Page 4 of Hiding in the Outfield

I’ve never been with a ballplayer. A baseball one, that is.

Something I’d love to remedy.

I stride over to the table, a step behind my brother. I have a thing for baseball players—I’m drawn to them. I think it just happened by osmosis. I’ve been around them my entire life because of Paulie’s obsession with the sport. I even played it myself. There were always sexy athletes playing catch in tight pants on our TV. Or we were going to the ballpark, getting seats right by the dugout. Ugh, and when they swing those bats, hello sexy shoulders and bulging biceps. I volunteer to be bat boy. And ball boy. Don’t get me started on the spanking tunnel that they try to cover up as a dugout.

Paulie pulls out the chair next to closeted-man, and I swoop in and take it. I glance up at him and send him a winning smile. “Thanks, lil bro.”

He rolls his eyes and drags up a chair next to mine.

I love my little brother. And I’m so happy he got assigned to Triple-A this year because it meant he could move in with me. I knew it was coming—Paulie is an incredible catcher—so I made sure to rent a townhouse with a few extra rooms for him and any teammates who might want to crash with us.

The silence of that big, empty townhouse was starting to eat at me. It’s not easy for me to let people into my life, not for more than a night. My job is extremely demanding, and people don’t understand how I need to disappear off the face of the earth for a couple months every four-to-six months. Makes it hard to form lasting friendships with anyone outside of work.

But I needed my own place. I couldn’t live with Mom and Dad anymore. I had moved back in, licking my wounds, after…everything. But it was time to move on. Time to try to move forward.

I side-eye the cutie next to me. He’s stiff as a board. I’ll give him a little breather before I turn the flirt on.

I direct my attention across the table, where another one of the team’s pitchers is sitting. I know most of the pitchers because Pauls works closely with them and talks nonstop about them at home.

“Hey, freckles.” I blow a kiss to Thompson.

He grins as he catches it and smacks it against Araujo’s cheek. Thompson is adorable. Very boy-next-door with perpetually messy hair and double dimples, which he’s flashing right now. And the freckles. The freckles.

“I’m offended, Thompson,” I say. “That kiss was meant for you.”

“Why can’t I have it?” Araujo says. “I’m much nicer to look at than that ugly mug.” He throws a thumb Thompson’s way. It’s a complete falsehood, but for some reason jocks love to call their friends ugly. It’s a…sign of affection. Which makes me question their comprehension skills.

“Fuck you.” Thompson shoves Araujo.

Araujo almost falls out of his chair but catches himself at the last minute. He launches himself at Thompson—and now they’re wrestling on the floor of the bar. I wrinkle my nose. I’m not sure even being the meat in that sexy sandwich could convince me to get on a barroom floor. Who am I kidding? I’d be down there in a second if they asked.

I turn toward the man next to me, plop my elbow on the table, and rest my chin in my hand. “Hey there, handsome. What’s your name?”

His eyes dart around like he’s searching for the emergency exit. My closeted radar is flashing.

“Do you have to hit on everyone?” the man next to him says, mouth tight.

Ah, Devereux. The lovely, sweet, kind⁠—

“All you do is make us uncomfortable. Don’t you have some gay place you can go?”

Just kidding. Devereux is a piece of shit. Some would say he’s an asshole or a dick, but I like both of those. I don’t like Devereux.

“I didn’t realize people disliked being told they’re handsome. I mean, it’s just a fact”—I sweep a hand down the unnamed man next to me—“he’s gorgeous. Anyone with eyes can see that, doesn’t matter who they like in their bed. And anyone with eyes can also see that you…well, you are frankly very mediocre.” I send him a sympathetic grimace.

Paulie chokes on a laugh, drowning out whatever Dev mutters and pulls on my shoulder until I sit back in my chair.

We catch each other’s eye.

Frankie, behave.

I grin. Couldn’t help myself.

His brown eyes twinkle back at me. Can you ever?

“Nope,” I say, popping the “p”.

He just shakes his head. We know each other so well; I swear we have that freaky telepathic thing twins have. We might not have shared a womb, but we’ve been inseparable since Paulie came into this world. You’d think there would have been a time when I was annoyed or too cool for my little brother, but you’d be wrong. And not just because my brother has always been a bit of a legend in our town due to his baseball talent. It’s just because Paulie’s a stand-up human. He’s always got my back. My Paulie Panther. Rawr. And it goes both ways. I’m his Feisty Frankie. You don’t touch a Nebiolo.