Page 11 of Hiding in the Outfield

I turn back to Olander. His cheeks are dusted pink.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m buying a cute guy a drink. A good drink.”

His eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “I’m not. I didn’t. I d-don’t.”

“Relax, Olander. The bigot police aren’t here tonight. You can accept a drink from a gay man and not worry you’ll be disowned. And…” I say with emphasis. “I can buy a cute guy a drink without it being an invitation for more. You think every woman puts out simply because a guy buys her a drink? Re-fucking-lax. You want a stout, drink a stout.”

Tom places the Goose Island on the counter. I push it toward Olander. He stares at it warily.

“I didn’t slip magic queer fairy dust in it. Don’t worry. It won’t turn you gay.”

His gaze snaps to mine, brows crushed together. “I know that’s not how it works. I…”

“Are so offended by my existence that you can’t even speak with me without being on the defensive? Think if your teammates see you speaking to a gay man, they’ll what? Assume you’re gay too?”

His gaze darts away. Bingo.

I take a step back. “Drink the beer, Olander,” I say softly. “I think you’ll like it. No one needs to know I bought it for you.”

I turn and meander through the crowd until I spot Shelby and my brother. The team has gathered at a booth in the corner of the seating area of the bar.

I slide into the booth next to Araujo. “Hey, handsome.”

“Hey, Frankie. Love the new hair, man.”

I rub my palm over the buzzed sides. “Thanks. Was in the mood for something different.”

I had let it grow out and wore it slicked-back and suave. You know, sexy mafia man style. But I had gotten the itch. I get bored and sometimes have the urge to change things up.

“Left the top, though. Gotta give the boys something to grab onto.” I wink, and he and Thompson, who’s sitting on his other side, laugh.

A beer is placed on the table to my right. A Goose Island beer.

Olander pulls up a chair and settles at the table. It’s crowded, which means he had to really squeeze in here next to me, and the table’s round, so we’re almost side by side. There weren’t a ton of options, but still, it’s an interesting seating choice. Very interesting.

“The beer’s really good,” he says so quietly I almost miss it.

I catch his eye. Now that I’m learning a bit more about what makes him tic, I tone down my flirting. “Fair warning, it’s strong.” I drop my gaze to his chest. He’s removed his zip-up, and fuck me sideways, the man’s pecs are a work of art. I look away for self-preservation reasons as he lifts his beer to his mouth.

I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out hoarse. “I figured it wouldn’t be an issue for a man your size.” Okay, that came out way more suggestive than I’d meant it to. Which is a first. Usually, I go for as suggestive as possible.

He chokes on his sip and breaks out coughing. He pounds that delicious chest.

“You all right over there, Olander?” one of his teammates calls.

He lifts his beer and points to his throat. “W-wrong pipe,” he chokes out.

I flutter my eyelashes. “I’ll gladly show you the right pipe if you ask nicely.”

His eyes go wide, and the table erupts in laughter. Did I say I was going to tone down my flirting? Whoopsies.

“Oh my God, Frankie.” Araujo gasps in between laughs. He lifts his fist, and I bump it. “That was fucking perfect.”

“Frankie, behave!” Paulie calls from across the table. His gaze darts to Olander, and he arches a brow. What the fuck are you doing?

“I’m a fucking angel,” I call back.