1. FRANKIE
ONE
FRANKIE
One year prior to Stealing Forever.
A Campari with soda water slides my way across the bar top. “Thanks, Tom.” I send him a flirty wink, and he laughs, shaking his head as he walks down the bar to help the next customer.
Tom’s the bartender at the Clippers’ sports bar of choice, Zingers, and he’s a fucking delight.
Rough around the edges, bearded with tattoos, and takes my flirting in stride.
Which I personally love. It’s so refreshing to see a man comfortable with himself, who doesn’t fall into the trap of toxic masculinity.
I don’t think he has any interest in men, and he also doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable with other men showing interest in him—or I should say, me showing interest in him.
There’s not a huge influx of queer men here.
Trust me, I would know because I’m always on the lookout for my next hookup.
Though I do sometimes get that little inkling that certain men here aren’t so straight.
Some people don’t mess with men who are newly out, who are testing the waters to gauge if this really is what they want.
And I get it. Some men react badly after their first experience.
Even when you let them lead the entire time, they find a way to blame you for taking advantage, or they lash out as a defense mechanism because they can’t confront their homosexuality.
Ask me how I know.
But when you find someone who truly is just trying to discover themselves, being the one to enlighten them is heady.
There’s nothing more beautiful than watching someone come into their own.
And, yes, I’m selfish, because I also really love how eager and enthusiastic they are when they fully own how much they love dick.
I will one-hundred percent act as gay Jedi Master.
Show you the way of the gay, Frankie will.
It wasn’t a role I signed up for, but I fell into it. Man after closeted man latched onto me, and I just accepted that this is my purpose in life. Frankie is your entry into the world of queer men.
Maybe it’s because I’ve had such a positive support system growing up, and this is my small way of giving back to those who don’t. Being gay has never been anything other than normal for me. I come from a crazy Italian family who bickers hard and loves harder.
I don’t know if my mom had suspicions, but my family flew rainbow flags and was involved in the LGBTQIA+ community long before I started dating guys.
I didn’t bother coming out; I simply invited my boyfriend in high school over for dinner, and no one blinked twice.
It was the same for Pauls when he brought home his first girlfriend.
Just my parents smiling and asking questions to get to know our partners.
Unfortunately, not everyone has an amazing support network.
Not only do they not have that, but they have the opposite: a community full of hate and prejudice.
Their only option is to hide to survive.
And I’d bet my Louboutin low tops the man sitting with my brother’s baseball team who’s been subtly eyeing me for the past hour is a man deep in the closet.
I mean, I could be wrong, but trust me, Frankie almost always knows.
Kind of like how I know Paulie’s good friend Shane is…
curious. It’s a bummer he didn’t get called up to Triple-A with Pauls this year.
Shaney-babe is fun and adventurous and exuberant, all wrapped up in a six-foot, ab-covered, tight-assed package.
Still not counting it out. I’ll be pouncing the next time I see him.
“Want to move to the table?” Paulie asks.
We’ve been standing around the bar with a few of his teammates: one of their starting pitchers, Frize, who’s been on the Clippers for years, their back-up catcher, Paddack—because no big deal, but my little brother is the fucking starter—and another pitcher, Araujo.
Araujo is delicious. He’s got a Diogo Costa vibe, except with longer hair. And yes, I have scoped out the entire Clippers team.
“Let’s,” I say to my brother.
My gaze flicks to the man again—our stares clash. My mouth curls, and I lazily drag my thumb over my bottom lip. His eyes widen, and he jerks his head back toward the table.
I’ve never been with a ballplayer. A baseball one, that is.
Something I’d love to remedy.
I stride over to the table, a step behind my brother.
I have a thing for baseball players—I’m drawn to them.
I think it just happened by osmosis. I’ve been around them my entire life because of Paulie’s obsession with the sport.
I even played it myself. There were always sexy athletes playing catch in tight pants on our TV.
Or we were going to the ballpark, getting seats right by the dugout.
Ugh, and when they swing those bats, hello sexy shoulders and bulging biceps.
I volunteer to be bat boy. And ball boy.
Don’t get me started on the spanking tunnel that they try to cover up as a dugout.
Paulie pulls out the chair next to closeted-man, and I swoop in and take it. I glance up at him and send him a winning smile. “Thanks, lil bro.”
He rolls his eyes and drags up a chair next to mine.
I love my little brother. And I’m so happy he got assigned to Triple-A this year because it meant he could move in with me. I knew it was coming—Paulie is an incredible catcher—so I made sure to rent a townhouse with a few extra rooms for him and any teammates who might want to crash with us.
The silence of that big, empty townhouse was starting to eat at me.
It’s not easy for me to let people into my life, not for more than a night.
My job is extremely demanding, and people don’t understand how I need to disappear off the face of the earth for a couple months every four-to-six months.
Makes it hard to form lasting friendships with anyone outside of work.
But I needed my own place. I couldn’t live with Mom and Dad anymore. I had moved back in, licking my wounds, after…everything. But it was time to move on. Time to try to move forward.
I side-eye the cutie next to me. He’s stiff as a board. I’ll give him a little breather before I turn the flirt on.
I direct my attention across the table, where another one of the team’s pitchers is sitting. I know most of the pitchers because Pauls works closely with them and talks nonstop about them at home.
“Hey, freckles.” I blow a kiss to Thompson.
He grins as he catches it and smacks it against Araujo’s cheek. Thompson is adorable. Very boy-next-door with perpetually messy hair and double dimples, which he’s flashing right now. And the freckles. The freckles.
“I’m offended, Thompson,” I say. “That kiss was meant for you.”
“Why can’t I have it?” Araujo says. “I’m much nicer to look at than that ugly mug.” He throws a thumb Thompson’s way. It’s a complete falsehood, but for some reason jocks love to call their friends ugly. It’s a…sign of affection. Which makes me question their comprehension skills.
“Fuck you.” Thompson shoves Araujo.
Araujo almost falls out of his chair but catches himself at the last minute.
He launches himself at Thompson—and now they’re wrestling on the floor of the bar.
I wrinkle my nose. I’m not sure even being the meat in that sexy sandwich could convince me to get on a barroom floor.
Who am I kidding? I’d be down there in a second if they asked.
I turn toward the man next to me, plop my elbow on the table, and rest my chin in my hand. “Hey there, handsome. What’s your name?”
His eyes dart around like he’s searching for the emergency exit. My closeted radar is flashing.
“Do you have to hit on everyone?” the man next to him says, mouth tight.
Ah, Devereux. The lovely, sweet, kind—
“All you do is make us uncomfortable. Don’t you have some gay place you can go?”
Just kidding. Devereux is a piece of shit. Some would say he’s an asshole or a dick, but I like both of those. I don’t like Devereux.
“I didn’t realize people disliked being told they’re handsome.
I mean, it’s just a fact”—I sweep a hand down the unnamed man next to me—“he’s gorgeous.
Anyone with eyes can see that, doesn’t matter who they like in their bed.
And anyone with eyes can also see that you…
well, you are frankly very mediocre.” I send him a sympathetic grimace.
Paulie chokes on a laugh, drowning out whatever Dev mutters and pulls on my shoulder until I sit back in my chair.
We catch each other’s eye.
Frankie, behave.
I grin. Couldn’t help myself.
His brown eyes twinkle back at me. Can you ever?
“Nope,” I say, popping the “p”.
He just shakes his head. We know each other so well; I swear we have that freaky telepathic thing twins have.
We might not have shared a womb, but we’ve been inseparable since Paulie came into this world.
You’d think there would have been a time when I was annoyed or too cool for my little brother, but you’d be wrong.
And not just because my brother has always been a bit of a legend in our town due to his baseball talent.
It’s just because Paulie’s a stand-up human.
He’s always got my back. My Paulie Panther.
Rawr. And it goes both ways. I’m his Feisty Frankie. You don’t touch a Nebiolo.
I turn back to the unnamed man. “So, before we were so rudely interrupted…” I shoot a glare at Dev. “You were going to tell me your name. I take it you’re not a pitcher. I know most of those from Pauls.”
He finally meets my gaze, and I barely hold back my sigh.
He’s got such pretty eyes. A rich blue with little gray flecks.
He really is exquisite. Those dark eyebrows sit on a heavy brow that has him looking perpetually broody.
Combine that with his angular jawline and prominent cheekbones.
Yum. Ugh, and his bottom lip? It’s so fucking plush. Double yum.
“Um. Yeah. Not a pitcher.”
I size him up and tap my lip. “Outfielder is my guess. You’re big. Built. Not easy to tell from sitting down, but you look tall. Home run stealing tall.”
He blinks at me. “Wow. Yeah, I’m the center fielder.”
“Just get the call-up? I haven’t seen you around.”
Those heavy brows pinch. “Yeah, last week. You…follow the Clippers?”
I cock my head and slide on a flirty smile. “Why the surprise? Gay men can’t appreciate baseball?”
His face pales. “Um. I don’t really know what people like you think.”
Oh, honey. There’s my answer to Will Frankie try to go there? It’s a big fucking no. This closeted boy falls into the category of dangerous.
I push back from the table. “Well, as fun as it is flirting with a bunch of sexy jocks where the only switch-hitters are the boring kind, I think it’s time for me to find someone to have some fun with.”
“You leaving?” Paulie asks
“Not yet, little bro.” I wink. There was a guy at the bar eyeing me earlier. “But hopefully soon.”
I turn toward Mr. People Like You. “I never did catch your name, sweetheart. Mine’s Frankie since I know you’re dying to know.”
His gaze darts away. “Olander.”
“A pleasure, Ollie-baby.” Just not in the way I would have hoped.
No matter. I glide off toward the bar. The man from before has already spotted me. He points to the seat next to him, and I send him a sly smile. I never have any shortage of options.
I’m well aware of how pretty I am.