Fallon
Chapter sixty
Bats it isn’t any of my business. I absolutely will not meddle in my friends’ love lives.
The women chant Jonah’s name again. He spins across home plate, doing a little dance number. His hips are thrust back and forth. Oh, my. The crowd goes wild.
Jules narrows her eyes at the women before looking to the outfield, sucking on a sunflower seed. She mutters, “If those women are so thirsty, they should try drinking more water. He’s not even that hot.”
I bite my lip to hide a smile. Whatever lives between Jules and Jonah is quiet, carefully hidden—something she’s never let the town get its hands on. I’m surprised she wanted to wear a slogan shirt, all but claiming Jonah.
“Fallon, I’m surprised you’ve never been to one of these charity games—you’re so involved in the community.” Lani nudges.
My topknot bounces as I shrug under the summer sun, sweat beading along my hairline and dampening my tank top.
“Fallon, love. Why is this your first game?” Jules asks me conspicuously.
“I usually donate; big events aren’t my thing.” Trying not to sound snobbish, I add, “The crowds.”
Lani smiles sympathetically. “I get it, dear. Notice the coolers behind our chairs? Extra space for you.” I hadn’t noticed until she pointed it out. My chest swells at her thoughtfulness. “Thank you, Lani. That’s very sweet.”
She waves a hand. “Can’t take credit—it was all Cyrus.”
We share a smile as the announcer calls everyone to stand for the national anthem.
“You’re going to love this rendition,” Lani whispers as players pull microphones seemingly out of nowhere.
Cyrus steps forward to lead. The first note barely leaves his mouth before I’m frozen in place. Goosebumps bloom across my skin. His voice steals the air from my lungs. I’d forgotten how stunning his voice is.
The other players join in, harmonies swelling around him. It’s a beautiful moment that’s over too soon. The crowd erupts. Players jog back toward their dugouts, still laughing, still buzzing.
The announcer’s voice booms again.
“Up first on this glorious Bluestone morning—give it up for your hometown heroes! From downtown…Bluestone City!”
The place goes wild.
He calls out each player one by one, and every single man commits to the chaos. One moonwalks. Another cartwheels. Someone somersaults across the dirt. The crowd eats it up, roaring with laughter.
“Help me give a warm welcome to our home team’s co-captain—The man with all the right moves!
Putting out fires all over town…and from the sound of this crowd, starting some too…” The announcer pauses dramatically.
“JONAH ADDAMSSS!”
The women behind us scream.
Jonah moonwalks out onto the field, grinning.
“Jonah! Let me play with your bat!” a woman screeches.
“Daddy!”
“Damn, he’s smokin.”
Jules’ face turns beet red instantly. Her hands curl into fists.
She cracks her knuckles slowly. Lani leans forward, her voice dripping with polite horror.
“Don’t worry, dear. Anyone with eyeballs can tell Jonah is very taken with you.
” I bite back a smile. Jules looks ready to melt into her seat than let the man realize she’s here.
“And nowww,” the announcer continues, dragging it out deliciously, “Team captain, pitcher, and local police chief…”
The crowd leans in.
“CYRUS MCCOY!”
Cyrus sprints out onto the field and, without hesitation, launches into a clean backflip that makes the entire stadium lose its mind.
Bold neon graffiti lettering splashes across his black uniform. His toned, tanned body is on full display. He looks powerful. Confident. Completely in his element.
My heart doesn’t stand a chance.
He throws a few warm-up pitches as the announcer introduces the opposing team, but the energy never dips. The crowd whoops, howls, and whistles. Kids run through the aisles. Someone starts a wave that actually works.
It’s not a game.
It’s pandemonium.
Cyrus winds up and fires the first pitch. The batter, a massive, grizzly-looking man, connects with a crack, sending the ball screaming toward center field.
Amos moves fast. Too fast. He snatches the ball straight out of the air…then proceeds to throw his hips back and forth. Twerking. Amos is twerking. In all the years I’ve known Amos, I’ve never seen him dance, and definitely not twerking.
My body shakes with laughter, the force of it jostling me in my seat. Amos finishes his routine with a dramatic chest shimmy before casually tossing the ball back toward the mound.
Cyrus doesn’t even look surprised.
Instead, he tosses his glove behind his back, twists his torso, and catches the ball one-handed without ever turning around.
I stare at him, completely stunned.
Amos has always possessed a stoic, stone-faced seriousness. And the coordination it takes for Cyrus to catch a ball with his glove tucked behind his back?
Insane.
The next batter steps up—Ames, another officer from out of town.
Cyrus throws two clean strikes. Then the third pitch.
Crack.
The ball rockets down the first baseline. The first baseman snags it as he hits the bag, colliding with the runner in a loud, bone-jarring thud.
Lani giggles beside me. “Those beefed-up boys remind me of thunder when they collide.”
“They could be hurt!” I gasp.