Three Strikes, You're Mine: Chapter Four - The Second Strike

Four hours on a team bus is a long time to hyper-fixate on the man you’re supposed to loathe. When the Beacons land in Philly, a rooming assignment error forces Finn and Liam into the ultimate trap: Room 1204. No fans, no coaches—just two rivals and a lock that’s finally engaged.

Chapter Four

The Second Strike

Finn

New York in the rearview mirror should feel like a relief, but as the Beacons’ team bus idles outside our hotel in Philadelphia, it feels like I’ve just traded one cage for another.

I’ve always been a man of patterns. In New York, my pattern was simple: train, play, study, sleep. But since the trade to Boston, since Liam Hart—my patterns have been shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. I hate road trips. I hate the stale, recycled air of luxury coaches that smells like leather and unwashed gym bags. I hate the way the low hum of the tires against the asphalt creates a vacuum where my brain hyper-fixates on things it shouldn’t.

Specifically, the back of Liam’s head. He’s sitting three rows ahead of me, his headphones on, his head tilted back against the seat. Even in sleep, or whatever version of it he’s faking—he looks restless. His shoulders are broad, taking up too much space in the narrow seat, and I find myself tracking the slight rhythm of his breathing.

The "First Strike" at Beacon Heights Park a few nights ago hasn’t left me. My arm still feels the phantom pressure of his fingers digging into my bicep in the dugout. Every time we’ve shared a locker room since, the air has been so thin I’ve had to remind myself how to breathe. It’s a tactical nightmare. I’m a strategist; I’m supposed to see the play coming before the ball even leaves the hand. But with Liam, I’m swinging at air.

"Miller, move it. We’re checking in," Guzman grunts, nudging my shoulder as he passes.

I shake myself out of the trance, grabbing my duffel bag. My hands are stiff from the ride. I follow the line of tired ballplayers into the marble lobby of the hotel. It’s nearly 1:00 AM. The lights are dimmed, the gold leaf on the pillars gleaming under soft spotlights. The only sound is the rhythmic scuff of cleats on the tile and the distant chime of the elevators.

"Here's the deal," Coach Thompson says, standing by the front desk with a stack of key cards. He looks as tired as we feel. "Curfew is in thirty minutes. I don't want to see anyone in the lobby, the bar, or the gym. Get your rest. We’ve got a 1:00 PM start tomorrow, and I expect everyone to be sharp."

He starts calling out names. I’m waiting for mine, my heart doing a strange, fluttering rhythm against my ribs. I’m hoping for a solo room, or at least someone quiet like Jake.

"Guzman and Ricci. Miller and… Hart."

The silence that follows isn't just in my head. A few of the guys actually turn to look at us. They saw the dugout explosion. They know we’re a powder keg waiting for a match. I look at Liam, expecting him to protest, to demand a different room, to throw the kind of tantrum only a star pitcher can pull off.

But Liam doesn't move. He just stares at the floor, his jaw tight enough to snap bone. He reaches out, snatches the key card from Coach’s hand, and heads for the elevators without a word.

I follow him because I have no choice. The elevator ride is a slow-motion torture. We’re the only two in the car. The mirrored walls reflect the two of us—me, standing rigid with my bag gripped white-knuckled in my hand; and him, slouching against the railing, looking like he wants to punch through the glass. The silence is deafening. I can smell the adrenaline on him, mixed with that sharp, minty scent he always carries. It’s intoxicating and infuriating.

"Good. Don't talk to me, don't look at me, and stay in your own damn lane. I'm not here to be your friend." he mutters, his voice low and gravelly, vibrating in the small space.

"Fine by me," I say, my voice sounding more controlled than I feel. "I plan on sleeping, not socializing. I have a game to prepare for."

"Right. The game. Always the game with you," he sneers, but there’s no heat in it. Just a weary, jagged edge.

The door to Room 1204 clicks open. It’s a standard luxury suite, two queen beds with crisp white linens, a heavy mahogany desk, and a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Philadelphia skyline. Liam drops his bag on the bed closest to the window and immediately begins stripping off his team hoodie.

I turn away, focusing on unpacking my toiletries with a precision that borders on obsessive. I can hear the rustle of fabric, the heavy thud of his shoes hitting the carpet, the hiss of him pulling off his socks. My skin is prickling again. It’s that same magnetic pull from the dugout, the one I keep trying to categorize as "professional irritation" but is rapidly evolving into something much more primal.

I head into the bathroom and lean over the sink, splashing cold water on my face until my skin aches. I look in the mirror and don't recognize the man looking back. His eyes are too bright, his mouth too tense. I’m losing the war of attrition.

When I come out, the room is dark except for the amber glow of the city lights through the sheer curtains. Liam is sitting on the edge of his bed, shirtless, his muscular back turned to me. He’s staring at a scouting report on his tablet, the blue light carving out the hard, tectonic lines of his shoulders.

"You're still over-rotating on your delivery," I say softly. I know I should shut up. I should get into bed and turn my back. But the strategist in me, the part of me that’s been studying him for years, can't let it go. "I watched the tape from the Chicago game. You're trying to compensate for the humidity by gripping the ball tighter, but it’s making your shoulder drop three inches. It’s why your slider is hanging."

Liam doesn't look up for a long time. The only sound is the hum of the air conditioner. "I thought you weren't socializing, Miller."

"It's not socializing. It's winning. If you blow the lead tomorrow, it doesn't matter how well I hit."

He finally sets the tablet down and turns. He stands up slowly, moving into the narrow, shadowed space between the two beds. "You just can't help yourself, can you? You have to be the smartest person in the room. You have to have an answer for everything. Every pitch, every play, every damn breath I take."

"I have an answer for the things that work, Liam. Your current delivery doesn't."

He takes a step closer. Then another. He’s in my personal space now, his height looming over me. The air is suddenly charged, heavy and sweet like the moment before a summer storm. I should back up. I should say something cutting and retreat. Instead, I find myself standing my ground, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

"And what about the things that don't work?" Liam’s voice has dropped an octave, becoming a low, dangerous growl. "What’s your 'strategy' for this, Finn? What does your little spreadsheet say about the fact that I can't look at you without wanting to tear the world apart?"

He gestures between us, his hand trembling just a fraction. "This is a distraction," I say, though my voice is a mere whisper.

"Is it?" Liam’s eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his chest, smell the raw, masculine scent of him. "Because it feels like the only thing I’ve been able to focus on for three weeks. I see you in center field and I lose my count. I see you in the locker room and I forget my own name. I see you when I close my eyes and I’m tired of fighting it."

He reaches out, his hand hovering near my neck, his fingers ghosting over my skin without quite touching it. "You wanted to know what happens when I lose my focus, Finn? This is it. This is me losing everything."

His fingers finally make contact, brushing the sensitive skin just below my ear. A jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity shoots straight down my spine, settling deep in my gut. It’s the "Second Strike." I can feel the count narrowing, the pressure building until it’s unbearable.

I grab his wrist, my intention to pull his hand away, to be the "professional" one. But as soon as my skin touches his, the plan evaporates. My fingers don't push; they hold. They tighten around his pulse point, feeling the frantic, galloping beat of his heart. I pull him just a fraction closer. The rivalry, the cities, the fans, the scouting reports—it all vanishes. There is only the heat of him and the vacuum of the room.

"You're my teammate, Liam," I breathe, though it sounds like a lie even to me.

"I'm a man who's tired of pretending I don't want to ruin you," he answers.

He leans in, and this time, there is no escape. His mouth crashes against mine, not with a kiss, but with a collision. It’s messy, desperate, and filled with years of stored-up aggression and unspoken need. He tastes like mint and heat, and when his tongue brushes against mine, I let out a low, broken sound that I didn't know I was capable of making.

My hands find his hair, my fingers tangling in the dark curls, pulling him closer because the distance between us feels like a physical ache. He groans into my mouth, a sound of pure surrender, his hands sliding down to my waist. He grips me with a strength that borders on bruising, hauling me against the hard planes of his body. It’s a battle, a physical manifestation of everything we haven't said since he arrived in Boston.

He shoves me back until my legs hit the edge of my bed, and we tumble down together. The blankets tangle around our limbs, a white-linen chaos that mirrors the state of my mind, but I don't care. I’ve spent my whole life calculating risks, and right now, the only risk I care about is not being close enough to him. I need the friction. I need the weight of him to pin me down so I can’t overthink this. When he bites my lower lip, I respond by pulling him harder against me, my legs locking around his waist, grounding us both.

The "spice" isn't just a physical act; it’s the violent release of a pressure valve that’s been at the breaking point for far too long. Every touch is a challenge to my logic, every gasp a revelation that my spreadsheets were wrong. He moves his mouth to the line of my throat, his stubble grazing my skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake that no cold water could ever put out.

"You... hate me," I gasp out, my head falling back against the pillow as his hands move under my shirt, his palms hot and rough against my ribs, claiming territory I never thought I’d cede.

"I do," he mutters against my skin, his breath hitching in a way that betrays him. "I hate how much I need you to look at me. I hate that you’re the only one who sees through the bullshit. I hate that I can't breathe when you're not in the room."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his face flushed, his eyes searching mine for something—permission, or maybe just a sign that I’m as wrecked as he is. The strategic part of my brain is screaming that this is a mistake, that the team will fall apart, that I’m breaking every rule I’ve ever lived by. It’s a career-ending move, a tactical disaster.

But as he leans down to kiss me again, his hands sliding lower, I realize I don't care about the strategy anymore. The percentages don't matter when the reality is this loud.

"Second strike," I whisper against his lips, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders.

The rest of the night is a blur of skin and sweat, of low groans and the friction of two people who have finally stopped fighting each other and started fighting for each other. It’s intense, explicit, and absolutely devastating. Every barrier I’ve built—every wall I erected in New York and reinforced in Boston—is dismantled, piece by piece, until there is nothing left but the two of us in the dark.

Liam's hands roam my body with a hunger that matches my own. His touch is both gentle and demanding, exploring every inch of my skin as if he's mapping out a new territory. I can feel the tension in his muscles, the urgency in his movements, and it mirrors the storm raging inside me.

His lips drag down my neck with kisses, his stubble rough against my sensitive skin, sending shivers down my spine. Each kiss is a claim, a promise, a silent vow that he’s done holding back. I arch into him, my hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing more.

His mouth finds mine again, and this time, the kiss is deeper, more intense. Our tongues tangle in a dance as old as time, each movement a battle for dominance, a clash of wills. I can taste the mint on his breath, the lingering flavor of desire, and it drives me wild.

Liam’s hands slide under my shirt, his fingers mapping the lines of my abs, sending jolts of electricity through me. I gasp into his mouth, my body responding to his touch with a hunger I can’t control. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with lust and something more profound.

"Finn," he whispers, my name a prayer on his lips. "I need you."

I nod, unable to form words, my body already aching for his. He pulls my shirt over my head, his eyes roaming over my bare chest, taking in every scar, every line, every mark that tells the story of my life. His fingers trace the lines of my muscles, his touch both reverent and possessive.

I reach for his belt, my hands shaking with anticipation. He helps me, his movements urgent, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The sound of our clothes hitting the floor is a symphony, each piece a note in the music of our desire.

When we finally come together, it’s a collision of bodies and souls, a meeting of two halves that have been searching for each other for too long. Liam’s movements are slow at first, a gentle exploration, a building of tension. But soon, the rhythm changes, becoming faster, more urgent, a reflection of the storm raging inside us both.

I push Liam gently onto his back, my body hovering over his. His eyes meet mine, dark with desire and something deeper, something that makes my heart race. I reach for the lube packet in my bag, my hands trembling slightly as I squeeze a generous amount onto my fingers. Liam watches me, his breath hitching as I prepare myself, his eyes never leaving mine.

I straddle him, feeling the heat of his body against mine, the hard length of him pressing against my thigh. I guide him to my entrance, feeling a moment of hesitation, a final barrier before we cross the point of no return. Liam’s hands grip my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, a silent plea for me to continue.

I lower myself onto him, feeling him fill me inch by inch, the sensation both intense and overwhelming. Liam groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through me, sending waves of pleasure coursing through my body. I pause for a moment, allowing myself to adjust, to feel the fullness, the connection.

We move together, our bodies in sync, our breaths mingling, our hearts beating as one. Each thrust is a claim, a promise, a declaration of need and want and love. I can feel the pressure building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it’s almost unbearable. Liam’s hands roam my body, tracing the lines of my muscles, gripping my thighs, pulling me closer, deeper.

His hand finds mine, our fingers entwining, holding on as if we’re both afraid of falling. His thumb traces circles on my palm, a soothing rhythm that contrasts with the wildness of our bodies. I look into his eyes, seeing my own desire reflected back at me, and in that moment, I know that I’m lost, utterly and completely.

With a final, shuddering breath, we reach the peak, our bodies convulsing together in a release that’s both blinding and liberating. I feel Liam’s cock pulse inside me, the warmth of his release triggering my own, sending me over the edge. My vision blurs as I come, the heat of it spilling onto his stomach.

I stay there for a long second, slumped against him, breathless and messy. The strategist in me, the part that lives for order and cleanliness—momentarily tries to claw its way back to the surface. I start to think about the stained sheets, the 1:00 PM start time, and the tactical disaster of what just happened. I’m already trying to calculate the fallout before my heart rate has even slowed down.

But before the panic can fully take root, Liam’s arms tighten around me. He doesn't let me retreat into my head. He pulls me down until I’m tucked against his side, his hand heavy and warm on the small of my back, grounding me.

In the aftermath, as we lie there, our bodies still joined, I realize that this is more than just a physical act. It’s a surrender, a giving in to something that’s been building for too long. It’s a promise of more, of a future where we don’t have to hide, where we can be open and honest and free.

Liam pulls me closer, his arms wrapping around me, holding me tight. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. In this moment, there is no game, no strategy, no pressure. There is only us, and the promise of what’s to come.

---

Journal Entry (A page torn from a hotel notepad, found tucked inside Finn’s suit jacket)

Target: Liam Hart.

Observation: My strategy failed. I thought I could manage the tension, that I could out-maneuver the attraction by focusing on the game. But Liam isn't a game you can win with percentages. He’s a force of nature. Being with him wasn't a win or a loss; it was an eclipse. I’ve officially lost my focus, and the terrifying part is, I don't want to find it again.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

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First Edition: February 2026

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