Three Strikes, You're Mine: Chapter Two

February 17, 2026

Three Strikes, You're Mine: Chapter Two - New Teammates

Liam Hart is a force of nature Finn Miller was never supposed to handle again. When a high-stakes trade brings the rivalry from New York to Boston, the dugout becomes a pressure cooker. One wrong word, one lingering stare, and the "First Strike" lands harder than any 100-mph heater.

Chapter Two

New Teammates

Finn

The Green Monster is taller in person. It looms over left field like a giant, oxidized judge, and right now, it feels like it’s looking down on me with the same skepticism as the rest of this city.

I’ve spent my entire career in pinstripes. I know the rhythm of the subway in the Bronx, the specific way the humidity clings to the grass at the stadium in July, and the faces of the vendors who’ve seen me grow from a nervous rookie to a veteran outfielder. Now, everything is wrong. The locker room is circular instead of rectangular. The carpet is the wrong shade of navy. And the man sitting three lockers down from me is the physical embodiment of every blown save and lost lead I’ve ever suffered.

Liam Hart.

He’s holding court, as usual. He’s leaning back in his chair, a bag of ice taped to his shoulder, surrounded by a gaggle of younger players who hang on his every word like he’s handing out scripture. He hasn't looked at me once since I walked in, but I can feel his awareness of me. It’s a static charge in the air, a low-frequency hum that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

I pull my new Beacons jersey over my head. The fabric feels like sacrilege. It’s too heavy, the red too bright, the logo a constant reminder that I am a stranger in a land that has spent a century hating people like me.

"Don't worry, Miller," a voice calls out. I look up to see Jake, the relief pitcher, leaning against the equipment trunk. He’s got a friendly face, which makes him an anomaly in this room. "The red looks better on you than the blue did. Brings out the 'I-hate-it-here' in your eyes."

"I don't hate it," I say, my voice clipped as I lace up my cleats with a precision that borders on obsessive. "I’m just here to do a job."

"Right. A job," Liam’s voice cuts through the room. He finally turns his head, his eyes hooded and dark. "Except your 'job' usually involves trying to take my head off with a line drive. Hard to forget that just because you changed laundry."

I stand up, grabbing my glove. I don't move toward him, but I don't back away. The clubhouse goes quiet, the sound of metal cleats on concrete the only thing breaking the tension. "If you didn't leave your changeup hanging over the heart of the plate, Liam, you wouldn't have to worry about your head. Maybe if you spent more time in the film room and less time at the bars on Boylston, you’d know that."

The locker room goes deathly quiet. You don't talk to the Ace like that. Not in his house.

Liam’s jaw works, a small muscle leaping in his cheek. He stands up slowly, peeling the ice pack off his shoulder. He’s built like a predator—all lean muscle and explosive energy. He takes two steps into my personal space, ignoring the fact that we’re being watched by twenty-four other men.

"This isn't New York, Finn. We don't do 'strategic' here. We do grit. We do heart. And we don't need a stat-head telling us how to play the game."

"Then have fun losing in the ALCS again," I retort, my voice a dangerous simmer. "I’m going to the cages."

I walk out before he can respond, the slap of my cleats on the concrete floor echoing my frustration. I need to hit something. I need the mechanical, predictable rhythm of the batting cages to drown out the noise of his voice and the heat of his presence.

The batting cages are my sanctuary. The mechanical whir of the pitching machine is the only conversation I want to have. Whir-thwack. Whir-thwack. I lose myself in the repetitions, focusing on the extension of my arms, the pivot of my hips. I imagine the ball is Liam’s smug face. Thwack.

But ten minutes in, the lights in the cage flicker. A shadow falls across the netting, stretching long and lean across the artificial turf.

"Your elbow is dropping."

I freeze mid-swing, the bat vibrating in my hands. Liam is leaning against the frame of the cage, a bat slung over his shoulder. He’s changed into his practice gear, the grey shirt clinging to his chest in a way that makes me look away.

"Get out, Hart," I snap, resetting my stance.

"I’m serious. You’re overthinking the curve. You’re so worried about where the ball is going to land that you’re forgetting how to hit it." He walks into the cage, uninvited. The space is small, designed for one person and a tee. With him in here, it’s suffocating. "Here. Give me the bat."

"I’m not giving you my bat."

"Fine. Don't." He steps behind me.

My heart stops. He doesn't touch me, not exactly, but he’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He reaches around, his arms bracketing mine, his hands hovering just over my wrists to adjust my grip. It’s a classic coaching move, but there is nothing professional about the way my pulse spikes or the way I can smell the mint on his breath.

"Keep the back elbow up," he mutters, his breath ghosting against the shell of my ear. "Stop trying to outsmart the machine, Finn. Just react."

"I can't react when you're breathing down my neck," I choke out.

He lets go abruptly, stepping back. The absence of his heat is almost as jarring as the presence of it. He’s looking at me with an expression I can't read—part challenge, part something much softer and more confused.

"Practice is in five minutes," he says, his voice rougher than it was before. "Don't be late."

The actual practice is a blur of tension. During defensive drills, Liam is on the mound, and I’m in center field. Every time a ball is hit my way, I feel his eyes on me. I catch everything, perfectly, effortlessly, but I can feel his silent judgment from sixty feet away.

We’re forced into a situational drill: runner on third, two outs. Liam is pitching to one of our backup catchers. I see the sign. I know Liam wants to blow a fastball by him, but his mechanics are off. He’s rushing his delivery, his ego getting in the way of his form.

"Settle down, Hart!" I yell from the outfield. "Landed too short on the stride!"

He spins around on the mound, glaring at me. He doesn't say anything, but the next pitch he throws is so wild it hits the backstop. By the time we head back to the showers, I’m vibrating with a mix of exhaustion and pure, unadulterated fury. I wait until most of the guys have headed out to the parking lot. I just want five minutes of peace.

I’m at my locker, pulling off my damp shirt, when I hear the heavy thud of a locker door slamming.

Liam is there. He’s shirtless, a towel slung low on his hips, his skin still glistening from the shower. He looks like a god and acts like a child.

"What the hell was that out there?" he demands, stalking toward me. "You don't coach me from center field, Miller. You don't ever embarrass me in front of the team."

"I was helping you," I say, my voice low and dangerous. I drop my shirt on the bench and stand my ground, refusing to be intimidated by his size or his status. "You were tipping your pitches. If I can see it from center, the Orioles are going to see it from the dugout."

"I don't need your help!" He’s in my face now, his chest inches from mine. He smells like the team-issued soap and raw adrenaline. "I’ve been the Ace of this team for four years. I don't need some New York transplant telling me how to throw."

"Maybe that's your problem, Liam. You’re so busy being the 'Ace' that you’ve forgotten how to be a teammate."

I see the flash of anger in his eyes, but it’s replaced by something else—a sudden, sharp hunger. He doesn't move away. He leans in closer, his gaze dropping to my lips and then back to my eyes. The air in the locker room feels like it’s been sucked out of a vacuum. My hand moves instinctively, my fingers brushing the cool metal of the locker behind me, while my other hand clenches at my side.

I should push him. I should walk away. Instead, I find myself leaning in, drawn into his orbit by a gravity I can't explain. His hand rises, his thumb hovering just near my jawline.

"I hate you," he whispers, his voice a low growl.

"I know," I breathe back.

He’s so close I can feel the frantic beat of his heart against my own chest. The world narrows down to this—the friction, the heat, the years of wanting to beat him turning into something I’m terrified of.

Clang.

The heavy metal door to the clubhouse swings open.

"Hart! You still in here? Miller?"

The heavy locker room door groans on its hinges as Jake pokes his head back in, jingling a set of keys. "Guzman’s waiting in the SUV. He’s already double-parked and he’s got a lead foot, if we aren't at the curb in two minutes, he’s leaving us to walk to the gala in our dress shoes. Let’s move!"

Liam snaps back like he’s been electrocuted, the sudden distance between us feeling like a physical cold front. He grabs his shirt from the bench, his fingers fumbling slightly with the fabric, but his face is a quick-set mask of practiced indifference.

"Yeah," Liam calls out, his voice rough and shaking just a fraction. "Just finishing up. Go tell him to keep his shirt on."

He doesn't look at me. He doesn't even acknowledge the space where we were just nearly breathing each other’s air. He just strides toward the door, his shoulders rigid, leaving a trail of mint and adrenaline in his wake.

"You too, Miller!" Jake barks, pointing a finger at me. "Coach was very clear. New city, new fans, new face for the brochures. You’re riding with us. Don't make Guzman wait; he’s a beast when he’s hungry and there’s a five-course meal on the line."

"I’m coming," I manage to say, though my throat feels like it’s been lined with sandpaper.

Jake ducks back out, leaving the room echoing with the silence of a tomb. I sink onto the wooden bench, my head dropping into my hands. My heart is hammering a rhythm that has absolutely nothing to do with baseball or the game we just played.

I’m supposed to be the guy with the strategy. The guy who reads the play three steps ahead. But there is no playbook for the way my skin is humming or the way Liam looked at me right before the door opened.

I’m in trouble. Deep, irreversible trouble. And now, I have to go sit in the back of a cramped SUV for twenty minutes with the very man who just blew my entire game plan to hell.

Journal Entry (A scrap of paper found under the weight bench in the Beacons’ gym)

Target: Finn Miller. Observation: Miller is observant. Too observant. He sees the things I try to hide, even from myself. Having him behind me on the field feels like having a ghost at my back. I want to tell him to shut up, but I'm starting to realize that when he's talking to me, it's the only time I actually feel like I'm awake.