Call the Pitch, Call Me Yours
MM Baseball Romance
by Chase Power
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Pairing: MM
Heat: Inferno (5/5)
Length: ~78,000 words
Tropes: Praise Kink, Veteran Catcher / Younger Pitcher, Age Gap (38/26), Bisexual Awakening, Size Difference, Authority Dynamic, Secret Relationship, Teammates to Lovers, Touch-Starved Veteran, Final-Season Romance
He throws a hundred miles per hour. Following instructions has never been his thing.
Micah Wynn has one of the most valuable arms in professional baseball and one of the worst reputations. He shakes off signs, challenges coaches, and pretends he doesn’t need anyone behind the plate. Then veteran catcher Darius Cole crouches down and calls a game so precise it shuts Micah’s entire brain up for the first time in his life.
One quiet command settles him. One word of praise leaves him on his knees.
Their arrangement is supposed to improve Micah’s pitching and end when the season does. Instead, every road trip pulls them closer, every win makes the rules harder to follow, and Micah starts craving Darius’s voice on bad nights just as desperately as after a shutout.
Darius knows how to guide a pitcher through nine innings. He has no idea how to tell Micah this will be his last season.
Because Micah can handle a hundred-mile-per-hour fastball. He might not survive trusting the first man he’s ever needed to keep.
You’ll love this book if you enjoy: Veteran catcher x younger pitcher MM romance with scorching praise kink, bisexual awakening (no identity crisis, just want), age gap with real stakes, teammates to lovers with secret relationship tension, graphic and explicit heat that’s emotionally integrated, and a guaranteed happily ever after.
Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes including praise kink dynamics and authority/power exchange), strong language, sports-related injury, chronic pain, bisexual awakening, and depictions of conditional parental love and abandonment. Intended for readers 18+.
Read Chapter One Free
Chapter One
The thing about throwing ninety-nine miles per hour is that nobody in the stadium is breathing except you.
Forty-two thousand people packed into Harbor City Field, and every single one of them had their phone up, their beer forgotten. The August air was thick enough to chew. The lights turned the infield dirt into something almost golden, and I stood in the center of all of it with a five-seam grip buried in my glove and my pulse sitting exactly where I wanted it — sixty-two beats per minute, same as a man taking a nap.
I touched my chain. The gold caught the stadium lights and flashed once against my collarbone. My mother put it around my neck the night I got drafted, and I hadn’t taken it off since. Superstition, ritual, whatever. The chain came first. Then the sign.
I looked in.
Darius Cole crouched behind the plate like he’d been born there — knees wide, mitt centered, his free hand curled loosely against his inner thigh. Two fingers down. Slider.
Fine. That’s what I would have thrown anyway.
I came set. Checked the runner at first with a lazy glance that said don’t even think about it, then drove through my delivery. My arm slot felt clean, my release point was right where I’d been drilling it all week, and the ball came out of my hand spinning so tight it looked like a white dot drawing a line through the humidity.
The hitter swung over the top of it. Strike three.
The crowd erupted. I caught the return throw and walked behind the mound, rolling the ball across my knuckles — index, middle, ring, pinkie, back again — while the next batter settled into the box. Fifth inning. Two outs. I’d given up one bloop single in the second and absolutely nothing else.
I pulled the towel off my head and looked down the bench.
Darius was sitting by himself near the bat rack, catcher’s mask beside him on the bench, his thick forearms resting on his thighs. He had his game notebook open — the real one, the leather-bound one he kept in his locker with eighteen years of handwritten pitch notes in tiny, psychotic handwriting that looked like a serial killer’s diary if the serial killer only cared about opposing batting averages in two-strike counts.
His hands were enormous. Thick-knuckled, calloused, the kind of hands that had caught a hundred and sixty thousand pitches over the course of a career and looked like they could catch a hundred and sixty thousand more. His right index finger was permanently crooked from a break that hadn’t healed straight. His left thumb had a ridge of scar tissue across the pad that I’d been staring at during sign meetings for three weeks, wondering what it would feel like.
Against my jaw. Against my throat.
I looked away before he caught me.
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Opening Night — A scene TOO HOT for retailers
Six months later. Darius is coaching. Micah is the ace. And their pregame tunnel ritual has evolved into something the stadium walls were never built to contain.
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