Page 87 of Hiding in the Outfield

“I did good, didn’t I?” Shane bounces lightly on his toes.

She smiles up at Stone. “I’ll say.”

Stone blushes. He fucking blushes.

I can’t look away from the small interaction. She just…accepted Shane introducing Stone as his boyfriend. No pause. No falter in her smile. No, the smile on her face is proud—wider than before—as though Shane is her own son, and she couldn’t be happier with his choice in partner.

Something uncomfortable settles behind my sternum. I bite my cheek hard, trying to hold it back, but it spreads anyway—a slow bloom of sadness and yearning.

Then Shane lets out a cheer, snapping me out of my funk. My attention whips to where he’s hurrying toward Paulie, who has a huge platter in his hands. Actually, all the guys are hurrying toward it.

“Please tell me this has that spicy shit,” Maddox says.

Paulie immediately spins away with the platter, holding it out of reach. “Excuse me. Spicy shit. You’re not eating anything speaking like that.”

“Dude.” Shane gives him a disapproving glare. “Spicy Capicola. Don’t insult the meat. Bad form.”

“Seriously,” Frankie calls out. “Never insult a man’s meat.”

“Francesco, behave,” his mom chastises.

And just like that, Frankie and I are now the center of his mom’s attention. And just like that, my stomach erupts with nerves.

She slips around the island and the guys who look like a pack of wolves converging on their next meal.

Frankie steps forward, hugging her tight. “Hey, Ma.”

She steps back and studies him at arm’s length. “You look good, Francesco.” Her eyes flick to me before going back to Frankie. “Happier.”

“I’m always happy, Mom.”

“Mmm,” she says noncommittally. She raises her brows. “Are you going to introduce me to the wall of muscle standing sentry by our back door?”

Warmth hits my cheeks, and I will it away. Which doesn’t work at all. Now that I’m aware of my blush, my face is only growing warmer.

“You know Jackson Olander, Ma,” Paulie says around a mouthful of food.

“Hell of a center fielder,” Mr. Nebiolo says from where he’s leaning against a counter, arms crossed, watching the chaos go down in his kitchen.

“Thanks, sir.”

Mrs. Nebiolo waves it off. “Yes, yes. Baseball, everything revolves around baseball. But I’m sure this nice young man is more than his position on the Clippers. Nice to meet you, Jackson.” She smiles up at me.

My jaw goes slack as her words slam into me. Knocking me off-balance. “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” I manage. In four words, she does it—throws a pitch right to my soft spot, the spot I’ve never managed to conquer.

Strike out.

More than his position.

I’m not. Not to my family. Not to me.

I swallow hard and slowly bring my gaze to Frankie. The first person who’s ever made me feel like more than an athlete, more than my OAA and DRS numbers or my batting stats.

“Oh dear, we have another one. No Ma’am’s either.” She opens her arms in invitation and lifts her brows.

I step forward and carefully hug her, well aware I am a literal giant compared to this little Italian woman.

“Oh, come on now; you can hug me harder than that. With those muscles? Use them, boy!”