Extra Innings: Chapter Six = Losing the Lead

 The viral video is out, the GM is calling for blood, and the "Secret" is officially front-page news. As the Beacons finish their series in New York, Elena and Leo are forced to face the reality of their choices. The Anchor has a decision to make: keep holding down a legacy that’s weighing him down, or drop the weight and follow the girl who finally made him feel alive.

Chapter Six

Losing the Lead 

Elena

The air in Citi Field is different than Fenway. It’s louder, brasher, and tonight, it feels like it’s vibrating with a tension I can’t quite put my finger on.

I’m standing in the media well, my camera lens trained on Leo as he warms up Liam. Through the viewfinder, he looks exactly like the man the world knows—stoic, immovable, the veteran who doesn't flinch. But I see the slight tightness in his jaw that wasn't there three days ago. I see the way his eyes flick toward me for a microsecond every time he stands up.

We’ve been perfect. Since the Pierre, we haven't touched. We haven't even spoken in the same room. I’ve been the "Sunshine" girl, and he’s been the "Wall."

But the internet is a bloodhound.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—a constant, rhythmic vibration that’s been going off since the third inning. I don't have to look at it to know what it is. A fan in the stands at the last game caught a video of us in the parking garage. It’s grainy, dark, and blurred, but the silhouette of a six-foot-three catcher pinning a blonde woman against a concrete pillar is unmistakable.

The caption on the viral TikTok: Is the veteran finally crumbling?

"Elena? A word."

I don't even have to turn around. Howard’s voice is like a bucket of ice water down my spine. He isn't looking at the field; he’s looking at his phone.

"In the tunnel. Now," he says, his voice devoid of any emotion.

I follow him into the shadows of the concrete corridor, the roar of the crowd muffled by the thick walls. My heart is a frantic thing, beating against my ribs like a trapped bird. This is it. This is the moment the "tactical catastrophe" becomes a reality.

"I told you to be a pro, Elena," Howard says, turning to face me. He holds up his phone, the grainy video of the parking garage playing on a loop. "I told you the fans hate a distraction. This has ten million views in four hours. The PR department is in a tailspin."

"Howard, I—"

"I don't want to hear it. You’re talented, but you’re a liability. I’m pulling you from the road trip. You’re heading back to Boston tonight. We’ll discuss your severance on Monday."

The world tilts. I knew the risks, but hearing it out loud—the finality of it—makes my stomach drop. I’m not just losing a job; I’m losing the right to be near the man who finally made me feel seen.

"Is that it?" a low, dangerous rumble echoes from the mouth of the tunnel.

I spin around. Leo is standing there, still in his full catching gear, his mask dangling from one hand. He’s covered in dirt, sweat dripping down his neck, looking every bit the warrior Howard expects him to be.

"Guzman, get back to the dugout," Howard snaps. "This doesn't concern you."

"Like hell it doesn't," Leo says, stepping into the light. He looks massive, his shadow stretching across the concrete until it touches my boots. "You want to fire someone for a 'distraction'? Fire me. I’m the one who followed her into that garage. I’m the one who didn't stop."

"Leo, don't," I whisper, reaching for his arm. "You have a legacy. You have the Hall of Fame to think about."

"I’ve spent fifteen years thinking about my legacy," Leo says, his eyes fixed squarely on Howard. "I’ve spent fifteen years being untouchable. And you know what I found out? People who keep others out are lonely, Howard. They don't have anyone to go home to. They just sit there until they crack."

He turns to me, and the look in his eyes is so raw, so honest, that it takes my breath away. He reaches out, his thick, dirt-stained fingers cupping my jaw in front of the GM, in front of the security guards, in front of the whole damn world.

"I’m thirty-six," he says softly. "I’ve got maybe two years left of being the pro. But I’ve got the rest of my life to be the man who loves this girl. If that’s a distraction, then I’m done being an anchor."

Howard looks between us, his mouth hanging open. He’s a businessman, but even he can see when a play is over. He looks at the video on his phone, then at the star player who’s willing to walk away from forty million dollars for the girl with the camera.

"You're an idiot, Guzman," Howard mutters, shaking his head. "A talented, stubborn idiot."

"I'm a man who’s finally playing for the right team," Leo counters.

Howard sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Go. Get back to the game. We’ll handle the PR. But Elena? You’re off the socials for the rest of the season. You work for the front office now. No cameras on the field. Understood?"

"Understood," I breathe, a laugh of pure relief bubbling up in my chest.

Howard walks away, muttering about "rookie mistakes" and "veteran headaches."

I look up at Leo, my hands finding the buckles of his chest protector. "You just almost threw away your entire career for me."

"It wasn't a throw-away," he says, pulling me into a kiss that tastes like victory and grit. "It was an investment."

The roar of the crowd surges as the inning ends, but for the first time, the noise doesn't matter. My composure hasn't crumbled. It’s just been rebuilt into something stronger.

Something that has a door. And I’m the only one with the key.

Leo doesn’t let go of my hand as we walk out of the stadium.

The cameras are there, of course. The flashes strobe against the concrete walls of the tunnel, but Leo doesn't flinch. He doesn't pull his hand away or walk three paces ahead like he’s ashamed. He keeps me tucked against his side, his large palm warm and solid against mine, a living shield against the noise of the city.

By the time we reach his truck, the adrenaline has settled into something deeper—a quiet, humming heat that makes every breath feel heavy.

"You're sure about this?" I ask as he pulls out onto the New York streets, heading for the bridge back toward Boston. "The front office is going to be a nightmare on Monday."

Leo reaches over, his hand landing on my thigh, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive circle over the denim of my jeans. "Elena, I’ve spent fifteen years playing for a crowd. I’m done. The only person I’m worried about disappointing is the woman sitting in this seat."

The drive back to Boston is a blur of city lights and low-volume jazz, the silence between us charged with the kind of electricity that only comes after a battle won. When we finally pull up to his condo—a sleek, modern space overlooking the harbor—the air in the truck feels thick enough to choke on.

He doesn't wait for me to get out. He’s around to my side of the truck in seconds, hauling me out and pinning me against the door before I can even find my footing.

"Leo—"

"I’ve been wanting to do this since I watched you walk out of that hotel room this morning," he rasps, his mouth finding the sensitive skin below my ear. "No more service elevators. No more hiding."

He carries me inside, his boots echoing on the hardwood floor of his darkened living room. He doesn't stop until we’re in his bedroom, the moonlight reflecting off the water of the harbor and spilling across the massive bed.

He drops me onto the mattress, but before I can move, he’s over me, his weight a grounding, familiar pressure. This isn't the frantic desperation of the cold plunge or the shaky adrenaline of the garage. This is a claim.

"Leo," I whisper, my hands sliding up his chest to find the pulse at the base of his throat. It’s racing.

"I'm not being stoic tonight, Elena," he mutters, his fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls my head back, exposing my throat to his hunger. "I’m just a man who’s been starving for you since the first day you walked into my clubhouse."

He strips away my clothes with a focused intensity, his eyes never leaving mine. When I’m finally bare beneath him, he takes his time. His hands, rough and calloused from a lifetime of catching heat, roam over my curves like he’s memorizing a new map. He tastes every inch of me, his mouth hot and demanding, until I’m arching off the sheets, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Please," I moan, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him into the heat of me.

He enters me with a slow, deep thrust that makes my vision go white. It’s different now. The stakes are gone, replaced by a devastating intimacy that makes my heart ache. Every movement is a promise. Every time he groans my name into the crook of my neck, I feel the last of his armor falling away.

We move together in the moonlight, a slow, rhythmic dance of skin and sweat. He’s powerful, his veteran strength channeled into a slow-burn pleasure that builds until I’m shaking, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps. When the peak finally hits, it’s a landslide—a crashing wave of sensation that leaves me clinging to him as if he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

Leo follows seconds later, a low, guttural sound escaping him as he collapses against me, his heart thudding against mine in a frantic, beautiful rhythm.

We stay like that for a long time, the only sound the distant hum of the Boston traffic and the soft lap of the harbor against the pier below.

Finally, Leo pulls back, his eyes searching mine in the dim light. He looks younger than I’ve ever seen him—the lines of tension around his eyes smoothed away, the "Grumpy" mask completely gone.

"So," he says, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "The stoic man has a door."

I laugh, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "And I think I’m the only one who has the key."

"You are," he says, his expression turning serious. He pulls me back against his chest, tucking the covers around us. "From here on out, Sunshine, we do this our way. No GMs. No TikToks. Just us."

"Just us," I agree, closing my eyes as the scent of him—leather, salt, and something purely Leo—wraps around me like a blanket.

The season isn't over. There will be more games, more fans, and more headlines. But as I drift off to sleep in the arms of the man who gave up everything to keep me, I realize that the best stories aren't the ones you capture on a camera.

They’re the ones you live when the lights go down.

---

The sun rises over the Boston Harbor in a wash of pale gold, spilling across the hardwood floors of Leo’s bedroom. I wake up to the smell of expensive coffee and the sound of a low, gravelly voice talking on the phone in the other room.

"I don't care about the optics, Howard. I'm not in the lineup today anyway. My knees need the rest, and I'm taking it... No, she's staying here. We'll be in on Monday."

A click, then silence.

I sit up, pulling Leo’s discarded gray jersey over my head. It’s huge on me, the hem reaching mid-thigh, smelling of him and the laundry detergent he probably pays a service to use. I find him in the kitchen, leaning against the granite island, staring out at the water. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants, his back a map of the physical toll fifteen years in the league has taken.

He hears me come in and turns, a slow, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Coffee’s ready, Sunshine."

I hop up onto one of the barstools, my legs swinging. "You just told the GM of a major league baseball team to kick rocks."

"I told him I was busy," Leo says, sliding a mug toward me. He walks around the island and stands between my knees, his hands landing on my waist. "Was I lying?"

"Technically, no." I take a sip of the coffee—it’s strong and dark, exactly like him. "But Monday is going to be a bloodbath. You know the press is going to be waiting at the gates."

Leo’s expression darkens for a second, his composed mask trying to pull itself back together, but then he looks at me—really looks at me—and the tension leaves his shoulders. "Let them wait. I’ve spent my whole life worrying about the next pitch, the next game, the next contract. I’m thirty-six, Elena. I’ve made enough money to buy this harbor. What I haven't made is a life."

He pulls me closer, his forehead resting against mine. "Last night, in that tunnel... it was the first time I felt like I was winning something that actually mattered. If the price of that is a few nasty headlines, then it’s a bargain."

I reach up, my fingers tracing the faint scar on his chin from a foul tip three seasons ago. "I’m not used to being the prize, Leo. I’m the one who stays behind the lens, remember? I’m supposed to make you look good."

"You make me feel good," he rasps, his hand sliding up the back of my neck, his thumb grazing my jawline. "That’s a hell of a lot more important."

The air in the kitchen shifts, the domesticity of the morning suddenly charged with that familiar, heavy heat. Leo doesn't just want me; he’s possessive of this moment, of this peace we’ve carved out of the chaos. He leans in, his kiss slow and thorough, tasting of coffee and a promise he finally feels free to keep.

He hoists me up onto the granite counter, his hands sliding under the hem of the jersey I stole from him. The cold stone is a shock against my skin, but Leo is a furnace, his body pressing me back until I’m leaning against the cabinets.

"Leo," I breathe, my heart starting that frantic, happy dance again. "The coffee..."

"The coffee can wait," he mutters against my throat. "I’ve got forty-eight hours before I have to be a legend again. Right now, I just want to be the man who gets to keep the girl."

He doesn't rush this time. He takes his time, his mouth exploring every inch of my skin that he didn’t get to mark last night. It’s a different kind of spice—one rooted in the relief of being known, of being safe. When he finally pulls me back to his bedroom, the sun is high over the harbor, and for the first time in my life, I don't feel like I’m looking for the perfect shot.

I’m in it.

I look at the man who spent fifteen years being untouchable, and I realize he didn't just open a door for me.He tore the whole thing down. And as we fall back into the sheets, the only thing I’m thinking about isn't the 40,000 people in the stands or the GM on the phone.

It’s the way Leo Guzman says my name when there’s no one else around to hear it.

The End. 

Author’s Notes: And that is a wrap on the first novelette phase of Leo and Elena! Watching the "Anchor" finally stand up to Howard was the catharsis I think we all needed. This sets the perfect stage for the 40k expansion—there’s so much more of their story to tell back in Bos

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

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First Edition: April 2026

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