Chapter 17 Jed #2
Michaels turns to me and beams. I swear it's like rays of light reflecting back at me. I glance between my beer and his smile. His lips. He’s a sip of sunshine I could get behind.
My groin tightens. I ignore it. The reaction is just…
science. A Pavlovian response. Body is in the place it goes to hook up.
Gorgeous guy is in front of me. Body responds. That’s all it is.
I think I’m regretting my choice of bringing him here.
“So, let’s get to know each other, bestie. What’s your favorite color?”
“What’s my favorite color? What are we, in middle school?”
“I mean, considering we’ve just been put in time out by the skipper, I’d say, yeah, yeah, we are. Maybe not even that.”
I turn away from him and take a swig of beer to hide my smile. Tou-fucking-ché. The Pretty Boy has a point. I let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine. I relent. Blue. My favorite color is blue.”
Michaels’s eyebrows twist, and he looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “I relent? Just how old are you? Are you from the 1800s or some shit?”
The expression melts off my face, and I stare flatly at him. “Twenty-six.” Two weeks ago. Not that I celebrated. Birthdays…are still hard for me. “I’m, what, two years older than you?”
“Huh. That’s all?” He studies me. “It must be all the frowning. You should smile more, keeps you young. And pretty. Like me.” He winks.
“I thought it just made you an idiot,” I deadpan.
His eyes crinkle as he laughs, those blue irises dancing. Like whatever just started up in my stomach. It’s all fluttery and swirly, and I really don’t fucking like it. I grab my beer and wash it away with the cool, crisp IPA.
I push away from the bar. “Let’s play some billiards.”
I need to do something. I need something to focus on. That isn’t a man with a beaming smile and pretty blue eyes. I’m pretty sure it’s dangerous to look at him for too long. Can’t you go blind from looking at the sun?
Michaels stands, a deep chuckle rumbling from him. “There you go again. Billiards? Just call it pool, Pebs.”
There are three pool tables, and we grab the one against the far-right wall that’s free. We each take a solid and do a lag to decide who breaks. Mine lands closest to the headrail, and I shoot Michaels a smirk.
He sends a cheeky one right back. I don’t understand how he can be so fresh with something as simple as a smile.
“Care to make things interesting? Let’s throw some stakes in the mix.” His blue irises glow with mischief. “Whoever’s better at handling a stick names his prize.” He winks.
I roll my eyes. “Sure. And let me guess. You have a plethora of sex pool jokes at the ready.”
He leans on his cue stick. “Of course. It’s a game where you use sticks to hit balls into holes. How can anyone not make sex jokes?”
I lean my hip against the table and cross my arms. “I’m not sure how you’re having sex, but I’m not familiar with any kind where you’re sticking balls into holes. Let alone using your stick to do so.”
His eyes dance back at me as he sets up the table. “Clearly, you’re not doing it right.”
My lips twitch, despite my best efforts.
Then he adds, “I personally love having my balls sucked on. So balls in holes seems right to me.”
I choke. And quickly push off the table and line up to break.
I discreetly adjust myself because my dick heard balls sucked on and, well, can you blame the thing for perking up?
The loud crack of the cue ball hitting the triangle echoes around us, followed by a chaos of clacks and thuds. I sink two solids. Not a bad start.
“Two at once. Didn’t know you had it in you, Stone.”
Amusement builds in my chest. Maybe the skipper was right. Some time together will soften me toward the guy, and we’ll start to play better. Though soften is a poor word choice based on the tightness of my jeans right now.
I glance at him. “I’m good at multitasking.”
His eyes fly wide, and I hide my smile behind the back of my hand. I sink another one before Michaels is up.
He stares at the table. And keeps staring. I almost poke him. “You stroke out, man?”
His lips curve, and he turns toward me. “Nah. I’m manifesting, baby.” His gaze sweeps over me. “Visualizing my now, my future.”
“I’ve never been into that woo-woo shit.”
He peers at me. “Not into woo-woo? Don’t tell me you’re not superstitious. Are you sure you’re a ballplayer, Pebs?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I just don’t put a lot of stock into it.”
He studies me, hesitates, then turns toward the table. But I don’t miss his soft words. “Manifesting has gotten me through some of my darkest days.”
My lungs stall. What? This guy—who’s pure sunshine—has dark days?
He lines himself up, and whatever questions that confession sparked scatter, distracted by the shaking ass in front of me.
I glare at it. I think he’s doing it on purpose.
But damn, he’s got a nice ass, so I don’t think I really care.
And those ripped, light-wash skinny jeans are doing it for me.
They show off every inch of his muscular thighs. My fingers twitch.
He bites his lip, eyes narrowing, and slides his forefinger and thumb over his cue stick…over and over. Can he be any more obvious? And for some reason I don’t hate his antics tonight.
“All right, Michaels. Enough playing with yourself.”
He looks back at me over his shoulder and blinks innocently. “What? I always warm up with a little shaft stroke.” Mr. Cavalier is back in full force.
I shake my head at him. “What am I going to do with you?”
He mutters something I don’t catch as he turns back to the baize.
We trade back and forth, and instead of the game turning competitive, we end up fooling around and trying to make ridiculous shots while Michaels throws out get-to-know-you questions.
“All right. Five-finger icebreaker time,” he says.
My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “Five-finger what now? You always offer handjobs as icebreakers?”
He snorts. “Bro, that is fantastic. I don’t know how I never made that connection. But unfortunately, no, I wasn’t offering a handjob. It’s five questions, one for each finger.”
Unfortunately…? I don’t think he realizes what he just said because his mouth keeps running.
“Thumb is something you’re good at.” His gaze hones in on mine. “And you can’t say baseball.”
“Sex.”
His huff is so full of exasperation I can’t help but chuckle. “You can’t say sex either.” He looks pointedly at me.
“Fine, fine.” I rest my chin on my hand that’s on top of my cue stick.
What am I good at besides sex and baseball?
I…am actually struggling for an answer. Yikes.
I don’t think I like this game anymore. A memory flashes, me and Dad at our town fair making our way through the game booths.
I always left there with those giant stuffed animals. “I’m surprisingly good at fair games.”
He cocks his head.
“Like fall fairs, carnivals, you know? Ring toss. Balloon darts. Obviously, any ones involving a ball. I was so good at knocking down those fucking clowns.”
“Huh.” One side of his mouth curls up. “So at one point you were fun. I’ve never been to a carnival.”
“What?” I gloss over the dig because he’s really never been to a carnival?
He shrugs and flashes me a wide smile. “Just never happened.” He turns back to the table for his turn.
I frown, his smile still vivid in my mind. It’s one I’ve seen a hundred times from him. I bite the inside of my cheek. But it’s the first time I’m seeing it for what it really is. I think. I’m not positive, but I do know I’ll be paying closer attention.
“You're up,” I say just as he’s about to take his shot. “Something you’re good at.”
He growls. “Not cool, dude. You don’t interrupt a man mid-thrust.” He looks back at me, eyes sparkling, dimples on full display.
There. That one was different. That’s the real one. “Depends on the situation.”
He throws his head back on a laugh, his blond curls reflecting the rainbow of neon overhead. When his eyes catch mine again, there’s something shining back at me that I don’t understand. It's soft and teasing, and if he were any other guy, I’d think he was flirting with me.
Maybe he is. It’s just more attention, right? He was flirting with Alf back there. Some people just need that ego-stroke. There’s no intent behind it.
Not that it would matter if there were. He’s my teammate.
Where the fuck did you put your head, Jed?
I don’t know why this guy is getting me so turned around.
Something about him had me unsettled the moment I met him.
I thought it’d be better now that we’re not competing against each other, but for some reason… this feels worse.
“DIY projects.”
I slowly come back to the present. DIY projects? Interesting. “Not sure why, but I don’t think I’d trust you with power tools.”
“Hey, I always make sure to use my equipment safely.”
“God, man. Can you turn anything into a dirty joke?”
He nods seriously. “Pretty much. I do it without even trying. Without even realizing half the time. Maybe I should have said that for what I’m good at.”
Given our past conversations, I have to agree. I step up to the pool table. “All right, next question.”
“Something you’re looking forward to.”
“Kicking your ass at this game.”
“That’s unfortunate, since you’re only setting yourself up for disappointment.”
I glance at the table where I only have two balls left plus the eight-ball, and he has four. I arch a brow.
“All part of my strategy,” he says breezily.
And unfortunately, I don’t manage to knock one in this turn.
“Ravioli Night.”
I tilt my head. “What?”
His mouth hooks up. “I’m looking forward to Ravioli Night with the crew.
Paulie’s girlfriend and Easton’s b—” His eyes widen.
“Besssst friend. Easton’s best friend. Plus Frankie, Paulie’s brother.
” He laughs awkwardly. “We all get together to make homemade ravioli. A Nebiolo family tradition that they’ve brought the crew into.
We compete to see who can make the most ravs. ”