Page 22 of Hiding in the Outfield

“Ah, right. I forgot. He doesn’t seem like a Paolo. I guess I’m just so used to him being Paulie.”

“Oh, yes, totally agree. He’s not nearly sophisticated enough for our Italian names. I, on the other hand, embody Francesco.”

The word skates over my skin and down my spine. I try to harden myself against it, but I can’t stop the small shiver. Yes. He definitely does. Smooth. Suave. Francesco.

His eyes dance, but other than that, he doesn’t draw attention to my shiver, for which I’m grateful. My intense reaction to him makes it really hard to interact with him…yet it’s all I want to do.

“Are you close with your family…?” He hesitates, then continues. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess no. I know being in professional sports…” He tosses his head from side to side. “Adds an additional layer of difficulty, but it’s more than that for you, isn’t it?”

My attention slides away. “I’m close with them. But I’m not close with them. If you get what I mean.” I say it out to the bar because I can’t look at him right now. I know he knows. But we’re dancing way too close to saying things I’ve never even admitted aloud to myself.

“Yeah, Olander, I know exactly what you mean. And I’m sorry.”

I finally gather the courage to look back at him, find those expressive eyes, ones that truly recognize the pain I live through.

“What’s it like?” I whisper. “To be free?”

Those bright eyes fall, the light, the sparkle, instantly snuffed out. “Damn, Jackson. You’re breaking my heart.”

I laugh awkwardly. “Sorry. Look at me. First time flirting with a guy, and I’m clearly fucking it up. Supposed to, like, compliment you and make you feel good, and all I’m doing is depressing you.”

My eyes go wide. Shit. I didn’t mean to say that. But his eyes are back to glowing, and something inside me warms.

“It might not be a bad thing. Flirting is fine. It’s fun. But it’s superficial. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t need more than surface level to decide if I want to have fun with a guy.” He winks. “But can’t say it’s not a breath of fresh air to actually learn a little something genuine about a person.”

An uncomfortable feeling swirls in my gut. I know how easily he picks up. Guys flock to him. With good fucking reason. He’s magnetic. I guess I’m jealous. Of him. Of them. Of it all.

He watches me, those eyes analyzing again. I shift in my seat. I’m not sure what he’s seeing. He clearly sees a lot, considering he picked up on what I’ve kept locked up tight for twenty-six years.

He places his drink casually on the countertop. “I have to go to the bathroom.” His lips curve. “You know. Powder my nose.” The specks of gold in his eyes glimmer with amusement. “It can take a while… Wouldn’t be surprised if I was still there when you took a trip there yourself.”

Something jerks in my chest. Oh. Words. Um. Find words. Can’t.

He hops off his chair and lets out a low chuckle. “Five minutes, Ollie-baby. That’s as long as I’ll wait.”

He steps away like he’s going to leave, but pauses at my side, shoulder lightly brushing mine. “No pressure either way,” he murmurs. “Just opportunity. If you want it.”

And then he strides toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms and the back exit of the bar.

Opportunity.

Fuck, I want it.

I sit and stare at the scratched and dented bar top for way too long. I don’t know how long. Shit. How long has it been?

I jump up from my seat and head toward the bathrooms. Indecision was paralyzing me, but now that I think I might have actually missed my chance? I pick up my pace. Shit, shit. I don’t even know what I might have missed. All I know is that I want to find out why Frankie asked me back here.

I slow my pace and pause in front of the bathroom door. What if other people are in there?

A soft whistle has my head whipping toward the end of the dark hallway.

And there he is. Casual as you please, one foot propped on the wall, leaning against it. He jerks his head to my left, pushes off the wall, and disappears around the bend.

I flex my hands and shake them out. Game time.

I turn the corner, and he’s standing there waiting for me. He crooks his finger, slowly walking backward.

I follow.