Page 89 of Hiding in the Outfield

Paulie groans while the rest of us crack up.

I lean forward, mouth coasting over Frankie’s ear. I might let my lips graze over his earrings longer than I should, but I find I can’t help myself. He’s wearing gold hoops today, delicate gold leaf dangling from them, with matching leaf-shaped studs tracing the curve of his cartilage. Gives him this woodland sprite look that I kind of can’t get enough of.

“Your mom is hilarious.”

He grabs my hand that’s resting over his shoulder and kisses it. His gaze lifts to mine. “She’s a feisty Italian. Think you might be a teeny bit familiar with that.”

“Bet he’s like the next Albert Pujols,” Maddox says, bringing us back to Trent.

“Thirteenth round, jumped Low-A to Triple-A his first year, then called up the next,” I say.

He’s definitely working hard for it. The guy is dedicated. We cross paths a lot in the mornings in the gym. Something I’ve been slacking on a bit lately because of a certain someone in my arms right now. My game has only improved, which makes me think maybe I was overdoing it. It’s a delicate balance, but over-training is definitely a thing.

“Can’t say I don’t hope he also hits seven-hundred taters while playing for us,” Shane adds.

There’s so much promise on our Triple-A team right now. If we can all manage to get our shot in the big leagues, all of us Jetties… Damn, it feels like we’d be unstoppable.

I discreetly knock on the ground because even thinking it makes me feel like I’m jinxing it. But sitting here with this group of guys, an incredible man in my arms, the feeling of home wrapping around me, it’s hard not to feel optimistic.

THIRTY-ONE

FRANKIE

I finish drying the dish Paulie just handed me. We’re on dish duty. The rest of the guys are in the living room while Mom and Dad pack up the leftovers. Jed and Jackson, newbies in the House of Nebs, tried to help, but Ma shooed them out. Mom would never have guests clean—what kind of host would she be! Words she’s said many times. Maddy, East, and Shaney-babe didn’t bother trying; they’re well aware of how it works here.

“All right. I think that was the last one,” Paulie says, grabbing a towel to dry his hands.

I hand Dad the dish to put away and toss my towel on the counter.

Mom pulls out a tinfoil-covered tray and sets it on the island. “Paolo, can you bring dessert out to the living room? Tom, bring the coffee table back in to put this on—and make sure you put the pad and tablecloth over it first.”

Paulie’s eyes light up. “Ohmygoddd. Are those what I think they are?”

“If you think they’re cannoli from Tutti’s, you’d be right.”

“Fuck yes!”

“Paolo Luca Nebiolo, you watch your language, or else you can watch everyone else eat them.”

Paulie zips his mouth and blinks angelically. Mom rolls her eyes and shoos him.

He quickly scoops up the tray and heads for the living room. Mom shoots Dad a glance, and he quickly follows Paulie.

I groan.

“Hush, Francesco. If you thought there wouldn’t be a minor interrogation, I’d be concerned you’d suffered a head injury.”

I barely hold back my wince. Ma doesn’t know about the whole broken cheek-concussion incident. Paulie and I both decided it was best not to have her worry. It really was minor, and Mom would have freaked. She’d probably have moved in to take care of me until I was fully healed.

“Hand me those containers.”

I pass the last of the leftovers to her, and she stores them in the fridge. The door slamming shut slices through the now-silent kitchen. The soft murmur of the TV, the guys‘ laughter, and conversation drifts over to us.

Mom lifts a brow and leans her hip against the island. “So? Jackson seems nice.”

“Jackson is nice.”

She purses her lips, and the look she gives me screams that she’s not going to play that game. “Francesco. You don’t bring men home. Not since…”