Page 37 of Hiding in the Outfield

“How about you start over,” I say gently. “Why are you here, Jackson?”

A pair of sad blue eyes meet mine, drop to my cheek, then come back. His lips tighten, his nostrils flaring. He shakes his head, and his eyes gloss over.

“Am I that ugly that I bring you to tears now?”

He slumps, and a watery laugh bursts from him. “God, you’re something else. I love how you’re putting me at ease right now. When I’m the asshole who got you decked in the face.”

“I mean, I’m not thrilled about that. It hurts like a bitch, and I’m close to dying of boredom. My screen time is limited—like I’m a fucking toddler. I can’t work out, and reading gives me an instant headache. I literally just wander around the house aimlessly. No way in hell am I leaving looking like this. But I think we’ve kind of entered gray area territory. Devereux has been gunning for me for a very long time. This was the excuse he needed. Now, if you weren’t friends with the bigoted jackass to begin with, we wouldn’t be in this situation. So, there is that.”

He grimaces. “I think that’s the part that makes me hate myself the most. I knew exactly the kind of man Dev was. It’s why I was friends with him.” He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a disbelieving laugh. “I still can’t believe it. The first time I work up the courage to kiss a guy, and I get him sent to the hospital. Maybe that’s a sign I should lock myself firmly in the closet.”

And there it is. I had a feeling that might be the case. “So, I’m just going to drop the whole ice cream and shark attacks thing. Correlation doesn’t equate causation, Jackson. Kissing men doesn’t mean they’re more likely to get punched in the face. Now, kissing them in front of bigots might. So, I’d say what you really need to do here isn’t stop kissing men. You need to choose better friends, sweetheart.”

He stares at me, dark brows scrunched together, head slowly shaking back and forth. “You are incredible.”

I frown. “I mean, I appreciate the compliment. I’m not sure what I did to warrant that, though.”

“You’re just so logical. I don’t get why you’re not mad at me.”

Yes. Well, my job is pretty much grounded in logic and analytics. It’s the last thing people assume when they meet me. This pretty boy who loves glitter? He’s a hardcore math nerd.

Sparkles, spreadsheets, and sass, thank you very much.

“I kind of get the sense that you’re being hard enough on yourself as it is,” I say slowly. “I heard you shout at Dev. Easton told me you were holding him back. You stepped in too late, Jackson, but you stepped in. People are so quick to judge. They don’t understand what it’s like to be in a situation like that, how hard it is to react quickly and logically. Fight. Flight. Freeze.” I shrug. It’s complicated, but what I’ve seen thus far in the aftermath is all I need to know.

I wing a brow. “I also heard a certain friend of yours was dropped from the Clippers. Is my assumption correct that you had something to do with that?”

He nods stiffly. “I told the skipper what happened and then was interviewed by HR.”

I lay a hand on his thigh. “Thank you. I know that couldn’t have been easy for you.”

Those blue-gray eyes bore into me. “If you want to press charges, I’ll testify.”

His pronouncement hits me square in the chest. All I can do is stare at him. Because that would be huge. Out him to everyone. Strip away all the protection he’s built for so long. He could lose it all. And all that stares back at me in those glacial blues is resolve. Quite a bit of fear too, but I think he’d truly do it.

I swallow hard. Yeah. This man isn’t a bad man. He just got caught up traveling down the wrong path. And was really far down it when he realized the wrong turn he’d taken. I think people should be allowed to come back, reroute.

I place the milkshake back on my end table, then give his leg a squeeze. “I appreciate that. But I just want to be done with the whole thing. I’m happy he’s off the team and can’t harass the players any longer.”

He stares at my hand. And stares.

I slowly pull it back. “Sorry, should I not have…?”

He quickly places his on mine and brings my hand back into place. “No. I like it.” His hand flexes lightly. “I like it a lot.”

I study him: this incredibly attractive, horrible at flirting, obsessed with small contact, cocky-at-times baseball player. Speaking of confusing. He’s a juxtaposition. “So, is your goal here to sleep with me?”

His eyes go round. “E-excuse me?”

“I don’t think you were here apologizing to get in my pants,” I clarify. “But in general. Back at the bar. All the longing glances. The whole”—I let my voice drop to a sultry level—“Sit with me. Then taking me up on my invitation. You want my dick, yes?”

His throat jumps, and his eyes somehow go impossibly wider. “I. Um…maybe one day?”

I purse my lips. “What does maybe one day mean? Like is this a worried-others-will-find-out thing?”

He blows out a breath and stares at his hand, his hand that’s still resting over mine. The guy is literally holding my hand. I’m nothing but melted butter at this point.

“I wasn’t really thinking much past kissing you that night,” he says quietly. “That’s all I wanted. I don’t think I’m the kind of person who can do one-night stands or nameless hookups.” He looks at me, and that becoming blush is back on his cheeks. “I’m not looking for a relationship necessarily; I just want more than meaningless. So, do I want your dick right this moment? No, Frankie. Do I want to sit here with you where we do nothing more than this—” He nods toward our hands. “Yeah, that’s what I’m looking for. It’s not something I could have had when I was locked up tight, but now…”