning me again.

He licks his lips once more, deliberate, and I feel it like a touch—wet, promising.

My thighs rub together as I move, the slickness between them a betrayal I can’t ignore.

The game drags on, but the tension coils tighter with every play.

He steals bases like he’s stealing glances, each one loaded with intent.

I resist, clinging to control, but the forbidden pull tugs harder.

What happens when the final out’s called?

Will he find me in the crowd, or will I chase the fire I’ve denied for so long?

Ava chatters on about autographs, players physique, stats, but my mind races ahead.

Diago’s out there, shirtless and victorious, and part of me—the part I’ve buried—wants to let him wreck everything again.

Kai’s turn to bat, he taps the plate with his cleats, adjusts his stance, and glances toward the Heatwaves’ dugout. His eyes lock with Diago’s for a beat—cold, assessing. Diago leans against the railing, arms crossed over his bare chest, that dangerous half-smile playing on his lips.

It’s not just rivalry crackling in the air; it’s history, raw and unresolved. The kind that simmers in stolen glances and unspoken accusations.

The pitcher winds up, the ball hurtles toward the plate. Kai swings—clean, powerful.

Contact.

The crack echoes through the stadium, sharp as thunder, the ball rocketing into the night sky. It arcs high, sailing over the outfield wall.

Home run.

Of course it is.

The Cougars’ dugout erupts, teammates spilling out onto the dirt, whooping and slapping gloves.

Kai jogs the bases with that same measured pace, rounding first, second, third, his expression unchanging except for the faintest curve of his mouth.

By the time he crosses home plate, the cheerleaders swarm him—bouncing, glittering under the lights.

One of them, a brunette with legs for days, jumps up, wrapping her arms around his neck. She plants a kiss right on his mouth, full and lingering, her body pressing against his in that public display the crowd eats up.

The fans scream, phones flashing, but my stomach twists hard, a sharp pang of jealousy slicing through me.

He doesn’t push her off. Doesn’t kiss back, either—just stands there, letting it happen, his hands loose at his sides.

But his eyes... they flick across the field, straight to Diago, who’s watching with that predatory smirk, like he’s saying, Try harder, golden boy. You’ll never own the night like I do.

The air between them hums like static, thick with the weight of what they’ve lost—and what they both still want.

My skin prickles, the stadium’s heat pressing in, mixing with the flush creeping up my neck.

I shift in my seat, the ache between my thighs pulsing again, unbidden.

It’s not just the kiss; it’s the reminder of how Kai used to look at me like that—possessive, steady—before everything shattered.

And then, for one wild second, both their gazes shift. Past the cameras, the swarming crowd, the flashing lights.

Straight.

At.

Me.

Kai’s eyes widen a fraction, recognition hitting him like the crack of his bat. He freezes mid-jog back to the dugout, his storm-gray stare pinning me to the bleachers.

Diago’s head turns too, slower, that smirk deepening as he catches Kai’s reaction.

Their eyes meet over the field again, a silent challenge sparking hotter, but now it’s tangled with me in the middle—the ghost they both can’t shake.

Ava’s yelling something beside me, her voice piercing the roar.

“Did you see that? Kai Maddox, damn, he’s a machine!”

But I can barely hear her over the pounding in my ears. My pulse thuds low and insistent, as their stares linger.

Kai’s is searching, almost soft, like he’s seeing the girl he left behind.

Diago’s is fire—teasing, claiming, daring me to remember the edge we toed.

Seven years of distance, and here they are, pulling me back into the storm.

The public eye of the stadium amplifies it all—the flirting glances, the forbidden pull, the teasing promise of what could ignite if I let it.

Ava tugs at my sleeve, oblivious to the war raging in my chest. “Carmen? Earth to Carmen! You zoning out on the hotness again?”

I force a nod, my voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Just... taking it in.”

But inside, emotions churn—regret for what Kai took away, hunger for Diago’s chaos, and the terrifying thrill of being seen by both.

The game pauses for a commercial, the jumbotron flashing replays, but their eyes find me again in the crowd, locking on like spotlights.

What now?

Do I run, like last time?

Or do I lean into the trouble I came for, letting the heatwaves pull me under?

The night stretches ahead, full of possibilities, and my body hums with the weight of it all.