Chapter 5
FIVE
SHANE
I’m pretty sure Jed Stone Jr. hates me. Which means I’m even more determined to make him like me.
I do get it to an extent—we’re technically each other’s competition—and I’ve been slaying this Spring Training.
I’m so fucking hot right now, I’m fire. So, yeah, I guess it makes sense for him to not be my biggest fan.
Won’t stop me from trying to win him over.
“Michaels!”
I turn, lifting a hand to my forehead to shade my eyes. My gaze lands on Nebs.
“Volleyball! Drag those two over, too.”
I spin back to Sanders and Stone, a smile on my face, my eyebrows lifted in silent invitation. Sanders is already standing up, but Stone just glares at me. Don’t tell me how I know, since he’s wearing sunglasses, but I so totally know.
“I’m good,” he says.
“Come on, grumpy wumpy,” I singsong. “Have a little fun. Loosen up a little.”
Sanders snorts, and Stone’s mouth parts like he’s completely lost for words. I do sometimes have that effect on people. My gaze traces his lips. They’re always so tightly pressed, always grim and frowning. It’s…different to see them soft. I hastily look away.
Sanders hauls Stone to standing, despite the man’s grumbling. “You heard the kid, let’s go, grumpy wumpy.” He wings a brow in challenge, then jogs down to the net, his laughter drifting back to us on the light breeze.
Which leaves me and Stone standing here silently.
He towers over me, both in height and breadth.
He crosses his arms, his pecs rippling with the movement.
My gaze catches on his left nipple. Nipple piercing.
That’s…interesting. His chest hair is also interesting.
I don’t have chest hair. I wonder what it feels like.
I swallow hard. For the first time, probably ever, I can’t form words. He’s kind of a beast. Not like bodybuilder bulk, but his muscles are clearly hard earned. All power and presence. And piercings, apparently.
I channel my breezy self and throw him a goofy smile.
“So, I’m a little afraid that if I touch you, you’ll squash me like a bug.
But I’m not opposed to dragging you down there.
” He doesn’t move. “Come on, dude. Think of how good it’ll feel to let loose on some balls.
Is there anything better than when a guy sets you up perfectly and you drive it home for the win? ”
A choking noise comes from Stone. “Stop. Just stop talking. I’ll fucking play.”
My grin widens, and I perk up. “Yeah?”
He just shakes his head and walks past me toward the court.
I bound after him to the net and join up with Paulie and East. “How are we splitting this up?” I ask.
“Big boys against us minor leaguers,” Paulie says. “We’re playing four versus four. Round-robin style, with the two teams with the top points facing off for the championship.” He nods toward where Frize, one of our veteran Triple-A players, has a signup sheet.
“Want me to sign us up?” I ask.
“Yeah, we just need a fourth,” East says.
“I’m on it.” I make my way to Frize, who’s sitting in a beach chair with a notebook he’s passing around as guys sign up.
I know exactly who our fourth should be, and by the way he’s standing stoically away from the rest of the team, I doubt he’s already on a team.
Probably thinks he can simply drift into the background, Homer Simpson gif style, and avoid playing.
“Hey, Frize. How’s it hanging?”
Frize glances up at me, his permanent crinkle lines around his eyes deepening. “Good, man. Got a team?”
Frize is one of the Jetties’ Triple-A pitchers. He’s been up and down between The Show and the minors, and now spends most of his time in Triple-A, acting as a mentor to our fresh pitching talent.
He hands me the notebook, and I do a quick once-over to double-check—yup, no Jed Stone Jr. listed anywhere. I jot our names down and smile back at Frize. “All good.”
Now to let Mr. Grumpy Wumpy know. I sidle up to Stone. “Sup, Pebbles. You excited to play?”
He doesn’t turn from looking out at the ocean. “Looks like the signups are all set. I’ll join in next time.”
I let out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, Pebs. You think it’s that easy?”
His head snaps toward me.
“You better bring your A-game. I don’t like to lose.” I start walking backward, and his forehead furrows.
“Match one in five!” Frize yells. “Nebs, Winters, Michaels, and Stone vs Sanders, Putnam, Jones, and Messina.”
Stone’s jaw tics, and his lips go flat.
I bat my eyelashes like the fucking picture of innocence I am. “Come on, teammate. We’re up first!”
I spin on my heel and jog over to where Paulie and Easton are already on our side of the court. My chest thrums, adrenaline spiking. Apparently, pushing Stone’s buttons gives me a small high. Or maybe it’s the threat of death I’m feeling as Stone’s glare bores into my back.
Paulie shakes his head at me, his face split in a shit-eating grin. Easton, on the other hand, is looking at me wide-eyed, gaze pinging between me and over my shoulder.
“Damn it, Michaels. It’s like you want to give Stone every reason to hate you.” Paulie’s voice is laced with laughter.
I shrug. “I figure if he’s forced to be around me enough, I’ll start to rub off on him. You know how they say if you try something twenty-one times, you’ll start to like it? Pebbles just needs a taste of Shane-O twenty-one times, then he won’t be able to get enough of me.”
“Do you hear the things that come out of your mouth?” a low voice rumbles, and the hair on the back of my neck lifts.
Speaking of the devil.
Paulie’s and Easton’s laughter echoes around us as I turn my blinding smile on Stone. “Why, hello there. So glad you volunteered to be on our team.”
Stone mumbles something, and I think I catch, “volunteer is a generous word.”
We take our positions with Paulie serving for us first. He sends it over, and then it’s a total shit-show.
It’s clear that the most any of these ballplayers know about volleyball is that you’re supposed to hit it over the net and spike it like you’re Goliath.
I know the rules—I’m a coastal Florida boy, after all—but not much good that does when the rest of my team doesn’t understand the goal isn’t to just hit the ball hard.
It does need to, like, you know…land inside the lines.
I swear it’s just a mass of diving bodies and over-exaggerated spikes. A lot of I am caveman, look at my big biceps moments. Speaking of—I duck, barely avoiding the line-drive straight for my face. It lands about twenty feet outside the lines.
We serve it back over, and the other team somehow manages a decent spike.
Stone hits the sand on one knee and miraculously gets a fist under it, sending the ball rocketing upward.
I shuffle under it, then set it up for Paulie, who spikes a bullet over the net.
The other team gets a hand on it, but it sends the ball sailing out of bounds.
There we go. That was almost like we were playing volleyball for a second.
I sneak a glance at Stone. His swim trunks are riding up his thick thighs, which are now covered in sand. His frown is firmly in place on that severe jaw. He’s all hard angles and hard stares. It’s impossible to tell if he’s having any fun, but he’s at least in this to win.
We trade the lead with the big boys a few times, but now we’re up by one with sixteen points. The game is to fifteen, but you have to win by two. It’s our serve and Easton sends this one over. We volley back and forth a few times, neither team able to set up a decent spike.
The ball comes back our way, and East lays out for a bump to Paulie, who sets it up for Stone to make a wicked spike. Sanders blocks it. I drop to my knees and get under it, sending it right back up to Stone—who fucking slams it down. Winning point, baby!
I grin up at Stone. His dark eyes catch on mine, chest heaving and glistening with sweat.
His gaze slowly sweeps over me. Something passes over his face, something that sets my nerves on fire.
My grin freezes. Images flash in fast-forward through my brain.
Hot, sweat-slicked skin. Heavy-lidded dark eyes.
Hands fisting hair. Lips parting. Thighs flexing.
I shoot to my feet and book it for the ocean.
Shit, shit, shit. I throw myself in, letting the cool March water smack my overheated body back to reality.
I’m sure everyone thinks I’ve lost my mind, but fortunately I’m always doing something wild, so no one will blink twice. Perks of being a ball of chaos.
I let the water swallow me and silence the world around me.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t silence my thoughts.
I’ve been having some realizations about myself over the past year or so.
Fairly confident I’m not as straight as I once thought.
I resurface, shaking out my hair and wiping the saltwater from my eyes.
Easton’s heading my way, so I shoot him a smile.
Everything’s fine over here. Not panicking because I almost popped wood over a teammate. Nope. Not at all.
“You good, Shane?” Concern coats Easton’s voice, and my heart squeezes.
Easton truly cares. About me. To the point where I don’t think he’d have given a damn that I grew up dirt poor.
I learned early on how little I have to offer the world.
My dad wasn’t the only one who walked away.
I made friends easily enough growing up—being my school’s star baseball player had that effect—but those friendships never extended past the schoolyard.
The second they saw where I lived, I stopped being someone worth knowing.
Great to laugh and joke with on the field but never invited anywhere beyond it.
“Great,” I lie. “Just needed to cool down after the match.”
He watches me, so I blow him a kiss to distract him.
He rolls his eyes. “If you’re sure.” He extends a hand, and I take it, letting him haul me out of the water. “Let’s go watch our competition and grab some water before our next match.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
And, you know, no more boners over Jed Stone Jr.