Extra Innings: Chapter Four - The Cold Plunge

 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.

Chapter Four

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

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Published by LS Phoenix

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First Edition: April 2026

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