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When the LAFD officially announced it would be organizing an inter-station baseball tournament “to foster teamwork,” half the staff thought it was a joke. The kind of PR stunt that sounded fun in a memo and then quietly died when no one showed up. The kind of thing where two overenthusiastic recruits ended up playing catch while everyone else “forgot” to sign up and Bobby ended up grilling hot dogs for four people.
But then came the second announcement —the one that included the words mandatory participation.
And just like that, laughter turned into despair.
Bobby was the first to take it seriously, of course. He’d shown up the next day with a whistle, a clipboard, and a look in his eye that made everyone regret ever laughing in the first place. He assigned drills. Drills. For firefighters who already ran into burning buildings for fun.
Buck, naturally, loved every second of it.
He bounced on his feet like an overexcited golden retriever, eyes shining, gloves already broken in.
“This is gonna be awesome!” he declared to anyone who would listen. “Team spirit! Competition! Maybe matching socks!”
“Someone sedate him,” Hen muttered, rubbing the bridge of her nose as Chim snorted.
“Matching socks, Buck?” Eddie deadpanned. “That’s your selling point?”
“Uniformity builds morale!” Buck said, way too earnestly.
Eddie just shook his head.
“So would free beer.”
Ravi tried to ask about the rules and somehow ended up with three different answers. Chimney, of course, made it his mission to roast everyone’s athletic abilities.
“Hen, I’ve seen better swings at toddler T-ball.”
“Keep talking, Han,” Hen shot back. “You’ll need someone to drive you to the ER after your ‘big slide into home.’”
Meanwhile, Eddie just grumbled. Because the thing was… he didn’t hate baseball.
He hated how much it reminded him of being that kid again —the one with dust on his knees, a glove too big for his hand, and a father barking orders from the fence. The smell of sun-warmed leather and the sharp pop of a ball hitting his glove could undo years of carefully packed-away memories in a second.
Still, he showed up. For the team. For Buck —because somehow Buck’s enthusiasm was contagious in the way colds and chaos usually were.
Against all odds, 118 started winning.
First one game. Then another. Then another.
Suddenly, they were in the finals.
Facing Station 217.
It wasn’t personal.
Or at least, it wouldn’t have been if Tommy Kinard hadn’t worked there.
Tommy, with his too-white smile and his habit of pushing buttons like he was born for it. The guy had a history with Buck —one of those “let’s never bring this up again” histories that made everyone tread lightly.
Which meant, naturally, everyone wanted to crush him.
The day of the final dawned unfairly beautiful.
The sky was so blue it looked fake. The heat was merciless, sticking to skin and uniforms alike. The municipal park had been transformed into a carnival of chaos —firefighters, families, and friends crowding the bleachers, kids darting around with foam bats, the smell of grilled meat and sunscreen hanging in the air.
“The 118 Retrievers!” the announcer called, and the cheers nearly blew out the speakers.
They came out in their black caps and red jerseys —Hen’s with the sleeves rolled up, Chim’s already stained, Buck’s tucked in too perfectly, and Eddie’s… untucked, of course. Abuela had embroidered their numbers by hand, because family.
“And on the other side, the 217 Eagles!”
And there he was.
Tommy. Smirk perfectly calibrated. Helmet dangling from his hand. Trouble incarnate.
He shook Buck’s hand, held it a moment too long.
“Ready to lose again, Evan?”
Buck’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Depends. You planning to cheat again?”
Tommy’s grin sharpened.
“You know I like things messy.”
Eddie, watching from behind, muttered, “If he looks at Buck like that one more time, I’ll turn his bat into modern art.”
Chim patted his shoulder. “Please don’t. The union paid for those.”
Hen adjusted her glasses.
“And Bobby would make you file the report and buy the bat.”
Eddie didn’t answer, but the twitch of his jaw said he was filing it under “Plan B.”
The game began.
Hen got a hit —miraculously. Chim grounded out and tried to argue with the umpire. Ravi struck out but bowed dramatically.
Tommy never missed a chance to run his mouth, and Buck —bless his overgrown-puppy heart— tried to ignore him, channeling it all into his pitching. Every muscle in his body was a coil of tension.
By the third inning, Eddie was up to bat. Two strikes.
Tommy smirked.
“Ready to give up, Diaz?”
Eddie didn’t answer. He just breathed deep, swung —and connected. The ball sang as it flew.
“That’s it, Diaz!” Buck yelled, his grin big enough to light up the dugout.
Eddie reached first base, turned just long enough to catch Buck’s face —flushed, proud, stupidly happy— and for a split second, the roar of the crowd dimmed to nothing.
Tommy’s voice cut through it.
“Nice hit. Your boyfriend teach you that?”
Eddie turned, slow as molasses.
“Yeah. He also taught me how to shut people up.”
Hen and Chim nearly choked laughing.
The innings blurred —sweat, dirt, adrenaline.
Buck pitched like a man possessed. Tommy taunted him relentlessly, but Buck answered with strikes that sliced through the air like punctuation marks.
By the fifth inning, the game was tied.
Tommy threw Eddie a look.
“Trying to be the hero, Diaz? Cute.”
Eddie met his eyes, calm, dangerous.
“You’ll think it’s adorable when I win.”
He swung. The ball cracked like thunder. Two runs. The crowd exploded.
By the time night fell, the field was bathed in the soft white of floodlights. Every cheer, every heartbeat seemed to pulse with the same rhythm.
Tommy threw. Eddie hit.
And this time, it was magic.
The ball soared high, higher, until it vanished into the stars.
The world stopped. Then chaos.
Hen screamed first. Chim jumped onto Ravi. Bobby threw his cap. Buck —Buck was already halfway over the fence, yelling Eddie’s name like it was the only word he’d ever known.
Eddie rounded the bases, helmet in hand, dirt smeared across his grin. When he reached home plate, the world detonated in cheers.
“That’s how you win as a team, Kinard,” he tossed over his shoulder.
Tommy didn’t answer.
And then there was nothing but laughter, chaos, limbs, hugs —so many hugs.
Buck found himself wrapped up in one before he even realized who it was.
Eddie.
It was tight and clumsy and perfect —all warmth and sweat and victory. Buck’s laugh broke somewhere against Eddie’s neck, muffled by the sheer realness of it.
“You did it,” Buck murmured.
Eddie’s arms tightened.
“We did it.”
When they pulled apart, the world kept spinning around them, but slower. Softer.
“Nice throw at the end,” Eddie said, brushing dirt from Buck’s cheek. “Almost looked like you knew what you were doing.”
Buck grinned.
“You almost made me believe you weren’t showing off.”
“Maybe a little,” Eddie admitted, voice low.
And then came that silence —warm, suspended, filled with everything they hadn’t said.
Buck whispered, “Eds…” but words failed him.
So he kissed him.
Quick, sure, finally.
When they broke apart, Eddie smiled, eyes bright.
“You realize Hen’s probably taking pictures, right?”
“Let her,” Buck said softly. “I already won.”
A familiar voice pierced the noise.
“Dad! Buck!”
Christopher tore across the field, jersey three sizes too big, joy radiating off him like sunlight. Eddie scooped him up effortlessly. Buck reached out, heart full to bursting.
“You guys won! I knew you would!”
“Thanks to our secret weapon,” Buck said, tapping his cap.
“Are we getting pizza?” Chris asked with a grin that was all Eddie and a little Buck.
Eddie raised an eyebrow.
“What kind of question is that?”
Buck laughed.
“Pizza, ice cream, and your dad pretending he can’t sing while Chim does karaoke.”
“YES!” Christopher cheered, running off to join the others.
Buck watched him go, then glanced at Eddie.
“He’s just like you when he wins.”
Eddie’s smile curved soft. “Then he’s got good taste.”
Buck’s laugh was quiet, the kind that caught in his throat.
The field was fading into gold and shadow. Hen was screaming for the team photo. Chim was butchering their “anthem.” Bobby was trying, and failing, to look dignified.
Eddie turned back one last time, eyes crinkled, voice low.
“Come on. Let’s go home.”
And Buck —grinning, heart stupidly full, hand itching to find Eddie’s again— followed.
The trophy glimmered under the park lights like it had been polished with pure pride. Bobby tried to give a speech —tried being the key word.
“Team 118,” he began solemnly, “you showed—”
“—that Ravi can’t catch!” Chim interrupted, earning a playful shove.
“That Hen has killer aim!” Buck added.
“That Chim screams like a toddler when he slides,” Hen said, grinning.
“That Eddie’s secretly a baseball god,” Buck finished, eyes flicking sideways, soft and teasing.
Eddie rolled his eyes, muttering, “Don’t start.”
But his smile gave him away.
Before Bobby could wrangle them back into order, Christopher ran up with the trophy in his arms, barely managing to hold it above his head without his crutches.
“Group hug!” he shouted, his voice ringing through the night.
And that was it. Command abandoned. Structure gone.
Everyone piled in.
Hen threw an arm around Chim, who yelped that she was crushing his ribs. Ravi dove in from behind, nearly knocking Buck into Eddie. Bobby sighed —long-suffering, fatherly— and joined anyway, still clutching his clipboard.
Eddie crouched slightly so Christopher could wedge himself between him and Buck. The boy’s laughter rang out, bright and free, and Buck wrapped an arm around both of them, pressing his forehead to Eddie’s shoulder.
“Careful,” Chim groaned. “Someone’s going to dislocate something.”
Hen laughed.
“Then it’s a good thing we brought a whole firehouse full of paramedics.”
“Correction,” Ravi said, muffled somewhere between them, “a winning firehouse full of paramedics.”
The laughter that followed was pure, unguarded. The kind that loosened everything tight in their chests.
They swayed slightly —a lopsided, sweaty, sunburned mess of family— until even Bobby gave up pretending he wasn’t smiling.
Christopher was the first to speak again, his voice small but sure against the noise.
“This is the best team ever.”
Buck’s throat went tight.
“Yeah, kid,” he said, voice rough with joy. “It really is.”
Eddie met his eyes over Christopher’s head, the corners of his mouth curving softly.
“For once,” he murmured, “no arguments.”
Bobby finally clapped his hands, breaking the huddle.
“All right, Retrievers —pizza’s on me. And no one drives until I see hydration happening!”
Chim grabbed a water bottle and yelled, “Hydrating as we speak!” before Hen smacked it out of his hand by accident.
The chaos started again —laughter, teasing, someone trying to lift Bobby for a victory toss, and Christopher moving ahead, waving the trophy like a flag.
Buck looked around at all of them —his team, his family— and felt that same quiet warmth bloom in his chest.
Maybe it was the floodlights. Maybe it was Eddie’s hand brushing against his again.
Or maybe it was just home.
And as they walked off the field together, surrounded by laughter and the buzz of crickets, the 118 moved like a single heartbeat —tangled, noisy, unstoppable— held together by something bigger than victory.
Something that felt a lot like love.