Page 12 of Hiding in the Outfield

I lift my eyebrows back at him and throw him a look dripping with attitude. I’m well aware of how he feels about Olander. He thinks I’m instigating. I’m not. I’m…investigating.

“Pretty sure angels wouldn’t use fucking in a sentence,” Shelby says, her dancing gaze meeting mine from where she’s sitting curled into Paulie’s side.

“Clearly, you’re hanging out with the wrong men in wings.” I blow her a kiss, then take a sip of my drink.

“Speaking of men who can fly,” Thompson says, leaning around Araujo. “Olander. That fucking catch tonight was epic.”

“Ohmygosh, yes,” I say, spinning to face Olander. “Like what the literal home run heist magic was that? I swear you scaled the wall like Spider-Man.” If only he’d been wearing a skin-tight bodysuit.

He grins, a dimple winking in his right cheek. “It was a pretty catch, wasn’t it?”

Oh, wow. He’s…dangerous when he shows some confidence. I’ve only ever experienced his nervous, shifty side. I suppose this must be what he’s normally like when he’s not in my presence.

He leans forward and drops an elbow on the table, scooting his chair in closer. “There’s literally no better feeling than robbing a home run.”

I mean, I beg to differ, but I keep that one an inside thought.

“How many did you have last year?” Maddox asks.

“Three.” His smile widens, his other dimple making an appearance.

Somebody kill me, please. He’s so proud of himself, and I don’t think I’m going to survive it. Frankie’s cause of death? Death by dimples.

“But I’m greedy. I want at least five this year.” He takes a swig of his beer.

“Cocky son-of-a-bitch,” Roche, the Clippers’ veteran first baseman, calls out. “Snag ‘em while you can. The walls get higher once you hit The Show.”

Olander leans back in his chair and spreads his legs wide, the picture of confident nonchalance. He arches a brow and shrugs his shoulders. He knows he’s good.

I, on the other hand, have stopped breathing. Because when he spread his legs, his knee pressed up against mine under the table. And he hasn’t moved it out of the way.

My gaze lifts to his. I pull my leg away, and those blue-gray eyes dim. Almost like he’d leaned into me on purpose…

Wanted the contact.

I take a calculated risk. Calculated risks are literally what I analyze all day long at my job. I skate my leg around the back of his calf until my foot slots into place against his. There’s no missing the intention behind it.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move away.

And those blue eyes glow.

That cocksure grin is still firmly in place, but I don’t miss the slight tremor in his hand as he brings his beer to his lips.

Jackson Olander. You are a mystery, aren’t you?

FIVE

JACKSON

I push through the players’ entrance of the clubhouse. I come in early when we have night games to get in a quick strength training workout, then head home and rest before I head back to the complex for pre-game practice and meetings.

It’s not easy to balance strength training when the season’s in full swing. I have to make sure I don’t overtax my muscles and end up with fatigue during a game—but I also can’t afford to have any muscle loss. I can’t scale walls like Spider-Man if my muscles atrophy.

I bite back my smile, and my heart vibrates in my chest.

Last night was…huge. It was both the best night of my life and the worst. The guy I haven’t been able to get out of my head for over a year bought me a drink and then spent the entire night with his leg pressed against mine. That’s the closest I’ve ever been to a guy. I finally felt like I fit in my skin. That small contact—I can still feel it.

But now I don’t know how I keep doing this. How do I stay away, stay alone, until my baseball career is over? It’s barely even started; I haven’t even made it to the big leagues yet. I thought I could do it: achieve my major league dreams, then when that part of my life is over, the other part can start.