Chapter 27 Jed
TWENTY-SEVEN
JED
I make my way to my cubby from the showers, weaving in and out of my rowdy teammates.
Another win. We’ve had a few losses in there too, but it would seem we’re out of our slump.
I guess that means it wasn’t the sex that did it.
My chest twinges. Do I wish I had an excuse to go back on my decision to end things? I think the answer to that is obvious.
My eyes immediately find him. And not just because they always do, but because he, Nebiolo, Thompson, and Araujo are…
jousting? My lips tighten against a smile as Nebs and Araujo charge, Shane and Thompson on their backs, foam bats held out at the ready.
Their battle cries fill the locker room along with the rest of the team’s laughter.
“Who’s going to the bar tonight?” Paddock, our backup catcher, calls out above the chaos.
I pull on a fresh pair of sweats and a T-shirt, cataloguing who says they're going. For no reason at all.
“We’re in.” There’s the voice I was listening for. I mean…wasn’t listening for.
Someone bumps into my side, and I glance up from where I’m sitting, pulling on my socks. Winters’s kind blue eyes blink down at me. “You’re coming too, right, Stone?”
Huh. That’s more forward than Winters has ever been with me before. Shane sidles up next to him, breathing heavy, cheeks pink from his jousting.
I swallow hard. “Um…” My gaze settles on Shane’s wide blue one. So damn hopeful.
It’s an excuse to be around him, and I don’t think I can resist. It’s safe.
I won’t accidentally hook up with him at a table full of teammates.
But I’ll get his presence. Since we’ve gotten back from our road trip, I’ve fucking craved it.
My apartment has never felt quieter. Colder. It needs sun. I need sun.
And it’s standing right there.
“I’m making an executive decision,” Nebs says. “You’re putting on some damn jeans and coming out with us. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“I guess I can tolerate you all for one night.”
A few cheers go up behind me. Okay, so it might be pretty rare for me to go out with the team. To Sanders’s point during Spring Training, I really do need to be a better team player. My stare clashes with Shane’s again. And not by playing with my teammates. As tempting as that might be.
Shane’s face lights up. And there it is. The whisky warmth settling over my skin that can only ever be attributed to a smiling Shane Michaels.
“Perfect,” Nebs says. “Oh, and can you drive the three of us there and drop us at our apartment after? I’ll just leave my car here, and Winters or Michaels can drive us in tomorrow.” He smiles at me, and then the three walk off before I even have a chance to answer.
My mouth opens and closes. What the hell was that? Because I definitely feel like I was just maneuvered right where they want me.
But if it gets me even more time with Shane, I suppose I should shut up and take the win.
Shane slides into my passenger seat, and with him comes the clean citrus scent I got so used to on the road. He shoots me a closed-lip smile. “Hey, new bestie.”
“New bestie?”
“Yeah, I need to be able to differentiate you from my other besties.” He points at me. “New bestie.” He points to the back seat where Nebs and Winters have settled. “Old besties.”
“As long as it doesn’t get anyone in the backseat angry. I’m not stealing any bestie spots.”
“Nah,” Nebs says. “Michaels has plenty of love to go around. He’s a total giver.”
There’s a pause, and then an oomph falls from Easton. “Oh. Yeah, Michaels is so giving. In all the ways. Did you know he cooks and cleans?”
Okay…
“Such a good cook. So is his mom.” Nebiolo moans. “The Revel Bars she makes are literally orgasmic. So, really, Michaels is the total package.”
Shane whips his head toward the back seat. “The fuck? Are you two on drugs or something?”
“No,” they say in unison.
I sneak a peek in the rearview and catch them blinking way too innocently. I smell bullshit.
“Also, please don’t say the word orgasm in the same sentence with my momma ever again. I’d rather not have to knock your teeth out. I don’t want to get Shelby mad at me.” Shane settles back in his seat. “Sorry,” he mutters. “No idea what’s gotten into the two of them.”
I have a pretty good idea. I chance a quick side-eye at Shane, and his cheeks are an adorable blotchy pink.
It would seem Shane wasn’t kidding when he said his friends wouldn’t be a problem.
Their persistence earlier in getting me to come out…
their not-so-subtle selling of Shane…all glaring proof of that.
Looks like two of our teammates are very much team…Jane? Shed? Wow. Those are both awful. And why the hell am I shipping us?
Shane is clearly rubbing off on me. You wish he’d rub off on you.
Urgh.
Thank goodness we’ll be surrounded by people, so I’ll be forced to behave myself.
It was lucky Shane decided to crash with Nebs and Winters the last two nights of our road trip.
I wasn’t sure I could handle another night in the same bed as him.
Not now that I’ve seen the guy who hides behind the smile. The one starving for affection.
I had him so wrong. I thought he was an attention whore because he fed off it, needed that high.
Not even close. It’s a distraction. A way to be a part of something without getting too deep.
Underneath it all, two decades of the world’s prejudice toward the poor have worn him down.
People, including his fucking father, deemed Shane Michaels less than, again and again.
Now Shane Michaels does too. My fingers flex on my thigh, desperate to move to his.
But I don’t. I keep my hands to myself like a good boy, and fifteen minutes later, we’re settled around a table with two pitchers of beer.
Shane is, of course, sitting by my side.
Why, of course? Because Nebiolo and Winters, with all the subtlety of a toddler, pushed Shane and me into seats next to each other and promptly boxed us in.
Thompson, Araujo, and Olander joined us shortly after.
A few other guys are hovering around the table, chatting and drinking.
Roche, our veteran first baseman, lifts his tanker. “All right, listen up, you band of dingleberries.” Snickers drift through the group. “Tonight’s a big night, and we’re celebrating. Somehow we even got Pebs to join us. Actually. Scratch that. Drink to that first.”
Everyone cheers and drinks, and I pretend to be grumpy. They’re all goons. But I do appreciate them. Most of them.
“All right. Now, on to baseball. This year has started out tough. Injuries. Adjustments. That fucking losing streak where we were all playing baseball like the team from Major League. But tonight, we tipped over the edge. We’re twenty wins, nineteen losses, baby!
It’s not over yet. We can still clinch that first-half winner spot.
As the wise John Sterling always said, ‘You can’t predict baseball, Susan. ’”
“That’s right, John!” a few of the guys yell.
“So, let’s go out there and play our asses off.”
The team cheers, beers thrust in the air.
“And let’s fucking clinch that first-half spot!” The bar erupts in roars, from us, from the local patrons supporting us. That energy makes you feel like you can do anything.
I glance at Shane. He’s watching me, blue eyes shining with pure happiness, beer raised. I hold out my beer, and his gaze flicks from it back to mine. He taps my tanker with his, and we drink, eyes locked on each other.
Damn it, I want to touch him so bad. In any way.
I discreetly shift my chair over and—yes—my thigh presses against his.
Something so small shouldn’t set my pulse racing, but it does.
It’s like I needed my recharge of Shane, and now with that smallest of touches, a current of him surges through me, filling my stores until the next one.
Fists pound on the table, and we jump. A chant of “Do it! Do it! Do it!” starts up, and I glance around. All my teammates are focused on Araujo and Thompson. The two are staring each other down like they think the other one is clearly going to lose whatever it is they’re about to do.
“You don’t stand a chance,” Thompson says. “You have zero game.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got a pretty face. You really think any of the women here will give your ugly mug their number?”
“Ten minutes,” Olander yells above the jeers and laughs. “You both have ten minutes. Whoever shows back up here with more numbers wins.”
I lean over to Nebiolo, my gaze catching on the woven bracelet around his wrist. A very Shane-coded bracelet. “What are they winning?”
“The loser has to do the other’s laundry for a week. Including folding,” he says.
I recoil. That’s fucking awful.
Thompson and Araujo push back from the table, faces set in determination, and disappear toward the bar.
“Another round?” Winters asks, lifting an empty pitcher. My stare snags on his wrist. Another bracelet. A chorus of yeses rings through the group.
“So now that I’m a new bestie, when do I get my bracelet? That’s what those are, aren’t they?” I ask, nodding toward Winters’s wrist. “If I remember correctly, you thought friendship bracelets were a great idea.”
Shane perks up. “You’d wear one, yeah?” He grabs Winters’s wrist, and Winters almost tosses the empty pitcher across the table.
“Easy, Michaels. Fucking hell.”
Shane sends an apologetic grin his friend's way and pulls Winters’s wrist closer. “This is a braided stitch.” He thrusts Winters’s wrist away. “You can go now.”
“Thanks,” Winters says with a laugh.
Shane leans over me, his pec brushing against my chest and tweaking my nipple ring. A zing of lust streaks straight to my groin, and I steel myself against it. Damnit. I’m so hard up for this guy.
He grabs Paulie’s arm and tugs it our way. “And this is an arrowhead stitch.”
Nebiolo spins it around. “He did shades of green for me because green’s my favorite color.”