10. Sex Chess
10
SEX CHESS
Gunnar
I have the strangest feeling during Wednesday night’s home game.
It’s an extra electric tingle when I clobber a double into left field in my first at-bat. The sense there’s a spotlight aimed at third base as I field a scorching line drive the next inning. A roar in my ears as I cross home plate and score another run later in the game then find myself craning my neck to search the stands.
I have the sense someone is watching me.
Of course, there are a lot of people watching me. The ballpark is packed with fans letting loose the signature “Dragon roar” when prompted by the scoreboard.
But this is different. I can feel the attention of someone out there. Someone who wants me.
At the top of the ninth, I scan the crowd as I take the field. It’s impossible to make out individual faces, let alone expressions. But... what if?
Except, that’s fucking ridiculous. Rafe is not going to randomly show up at one of my games. Why should I think he plans to pursue this attraction?
Technically , he hasn’t pursued anything since the night we danced at Edge. All he’s done is flirt over text and a little over the phone.
Maybe he only likes games.
I’m the one who said Why don’t you surprise me? and then hung up.
There’s no reason he should take me up on it. He got what he wanted—a hot solo on his phone.
Dammit.
Maybe the video and the “shoot from the hip” challenge was too much, too soon. I only figured out I was bi a year or two ago so I barely have experience with guys at all, let alone with smooth, alpha, elegant billionaires who know exactly what they’re doing.
I haven’t heard from him since we texted a few days ago. What if I fucked it all up?
The other team’s batter steps up to the plate, and I narrow my focus. Because what I will fuck up is our lead if I don’t shove all this angst out of my mind.
We send three batters down swinging, and the game ends with a win. My frustrations take over again as I walk off the field, and I punch my fist into my glove.
How the hell did I misread the situation so badly?
“What’s up, Gun?” Zane asks as he catches up with me on the way to the dugout. “Did you get the wrong box score for the game?”
I collect myself and make light of the question. “Just pissed about that checked swing curveball in the sixth. That was not a strike.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that bad call is eating at you... in a game we fucking won.” He claps my shoulder. “Admit it. You’re pining for a certain hottie.”
I jerk my gaze to him. “What?”
Zane’s laugh echoes through the corridor to the locker room. “Maddox follows you on Insta,” he explains.
“That so?” I waggle my brows, deflecting the real question. “Big fan of my shirtless selfies, is that it?”
Zane rolls his green eyes. “Yeah, he finds you entertaining. In the way cat videos are entertaining.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Gotta keep you grounded. Anyway, he told me you and Rafe Rodman were getting a little racy in the comments of your rooster pic last week.”
“Oh, did he?” I keep my tone nonchalant but my face burns with a flush. Good thing I’m already hot and sweaty from the game.
But seriously? He’s not wrong. Rafe and I did get risqué in the comments. We got filthy in our DMs. And then I got all the way off in his texts.
“He did,” says Zane. “And was kind enough to link it. I do love a good pair of Rodmans.” He whistles in appreciation for hot underwear, then asks, “So, what’s the deal with you and Mister Badass Billionaire?”
Your guess is as good as mine, buddy.
I could ask Zane the rules of dirty texting. Is it like sex chess where I wait for Rafe to make the next move?
But then I’d have to admit how twisted up I am over all of this. So I shrug. “I was taking a pic for social, and I couldn’t resist messing with him while giving a shout-out to the brand. You know how it goes.”
Zane gives me an I don’t buy it look, but I don’t flinch. I spoke the truth. Only the shrug was a lie. “What do you think it was?” I challenge.
“No idea,” he says as we reach the locker room, then his eyes widen and his jaw drops. “Shit! I just realized something.”
“That you’re never gonna beat me in the Best-Looking Ballplayer stakes?” I deadpan.
“No.” He stops me with a hand to my chest. “I realized Rafe is the guy you were giving fuck me eyes at the dance club?—”
“Hey there, Gunnar!” Owen, our PR guy, calls as he heads toward Zane and me. “There’s somebody here for you.”
“Someone wants an interview?” That’s logical, but it doesn’t explain Owen’s wry smile.
“No. It seems you have a VIP guest.” He holds up a folded piece of creamy parchment paper. “And he left a note.”
My skin tingles.
Holy shit.
No way.
I shouldn’t let on how hopeful and eager I am, but I don’t have the will to be cool. I take the note and unfold it, getting a jolt of pleasure when I see the monogrammed RR .
The man has his own fucking stationery. Of course he does.
You asked for a surprise. Did you think I’d let you down? Come to the owner’s suite in an hour, and you can unwrap it.