Page 20 of Hiding in the Outfield

My attention settles on Olander. He quickly glances away and throws back a shot, throat bobbing in a swallow.

But if I had my choice of any man on the Clippers, a certain center fielder would be my number one.

NINE

JACKSON

I haven’t been able to take my eyes off him all night. He’s currently kicking Slater’s ass in pool. It’s really sexy. And I’m totally jealous of Slater. I want those smiles, the too-loud laughter that bursts from him when he tips his head back.

I’m fucking pathetic.

All I can think about is his leg pressed against mine. I’d give anything for that again. My teammates always brag about their conquests, and I’m over here trying to figure out a way I can discreetly brush my hand against his.

I throw back my beer—and come up empty. I switched over from shots to beer after Michaels and I downed five in a row. But I also have nearly six inches and one hundred pounds on Michaels. My attention falls on him. He’s leaning against a wall close to the hall that leads to the bathrooms, chatting up a girl. He stumbles…even though he’s standing still. Yikes. I catch Barnes and Stone lasered in on him. At least his friends are watching over him.

I glance at Devereux, who’s lost in conversation with an extremely cheery blonde. I wonder if Dev would look out for me the way Michaels’s friends do. Suppose it would depend on if he’d found himself a hookup.

I lift my beer and wiggle it. “I’m getting a refill.”

Neither acknowledges me.

Fine by me.

I head to the bar and lean against it.

“What can I get you?” Tom asks.

I stare at my beer. “I think just a seltzer. Think I’m done for the rest of the night.”

He nods and grabs a glass, quickly filling it up with the soda water hose, then sliding it over me.

“No lime or lemon?”

I jump and spin to face pouty lips curved in a sly smile.

“Jumpy for a big, bad baseball player.” Mahogany eyes highlighted by charcoal eyeliner glimmer with amusement. He turns toward the bar. “Another Campari, Tommyboy.”

“Anything for you, Frankie.”

He blows the bartender a kiss.

I don’t get it. He flirts with everyone. And they just don’t care. This is a sports bar, and while I’m sure queer guys come here, I’m pretty confident the majority who frequent the place are straight. They all take Frankie’s flirting in stride. Well, I guess not all of them. My gaze skitters over to Dev…and he’s got his tongue down the blonde’s throat. What a great husband he is.

I look back at the bar and grab my drink. I know Frankie’s staring at me. For some reason I’ve always been able to feel it—his attention.

I frown at my drink. Dev’s distracted. My teammates are distracted. I bite my lip and glance at Frankie. Sure enough, our eyes clash. He studies me, a ghost of a smile on his face, those analytical eyes trying to read me.

Come on, Jackson. You’re six-foot-six and nearly three-hundred pounds of muscle. You can do this.

I let out a breath, and with it, a lifetime of denial. “Sit with me?”

I swear the man’s eyes flare. They spark and shimmer back at me, and that hint of a smile grows into one that’s real.

He slides fluidly onto a stool and nods his head toward the one next to his. I cautiously take the seat. Even though I’m the one who offered the invitation. Even though there’s nothing wrong with two guys chatting at the bar.

Frankie swirls his red-orange drink and studies me. “Jackson Olander,” he murmurs.

It’s low and sensual, and I can’t stop the way it makes my muscles lock tight.