Page 51 of Hiding in the Outfield

Why am I still standing here?

I bolt up the stairs. I’m pretty sure I hear chuckles from behind me. I stiffen, my chest tightening. But then it immediately loosens. Those are good chuckles. I guarantee the guys will tease me about this later. In, like, a friendly, fun way too. Ragging on me for hooking up with a guy. I’m safe here.

What is this alternate reality I’ve fallen into?

I turn the corner and jog down the hall. When I get to Frankie’s room, the drum of the shower stream is already filtering through the cracked bathroom door. I quickly close the bedroom door and slip inside the bathroom—just as Frankie’s bare ass disappears behind the frosted walk-in shower glass.

A whimper falls from me, and I tear at my clothes. Shirt. Pants. Boxers. All gone. I step into the shower and freeze. Shit.

Frankie bursts out laughing. “Oh, Jackie-babe. You are a fucking gem.”

My cheeks heat. Forgot to take off the socks. “A little over-eager.” And so, so fucking nervous.

“Trust me, sweetness. I appreciate it.”

I step out and quickly tear off my soaking wet socks. Whoops.

When I step back in—appropriately barefoot—he’s standing under the shower stream, head tilted up, eyes closed, slicking his dark hair back. His biceps flex with every slide. I swallow hard. He’s lean but strong, defined. His frame is so much smaller than mine, though.

I come from a line of giants. My dad and brother are big; my uncles and grandfather were all big. Olanders are Olympians. Frankie compared me to Ares, and it’s not that far off. I’m six-six and clock in at two-eighty on a light day. I get compared to Aaron Judge on the regular in baseball. Which I can’t deny doesn’t light me up. Because fucking goals.

But Frankie…oh, Frankie. He’s lean and limber and long lines. And I want him wrapped around me like a spider monkey.

Water cascades down him, carving a path around his firm, hair-dusted pecs, trickling down the divots of his abs, down his happy trail to—a sound bursts from me, a sound that’s desperate and destroyed all at once.

His dick fits him perfectly, long and lean just like him. And pointing directly at me. Taunting me. My stomach knots. I glance down at myself. This is the first time another guy is seeing my dick, a guy who I'll be hooking up with. Does he like what he sees? Am I…am I adequate enough? I steel myself against the insecurity.

“You, Jackson Olander, are a fucking snack.”

Clearly, I hadn’t hidden it well enough. I slowly lift my attention back to his face.

His gaze is on my dick. “Jumbo-sized snack.”

My breath hitches at the husky desperation in his voice. And it helps. He definitely likes what he sees.

He grabs his body wash and starts soaping up. He watches me, a knowing little smile on his lips as I stand there frozen. Frozen and so fucking hard. His hands travel down his torso, spread wide, unhurried.

Lower.

Lower.

I lean forward.

They close around his dick.

One. Slow. Stroke.

A deep groan rumbles from him, and my cock twitches.

“Enjoying the show?”

My gaze flies up to his, lids heavy, dark eyelashes clumped together and gathering small droplets of steam. I can’t figure out where I want to focus first: his face with those plush lips slightly parted, a rosy flush deepening on his cheeks as he strokes himself—my stare drops—or where those long fingers run lazily over his dick, his forearm flexing with each small movement.

The knot in my stomach tightens, and anxiety slams into my chest. I’m fine. This is fine. I’ve totally got this. Will probably come in like five seconds, but I’ll make that up to him. I have no idea what I’m doing, but hey, I have a dick. That’s gotta count for something.

His dark eyes sharpen. “I didn’t really have a plan going into this, but…why don’t we start small?”

Apparently, I’m a lot more transparent than the frosted shower glass. Or maybe it’s just Frankie. He’s always seemed to see more of me than anyone else.