Page 93 of Hiding in the Outfield

“Damn.” His whisper comes out thick and choked with emotion.

“Or…we can just be two guys hanging out during the day. Crushing pitches. Grabbing some grub. And head back to the hotel where we can be in private.”

He drops his gear bag, grabs my face with both hands, and slams his mouth down on mine. And my heart takes flight.

“Fuck,” he says against my lips. Then he’s kissing me again.

I grip his shirt and hold on tight. Hold on to the joy bubbling over in my chest. It’s small. One weekend. But I want him to feel what I feel every day. Freedom. Self-acceptance. Confidence.

He finally pulls back, breaths puffing over my lips. “Thank you,” he whispers.

I lift on tiptoes and kiss his nose. “Anything for you, dolcezza.”

I step back and smile through the odd tightening in my chest. “Now those athletic shorts hug your thighs in a way that should be illegal. So let’s get you in the batter’s box. I want to see that ass and those shoulders in action.” I smack said ass and head for the machine that will give us tokens.

THIRTY-THREE

JACKSON

My head is still spinning. For about a million reasons.

First: This. All of this.

A date.

He took me on a date.

And a perfect one.

I had my turn in the batting cage, and now he’s up. He hit some at the same time as me, but I demanded to see him swing. He played baseball growing up? How have I not learned this yet? Huge oversight.

He steps into the cage and settles in the box. He wiggles a bit to get loose. Or maybe because he knows I’m watching. I bite my knuckle. Fuck, those shorts he’s wearing. They’re thigh-hugging black shorts. I thought they were short when he stepped out of the car. But then…but then after I kissed him, he made them even shorter. Flipped up the hemline to reveal a peek-a-boo of rainbow.

Only if you’re comfortable, babe. But if you are…this weekend…you can be free.

I can’t stop staring at that inch of rainbow. Or that ass. Or those thighs. Or that man.

Which is why I’m not ready for his first hit. I didn’t have any time to brace myself. For the way the thin fabric of those shorts would tighten around the curve of his ass. How his thigh muscles, for all the world to see because of those short shorts, would go taut.

The bat cracks, his back rippling with the movement. That skin-tight shirt is doing him all sorts of favors. A baseball swing is a full-body exercise: back, shoulders, arms, legs, glutes. And I’ve never appreciated it until seeing Frankie swing. He’s got amazing form. He lifts his front foot just so, stepping into the swing, hips snapping, arms driving through.

Sexy.

So, so sexy.

After another dozen hits, he steps out of the cage and pulls off his helmet. He ruffles a hand through his hair, then tosses it back. It’s sweaty and tousled, and I’m digging it. I think I like a sweaty Frankie.

I step up to him and tug him to me. I cup the back of his head and kiss him. I keep it quick because we’re in public. While I do have a slight apprehension about kissing him for everyone to see, the real reason I don’t get carried away is…well, these gym shorts don’t hide anything. And just kissing Frankie can get me pretty wound up. I’m addicted. The more I get of him, the more I need.

“I like this.” A hint of a smile graces his face. He leans forward and presses another soft kiss to my lips.

“Me too.” So fucking much. “I still can’t believe you played ball. In high school?”

“Yeah. I played in college too. Just club-level.” His brown-and-gold eyes sparkle back at me. “Met some pretty sexy jocks that way.”

I huff out a laugh. “You would. I bet the boys were tripping over themselves to get to you.”

“Mmm, something like that. What can I say? Boys think I’m pretty.”