Chapter 17 Bella
Bella
By the time the last cone was folded and the final equipment bin clicked shut, the stadium felt strangely quiet, like it was holding its breath after all the morning chaos. That made two of us. Those kids had run me ragged for hours and I’d loved every second of it.
I had always planned on having kids of my own someday, and it had nothing to do with societal expectations or gender norms and everything to do with counteracting the damage my father had done on Jared and me.
If there was ever a spectacular example of how not to be a supportive parent, it was our dear old dad.
Both of us had learned from an early age that it was safer to rely on each other rather than our parents, and that still held true.
But watching those kids out there today, laughing, sprinting, clinging to my legs like I was something solid to hang onto, had made something in my chest ache in the best way.
That was the kind of parent I wanted to be. The kind I’d searched for when I’d been small.
Matty had just finished slinging his equipment bag when Bennett jogged over to us, his catcher’s mitt in one hand and a bat in the other.
“I’ll take care of the rest,” Bennett said, playfully shoving the glove into his teammate’s chest. “Drop this in my locker, would you? You should get back to your demon dog before she eats another shoe.”
Matty gasped in mock horror. “How dare you? Mo doesn’t eat shoes.”
“Dani has a pair of mangled boots that would say otherwise,” Bennett fired back.
Matty sighed, then shook his head like a man who’d made peace with the fact that his dog was part raccoon, part menace.
“Seriously, Bella and I can finish up.”
Matty’s eyes flicked between us, that knowing grin firmly in place. “I bet. Take care, Bella.”
I waved him off. “You too, Matty. Go forth and protect your footwear.”
Matty laughed and headed for the locker room, leaving us alone in the vast, echoing space. Bennett turned back to me, eyes bright in that way that always felt like an invitation.
“Well,” he mused, rolling a ball in his palm. “Guess it’s just us.”
“Mm-hmm.”
His grin turned playful. “Ever take batting practice in an empty stadium?”
“I grew up with a baseball player for a brother. You’re going to have to do better than that to intimidate me.”
He lifted his eyebrows, impressed. “I think I can do that.”
Damn. Had one person ever been this turned on in a baseball stadium? Bennett always looked hot, but this was a special kind of sweat-soaked, grass-stained, good with children hot.
His skin was damp and flushed from hours on the field, and his athletic shirt clung in places that made it downright indecent. I found myself tracking the slow rise and fall of his chest without even meaning to.
His hair had grown out just enough that curls escaped from beneath his hat, springing free at the nape of his neck and around his temples.
And that headband. Damn.
Under his hat, Bennett wore a thin cotton headband to keep the rest of his hair out of his eyes. I hadn’t seen many men wear them before, except maybe during the occasional beach volleyball game, and yet somehow it worked for him.
And it was working for me, too . . . in a different kind of way.
He rolled the baseball between his palms, oblivious to the fact that I was standing there having a sexual awakening about headbands.
I followed him toward home plate without hesitation. Jared might’ve been the athletic Pink sibling—though, I doubted he could manage a fireman spin on my pole—but I had spent plenty of afternoons in backyards, hitting grounders until my hands buzzed.
Bennett handed me the bat, fingers brushing mine just long enough to make my stomach flutter with anticipation. “Care to make things interesting?”
“What did you have in mind?”
He smirked. “Strip batting practice.”
“Strip what now?”
“You heard me.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “Hit the ball, I take something off. Miss it, you lose your clothes.”
I should’ve hesitated or pretended to be scandalized. But there was no mistaking my excitement. “You’re on.”
Bennett’s grin turned downright wicked. Little did he know he wouldn’t be smiling for long.
I had already planted my feet in the batter’s box, shoulder-width apart, just like my brother had taught me, by the time he was set up on the pitching mound.
“First pitch is free,” he said, winding up with exaggerated seriousness.
Free my ass.
Actually, free his ass . . . from the constraints of those delicious pants.
The ball came in straight and lazy, practically floating toward the plate. I timed it perfectly, swung clean, and the satisfying crack echoed through the stadium as the ball rocketed down the right-field line.
I smirked over my shoulder. “Jacket, please.”
He laughed, shrugging out of his team windbreaker and tossing it onto the grass. “Lucky shot.”
His second pitch was faster—not bad for a catcher—and I fouled it straight back, the bat stinging my palms.
“Sorry, baby, that’s a miss,” he said, eyes gleaming. He didn’t move, just raised an eyebrow. “Your call.”
I rolled my eyes like it was no big deal, but my pulse was already racing as I peeled off my hoodie—well, his hoodie—and tossed it in the dirt. Brisk air hit my arms immediately, raising goose bumps under my thin long-sleeve.
The third pitch came in low and inside. I swung late, whiffing completely.
He didn’t even try to hide his satisfaction.
“Do I get to pick which—”
“Shirt.”
I narrowed my eyes, grabbed the hem, and tugged the material over my head in one motion. Bennett’s gaze darkened instantly, tracking the movement, like he was memorizing it.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath.
He threw the fourth one right down the middle, and I crushed it, a sharp line drive straight over his head.
“Your turn,” I said, voice a little breathier than I intended.
He didn’t hesitate. Off came his shirt, revealing the lean, sculpted lines I’d only gotten glimpses of before. Broad chest, defined abs, and that tantalizing trail of hair that disappeared into his waistband.
He tossed the shirt aside and rolled another ball over in his hand, completely unbothered by the fact that we were both now topless in an empty baseball stadium.
We kept going like that—pitch, swing, strip. I lost both of my socks, because I refused to go barefoot in the dirt, and he added his hat, headband—which really shouldn’t have counted—and track pants to the growing pile beside the mound.
By the time the clouds started rolling in heavier, he was down to his green boxer briefs and socks. He lobbed another pitch, slower this time, eyes locked on mine. I swung and tipped it weakly.
Another foul.
“Pants off, Arabella” he said, voice low and rough.
I laughed, breathless, hands on my hips. “I don’t know. I still have a scrunchie in my hair.”
“Thank God,” he admitted, gaze dragging over the light sheen of sweat darkening my sports bra and my exposed skin flushed from exertion and . . . something else entirely. “Because once your bra comes off, I’m not sure I’ll remember how to throw straight.”
The air between us crackled, thick with heat despite the cooling breeze. A raindrop hit my shoulder, then another.
Bennett glanced up at the darkening sky. “Shit.”
“You’re not afraid of a little rain, are you?”
The clouds opened without warning, cold rain dumping down in sheets.
He grabbed my hand. “You win. Now let’s get out of here.”
We sprinted, laughing and slipping on wet grass as we gathered up our abandoned clothing in our haste. By the time we burst through the clubhouse doors, we were soaked through, shivering, and completely alone.
He steered me toward the team’s shower suite, flicking on the light. “You get warm. I’ll grab us some towels and—”
I caught his wrist before he could leave, heart hammering louder than the rain on the roof. My fingers went to the hem of my sports bra, peeling it off in one fluid motion. His sharp inhale echoed off the tile.
The leggings went next, along with my panties. I kicked them aside with my shoes until finally, I stood bare beneath the fluorescent lights.
Bennett’s eyes raked over me, dark and hungry.
“Your turn,” I said, voice steady despite the butterflies rioting in my stomach.
He discarded his underwear and socks before I could finish catching my breath.
Holy shit, that’s a penis.
A very large, uncut penis.
I stared openly, unapologetically, because how could I not? It was right there, thick and half-hard already, curving slightly upward with that smooth head peeking from the uncut foreskin.
“Wow,” I blurted before my brain caught up. “It’s bigger than I expected.”
His laugh bounced off the tiled walls. “I promise, it’s really not that big,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck like he was the embarrassed one. “I mean, it’s average-plus on a good day.”
I tilted my head, still staring. “Average-plus? Please. I have an entire hidden gallery on my phone from guys who thought I needed to see theirs, and none of them compare to that monster.”
His laughter died instantly. “You have a what?”
I bit my lip, realizing too late what I’d admitted. “Um, a gallery. You know, for the unsolicited dick pics guys have sent me.”
Bennett’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking there. “How many are we talking?”
I shrugged, trying to play it cool even as heat flooded my face. “I stopped counting after twenty, some more creative than others. One guy used a soda can for scale.”
He made a low, possessive sound in his throat and backed me gently against the tile, hands sliding to my hips. “Delete it.”
“I was already planning to,” I replied softly, meeting his eyes.
“Good, because the only cock I want you thinking about from now on is mine.”
I smiled, fingers tracing down his chest. “Consider the gallery archived. Permanently.”
He growled again, half with jealousy, half with relief, and kissed me hard, water pounding around us as the steam swallowed everything else.
I whimpered when he suddenly pulled away.