Extra Innings: Chapter Five - Room 1204

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.

Chapter Five 

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

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First Edition: April 2026

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