16. Lark
SIXTEEN
LARK
LARK:
What do you mean?
Ace, you better not embarrass me.
ACE!
“What the hell?” I say, placing my phone into the cupholder as I watch the Fury take the field. The crowd cheers loudly, yelling for their favorite players while they run across the dirt and grass. Ace looks hot as hell in his gear, and a dull throb pulses between my thighs as he adjusts his backwards hat before pulling his mask over his face. He squats down, taking a couple more practice pitches from Riggs, and my eyes home in on the firm muscles of his ass as they strain against his tight pants. I’ve never had the urge to bite into any part of a man’s body before, but fuck. What I wouldn’t give to feel that thing between my teeth. “Excuse me, Miss,” a young guy says from beside me, making me turn his way with wide eyes. I feel like a kid who just got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, except it wasn’t a cookie I was after. “This is for you.” He hands me a large plastic cup with the Fury logo printed across it.
“I didn’t order anyth—” I begin, but stop when I look inside to find it filled to the brim with gummy bears. I huff a laugh, looking back at him. “Thank you.” He nods, making his way up the stairs as I plop back into my seat, returning my eyes to where the first batter is walking toward the plate. Ace turns his head, glancing at me quickly before focusing back on his pitcher. Just as I go to reach into the cup, a furry purple hand wraps around my wrist.
“What the fuck?” I yell, much louder than I should, considering this is a family-friendly event, but Jesus Christ. Scanning my way up the creature’s arm, my eyes slowly follow its length until I’m staring into what I can only describe as a nightmare on Earth. I look back to the cup in my hand, focusing on the mean black and green dragon on the team’s logo before once again sliding my eyes up to whatever the hell this thing is supposed to be. It can’t possibly be the Fury’s mascot. It’s not even the right color.
“H-hi,” I stammer, unsure of what to do next. But before I can ask, he hands me a white baseball jersey, clapping wildly as I take it from his grip. Without a word, he points to it, then to me, dramatically extending his arms one at a time as though he’s putting them into sleeves.
“Friggle wants you to wear it!” a little girl says from beside me, a wide smile stretched across her face as she looks at the mascot adoringly. “He gave you a present. You have to put it on!” She’s freaking adorable, and I’m a sucker for a kid in pigtails, so I oblige, throwing it around my back before working my arms into the sleeves.
“How do I look?” I ask her, spinning around so she can see the back.
She sucks in a surprised gasp. “An Ace Mathers jersey! He’s my favorite! He dances funny when it’s his turn to bat! Have you seen it?” She giggles, her tongue poking through the space where her baby tooth used to be as she does.
I smile. “I haven’t seen it yet, but he sounds like a lot of fun!”
“He is!” she replies, turning to the mascot. “Friggle, can I have one?” He stands there frozen for a moment before I tap his shoulder and lean in. “Go grab one in her size. Charge it to my seat.” He nods emphatically, awkwardly walking up the stairs with his long arms flapping at his sides. I’ll pay Ace back for it tonight. I couldn’t resist when I saw how excited she was about mine.
By the time I’m settled back in my seat, the top of the first is over, and Daytona is already two batters in. Ace is on deck, swinging his bat methodically with every pitch that’s made. But when it’s his turn at the plate, after the guy before him hits a ground ball right past the second baseman, no amount of information from my new little friend can prepare me for what happens.
“Sugar” by Trick Daddy blares through the speakers and the crowd jumps to their feet, watching as he twirls his bat around dramatically before turning toward where I’m seated. My eyes go wide as he points right at me. I turn to look over my shoulder so people don’t realize that I am, in fact, the subject of his attention. He lip-syncs the lyrics—which I’m surprised he even knows, considering how young he is—doing body rolls as the women surrounding me scream for more.
Hailey was right. If this is how he dances, I can’t even imagine how he fucks.
“I love you, Ace!” a girl not much older than him yells loudly as he pushes both hands down his chest, stopping before things get indecent and wagging his finger as if to say Uh-uh. I cover my mouth to hide my laugh, but he catches it, giving a sexy wink before turning toward home plate while the music fades slowly.
“I told you he dances funny!” the little girl says, her mouth dropping in surprise as Friggle returns, handing her a miniature version of the jersey I’m wearing. She jumps into his flappy arms, and they celebrate together as the first pitch lands right into the catcher’s mitt.
“Strike!” the umpire shouts, but Ace is unaffected as he readies himself for the next one. He’s cool and calm, choking up on his bat when the pitcher winds up and sends another ball barreling in his direction. As fast as lightning, he swings, and it flies into the air, eating up the distance of the field as the crowd holds their breath in anticipation. Cheers ring out from every direction as it sails over the wall, landing into the waiting glove of a fan about fifteen rows back. Fireworks shoot into the sky, and the word HOMERUN! flashes on the Jumbotron as Ace leisurely heads toward first base. As he rounds it, he looks right at me, making a heart with both hands and smiling brightly. I try to look annoyed, but it only takes a few seconds before the corners of my lips tug up and I’m covering my burning cheeks with my hands.
He’s so cute, I can barely stand it.
Throughout the remainder of the game, several more treats I didn’t order show up at my seat, including a bowl of cotton candy ice cream that is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Ace’s next two at-bats result in a single and a strikeout, but they play great and win the game by two runs. As I’m gathering my trash, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
ACE:
Are you all sugared up and agreeable?
LARK:
I wasn’t, but the ten pound helmet full of ice cream with actual cotton candy on top pushed me over the edge. Thank you.
ACE:
You’re welcome. Will you come over tonight? I want to get a start on this week’s assignment so we aren’t up late doing it while we’re on the road.
LARK:
Yeah, that works. What time?
ACE:
They roped me into doing press, so I’ll probably be a couple hours. I should be there by eight, but if I’m not, I’ll text you the lock code and you can wait for me in the living room. Or in my bed. Whatever.
LARK:
Living room. I’ll see you at eight or shortly after.
ACE:
Sounds like a date. And Sweets?
LARK:
Yeah?
ACE:
Keep my jersey on. You look so fucking hot, and I need to see it up close.
LARK:
Maybe.