Extra Innings: Chapter One - Off the Bag

 A stray ball, a screaming crowd, and a split-second decision that changes the trajectory of the season. When Leo Guzman vaults over that railing to protect Elena, it isn't just a highlight reel moment—it’s a crack in the professional armor he’s worn for fifteen years. The "reflex" save was caught in 4K, and now the whole world is wondering why the veteran catcher just risked his knees for the girl with the camera.

Chapter Three

Off the Bag 

Guzman

The sun is a relentless, blinding eye in the center of a cloudless Boston sky. At 12:45 PM, the humidity is already thick enough to chew, and the stadium turf is radiating a heat that makes the air shimmer.

I hate day games. I hate the glare, I hate the way the coffee sits heavy in my gut, and today, I especially hate myself.

I’m standing at the top of the dugout steps, adjusting my sunglasses and trying to find a rhythm that doesn't involve the memory of Elena’s hands on my bare skin. My neck still feels the ghost of her fingers. My mouth still tastes like the citrus of her lip gloss.

A massive, career-ending lapse in judgment, I’d called it.

I’m a damn liar. It wasn’t a lapse; it was a revelation. And that’s the problem.

“Hey, Guz, you okay? You’re staring a hole through the on-deck circle,” Ricci says, slapping me on the shoulder as he passes by with a handful of sunflower seeds.

“Fine,” I growl. “Just the sun.”

“Right. The sun.” Ricci grins, oblivious to the war inside my head. “Check out the new ‘Behind the Scenes’ reel Elena posted this morning. The fans are going nuts. She caught a shot of you wrapping your wrists that looks like a goddamn Nike ad. Very brooding. Very Anchor-like.’”

My stomach does a slow, agonizing roll. She posted it? After I basically chased her out of the training room like a coward, she went back to her office and edited footage of me?

I look toward the camera well on the first-base side. There she is.

She’s wearing a white Beacons polo tucked into high-waisted shorts, her blonde hair pulled into a high, swinging ponytail. She’s laughing at something a security guard said, her gimbal steady in her hand. She looks completely fine. Professional. Unbothered.

I, on the other hand, haven't slept more than three hours, and my heart is currently trying to exit through my ribs.

I turn away, retreating into the shade of the dugout to put on my gear. Chest protector. Shin guards. Mask. I strap the armor on, piece by piece, hoping the weight of it will crush the Leo who wants to apologize—who wants to pull her back into a dark room and finish what we started—and leave only the Catcher.

By the third inning, we’re locked in a scoreless duel with Toronto. The heat is punishing. Behind the plate, it feels like sitting in an oven. Every time I stand up to throw the ball back to Liam, I catch a glimpse of her. She’s moving around the stadium, always in my peripheral vision.

She isn’t just taking photos. She’s working. She’s talking to fans, filming the mascot, doing the job she was hired to do. And she’s ignoring the hell out of me.

It should be exactly what I wanted. It’s infuriating.

Bottom of the fifth. One out. I’m up at the plate.

The Toronto pitcher is a fireballer, a kid with a ninety-nine-mile-per-hour heater and zero control. I dig my cleats into the dirt, my focus finally sharpening. This is the only place the world makes sense. No cameras, no age gaps, no Sunshine. Just the ball and the bat.

He winds up. It’s a slider, breaking low and away. I lay off. Ball one.

The next pitch is a high, tight fastball. It’s a brush-back, a get off my plate message. I don't move. I let it sizzle past my chin, the wind of it cooling the sweat on my face.

I glance toward the dugout. Elena is right there, her camera lens focused squarely on me. She isn't smiling now. Her face is pale, her eyes wide behind the camera. She’s scared for me.

I shouldn't care. I should look at the pitcher.

The third pitch comes in—a hanger. A mistake. I drive it deep into left-center, a line drive that screams off the bat. It’s a double, maybe a triple if my knees hold up. I round first, my lungs burning, and slide into second just as the throw coming in from the outfield skips into the dirt.

Safe.

The crowd is deafening. I stand up, brushing the dirt off my jersey, and look toward the stands. Elena is leaning over the railing, her camera forgotten for a second. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat.

I’m okay, I want to say.

I don’t care, her expression says.

But then, the game takes a turn.

The next batter, Ricci, gets under a high pop-up. It’s a foul ball, screaming back toward the first-base side—directly toward the camera well where Elena is standing.

She isn't looking. She’s busy checking the settings on her camera, her back turned to the field.

“Elena! Look out!” someone yells.

My heart stops. The ball is a white blur, traveling at a hundred miles per hour.

I don't think. I don't consider the rules or the career-ending optics. I’m off second base before the ball even reaches its apex. I’m sprinting across the diamond, my knees screaming, my lungs on fire.

She looks up just as the ball clears the dugout roof. She’s frozen, her gimbal held up like a useless shield.

I’m over the railing in a blur of gray jersey and dirt. I reach over her, my large frame shielding her completely as the ball slams into the concrete wall an inch above my hand.

The impact vibrates through my arm, but I don't feel the pain. I only feel her. She’s tucked against my chest, her small hands clutching my forearms, her breath hitching against my neck.

The stadium goes silent for a split second before a low murmur rippling through the crowd.

“You okay?” I rasp, my face buried in the crook of her neck. I can smell the citrus again.

“Leo,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “You… you left second base.”

I pull back, my hands still gripping the railing on either side of her, effectively pinning her in place. I’m staring at her, my chest heaving, my walls completely dismantled in front of forty thousand people.

“I don’t give a damn about second base,” I growl.

The umpire’s whistle is a shrill, piercing wake-up call that snaps the world back into focus.

“Guzman! Get back to the bag!”

I don’t move. Not for three long, agonizing seconds. I stay braced over her, my shadow swallowing her whole, making sure the trembling in her shoulders has stopped. Elena is looking up at me, her eyes blown wide, searching mine for something I’m not ready to give.

“Go,” she breathes, her fingers digging into the muscle of my forearm one last time before she pushes me away. “Leo, go.”

I vault back over the railing, my cleats hitting the dirt with a heavy thud. I don't look at the stands. I don't look at the dugout where the manager is standing with his arms crossed, his face a mask of pure confusion. I jog back to second base, my heart hammering a rhythm that has nothing to do with the sprint and everything to do with the way her scent is now clinging to my jersey.

The rest of the inning is a blur. Ricci flies out, I’m stranded at second, and I have to trot back to the dugout to put my catching gear on for the top of the sixth.

The silence in the dugout is different now. It’s not the quiet of focus; it’s the quiet of a locker room that just saw a veteran do something completely uncharacteristic.

“Hell of a catch, Guz,” Ricci says, trying to break the tension as I strap on my shin guards. “Didn't know you had that kind of range. Usually, you don't move that fast for anything unless it’s a steak or a championship ring.”

“She wasn't looking,” I say, my voice flat. I keep my eyes on the buckles of my gear. “I wasn't going to let her get clocked by a foul ball.”

“Sure,” Liam says from the end of the bench. He isn't smiling. He’s a pitcher; he lives and dies by observation. He’s looking at me like he’s seeing a new pitch in my repertoire, one he doesn’t know how to catch.

I ignore them both. I grab my mask and head back out to the plate.

But the damage is done. Every time the jumbo-tron shows a replay of the game, they aren't showing my double into left-center. They’re showing the legendary Leo Guzman abandoning his post to shield the Social Media Manager. It’s heroic. It’s humanizing.Leo Guzman abandoning his post to shield the Social Media Manager. It’s heroic. It’s humanizing.

It’s a neon sign pointing right at the thing I’m trying to hide.

The game ends in a 4-3 loss. The clubhouse after a loss is usually a place of grim silence, but today there’s a buzzing energy. I head straight for the showers, wanting to wash the salt, the dirt, and the memory of her off my skin.

I’m halfway through drying off when a shadow falls over my locker.

It’s the GM. Howard. He’s holding a tablet, the screen paused on the exact frame where I’m leaned over the railing, my face inches from Elena’s.

“Guzman,” he says, his voice devoid of its usual joviality. “A word.”

I pull on a t-shirt, not bothering to hide the way my knees buckle slightly as I stand. “If this is about leaving the bag, Howard, I’ll take the fine. It was a reflex.”

“I don’t care about the fine, Leo. You’re a veteran; you know the risks.” He turns the tablet toward me. “But the optics on this? The ‘Social Media’ angle? Elena’s already been flagged by three different outlets asking if there’s a story here. You know the rules about staff and players.”

“There is no story,” I say, my jaw tightening until it aches. “I saved an employee from a concussion. That’s the story.”

Howard looks at me for a long time, his eyes searching for the lie. I’ve been with this team long enough that he knows my tells, but I’ve spent fifteen years perfecting my demeanor. I don't give him anything.

“Good,” he finally says, tapping the tablet against his palm. “Because she’s doing great work. The metrics are up. I’d hate to have to let a talent like that go because of a reflex.”

The threat is veiled, but it’s there. If I touch her, she’s the one who pays. It’s always the staff, never the star.

He walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of the locker room with the taste of copper in my mouth. I grab my bag and head for the exit, taking the long way around to avoid the media office. I can't see her. Not now. Not when the stakes just got a name and a face.

I’m almost to the parking garage when I hear the quick, light step of someone running to catch up.

“Leo! Wait.”

I don't stop. I can't. “Go home, Elena.”

“No,” she says, reaching out and grabbing the strap of my bag, forcing me to swing around.

We’re in the shadows of the concrete pillars, the air cool and smelling of exhaust. She’s still in her work polo, her face flushed from the heat and the run.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes searching mine. “For the ball. For… everything.”

“I told you, it was a reflex,” I say, my voice sounding like it’s being dragged over broken glass. I step into her space, looming over her, trying to use my size to intimidate her into safety. “You need to stay away from me, Sunshine. Howard is already asking questions. You want to keep this job? You keep that camera pointed at someone else.”

“I don’t care about the questions,” she says, her voice surprisingly fierce. She reaches up, her palm landing on my chest, right where it had been last night. “And I think you’re a liar, Leo Guzman. You don't move that fast for a reflex. You move that fast for something you're afraid to lose.”

I look down at her, the age gap, the GM’s threat, and the fifteen years of my career all screaming at me to walk away. But then she stands on her tiptoes, her breath warm against my chin, and my composure doesn't just crack.

It falls.

I should push her away. I should turn my back and walk to my truck, drive home to my empty condo, and ice my knees until I go numb. That’s what the Anchor would do. That’s what a man who wants to keep his forty-million-dollar legacy intact would do.

But my hands have a mind of their own. They drop my bag to the oil-stained concrete and find her waist, pulling her flush against me. The impact of her body hitting mine is the only thing that’s felt right all day.

"You have no idea what you’re playing with," I rasp, my head dipping until our noses brush. "This isn't a reel, Elena. There’s no edit button here. If I touch you again, I’m not stopping."

"Then don't stop," she whispers, her hands sliding up my neck to tangle in the hair at the nape of my head. She’s vibrating, a live wire of adrenaline and defiance. "I’ve spent my whole life being told I’m too young, too fast, too much. But you look at me like I’m the only thing keeping you on your feet."

I let out a low, broken sound—part growl, part surrender. I don't just kiss her; I claim her. My mouth crashes onto hers with the weight of every year I’ve spent playing by the rules. It’s desperate and dirty, a collision in the shadows of the garage that tastes like the citrus of her lips and the salt of my sweat.

I back her up against one of the concrete pillars, my body pinning her to the cold stone. She wraps a leg around my waist, pulling me closer, her soft moans muffled by my lips. The contrast is agonizing—her small, lithe frame against the sheer bulk of my gear-heavy muscles. I’m a beast, and she’s the only thing that makes me feel like a man.

My hand slides under the hem of her Beacons polo, my rough palm meeting the silk of her skin. She gasps into my mouth, her back arching against the pillar as my thumb grazes the underside of her breast. The stakes Howard just laid out—the threats to her job, the optics, the fine—they all burn away in the heat radiating off her.

"Leo," she whimpers, her head falling back as I trail kisses down her throat, marking her. "Someone will see..."

"Let them look," I growl against her skin, my teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below her ear.

But as I reach for the clasp of her bra, the heavy thump-thump of a bass-boosted car stereo echoes through the garage. Headlights sweep across the pillars, illuminating us for a terrifying, jagged second.

I freeze, my body acting as a shield, burying her face into my chest so only the back of my jersey is visible. The car—a flashy red sports car that can only belong to one of the rookies—roars past, the tires screeching as it turns toward the exit.

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

I pull back, my chest heaving, my hands shaking as I smooth her shirt down. Elena looks up at me, her hair a mess, her lips swollen and red. She looks thoroughly kissed, thoroughly ruined, and completely mine.

"Go," I say, my voice a jagged wreck of what it used to be. I grab my bag off the floor, not looking at her. "Go home, Elena. Before I forget that I’m supposed to be the one protecting you."

I don't wait for her to move. I turn and head for my truck, the sound of my own heart beating like a drum in the hollow garage. I don't look back, but I can feel her eyes on me, a constant, burning heat.

I reach my truck and climb in, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. I look in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see the man I’ve been for fifteen years standing behind me. But the person looking back isn't as solid as he used to be. He’s a man who just gave the enemy the keys to the kingdom.

And God help me, I can't wait for her to use them.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Author’s Note: That save wasn't just about baseball; it was a physical manifestation of Leo’s protective streak. Now that the world has seen the "Anchor" move that fast for her, Howard and the front office are going to be circling like sharks. The stakes are officially rising—who’s ready for the fallout?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix