4. FRANKIE
FOUR
FRANKIE
April.
I sip my Campari and soda water. I close my eyes as the bitter taste rolls over my tongue.
Divine. The team should be here soon. It’s a week into the season, and they’re really starting to come together.
Maddy and Shelby are visiting for the weekend, and we all knew there was no way Paulie and Easton would go out with the team if they didn’t come out too.
“I don’t know how you and Paulie drink that.” Shelby wrinkles her nose.
She’s such an adorable little squirrel. And perfect for my brother. Sweet as pie, understatedly sassy. If my brother does anything to mess things up with her, I’ll cut him.
I swirl my glass, the red-orange liquid glinting in the low light of the sports bar.
“First, I’m very limited with what I can get in an establishment like this.
” Zingers is not my haunt of choice, but I always show up to support baby Nebs.
“And I’ve been drinking this since I was a teen.
It’s what Mom and Dad let us drink, and eventually, you just acquire a taste for it.
” I’m fond of a Campari Spritz too, but those go down a little too easy.
The door of the bar opens, and the Clippers come pouring in. Can’t say I’m not hoping to set eyes on a certain broody, blue-eyed outfielder.
“Frankie is much too sophisticated for us,” Maddy says.
Speaking of broody men. “Please, Maddox. You want to pretend you’re a casual jock, but I know better. You like a fancy night out as much as the rest of us. I’ve seen your closet. I’m jealous of your shoe collection, and that’s saying something.”
He grins. “You know all my secrets.”
That I do. Like the secret that’s walking up to us right now.
“Paulie! Easton!” Shelby rushes forward and hurls herself at my brother.
She plants a hard kiss on his lips, then attacks Easton.
I don’t miss the way she accidentally pushes Easton into Maddy, enough that Maddy has to put his hands on Easton to steady him.
I also don’t miss the way his fingers linger.
Maddy shakes his head and pulls back to greet Easton in typical bro fashion—that handshake they all do with the hug at the end. “Hey, man. Good game tonight.”
I take a sip of my drink and scan the players. It was a good game. Some incredible catches. I always enjoy a display of peak athleticism. A pair of blue eyes clashes with mine. And then I lose them because their owner trips. Maddox dives forward and catches him before he eats the bar floor.
I cover my smile behind my drink. I had my suspicions the first time I met Olander, but every interaction since has only solidified them. I make him nervous. And not in an I’m scared of gay men way.
“Thanks,” Olander says, slightly out of breath.
“No problem, man. I’m Barnes, Winters’s best friend from back home. That was a killer home run you had in the fifth.”
Shelby settles in at my side. She arches a slim dark brow, her brown eyes gleaming. “Devereux isn’t here tonight.”
Shelbs is my girl. She knows how much I want a piece of the man now smiling and laughing with Maddy and East. “Interesting.”
She catches my eye. “I thought so too.” She taps her lip. “Wonder if he’s any different when he doesn’t have a bigot attached to his hip.”
“I think we should find out.”
“I got you, boo.”
Shelby bounds off, her high pony bouncing.
She’s this little five-foot-three ball of mischief.
But one would be a fool to underestimate her; that woman has a spine of steel.
She greets Olander with a disarming smile.
Not even two minutes later, she’s dragging the poor man over to the bar.
Right next to me. Have I said how much I love this girl?
She signals to the bartender. “What do you drink, Olander?” She jerks her head toward me. “Not something gross like Frankie’s Campari, I hope.”
I faux gasp. “Don’t disrespect the Campari.” I’d prefer a glass of Valpolicella, but I don’t think they serve wine here, let alone anything palatable.
Olander’s gaze meets mine, then drops to my drink.
I roll it against my bottom lip, and his throat ripples in a swallow.
His dark hair curls where it’s still wet from his shower.
He’s let the top grow out a bit, and it falls in a wave to the side, framing his hard, angular features.
Yum. And the tight white tee he’s wearing under his athletic zip-up shows off his muscular build to perfection. I can literally count his abs.
He clears his throat awkwardly, and my attention snaps up to his face. “Sorry, Ollie-baby. Just admiring the view. Can you blame a man?” Yes, I’m shamelessly checking him out. Because Frankie has no shame.
“I—Um…”
He turns toward Shelby…who made herself scarce the minute Olander turned toward me. He frowns at her empty spot, and I barely hold back my laugh.
God, he’s so cute.
I tap the bar top. “What are you drinking, Olander?” I jerk my head toward the waiting bartender. “I’ll have another, Tom.” I polish off the last of my drink and slide the empty glass across the wooden counter.
“I’ll have a Sam Adams.”
“I suppose that’s better than Bud Light,” I say.
“Can’t be picky on a minor league salary.” He shoots me a small, uncomfortable smile.
It’s true. Minor leaguers make nothing, and they only get paid during the season.
It’s why half the team lives in my apartment practically for free.
Okay…exaggeration, just Paulie and Easton live with me.
I do what I can to help out since I have a well-paying job.
And I love having my brother live with me.
“What do you actually like to drink then—ignoring money?”
“I suppose I like stouts?”
Tom slides my fresh Campari and soda over to me. “Hold off on that beer, Tom. We need a minute.”
He gives me a nod and goes to help another patron.
I cock my head, a dark wave of my tousled hair falling over my brow. “You answered it like a question. Do you not know if you like stouts?”
“Um, no, I do. I just haven’t really had many opportunities to try them. My dad was a lager man, so that’s what I’m used to.”
I lift my hand and raise my voice. “Tom, love!”
He sidles over, cleaning a glass with a towel. “Made a decision?”
“Goose Island.”
He nods approvingly.
I turn back to Olander. His cheeks are dusted pink.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m buying a cute guy a drink. A good drink.”
His eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “I’m not. I didn’t. I d-don’t.”
“Relax, Olander. The bigot police aren’t here tonight.
You can accept a drink from a gay man and not worry you’ll be disowned.
And…” I say with emphasis. “I can buy a cute guy a drink without it being an invitation for more. You think every woman puts out simply because a guy buys her a drink? Re-fucking-lax. You want a stout, drink a stout.”
Tom places the Goose Island on the counter. I push it toward Olander. He stares at it warily.
“I didn’t slip magic queer fairy dust in it. Don’t worry. It won’t turn you gay.”
His gaze snaps to mine, brows crushed together. “I know that’s not how it works. I…”
“Are so offended by my existence that you can’t even speak with me without being on the defensive? Think if your teammates see you speaking to a gay man, they’ll what? Assume you’re gay too?”
His gaze darts away. Bingo.
I take a step back. “Drink the beer, Olander,” I say softly. “I think you’ll like it. No one needs to know I bought it for you.”
I turn and meander through the crowd until I spot Shelby and my brother. The team has gathered at a booth in the corner of the seating area of the bar.
I slide into the booth next to Araujo. “Hey, handsome.”
“Hey, Frankie. Love the new hair, man.”
I rub my palm over the buzzed sides. “Thanks. Was in the mood for something different.”
I had let it grow out and wore it slicked-back and suave. You know, sexy mafia man style. But I had gotten the itch. I get bored and sometimes have the urge to change things up.
“Left the top, though. Gotta give the boys something to grab onto.” I wink, and he and Thompson, who’s sitting on his other side, laugh.
A beer is placed on the table to my right. A Goose Island beer.
Olander pulls up a chair and settles at the table. It’s crowded, which means he had to really squeeze in here next to me, and the table’s round, so we’re almost side by side. There weren’t a ton of options, but still, it’s an interesting seating choice. Very interesting.
“The beer’s really good,” he says so quietly I almost miss it.
I catch his eye. Now that I’m learning a bit more about what makes him tic, I tone down my flirting.
“Fair warning, it’s strong.” I drop my gaze to his chest. He’s removed his zip-up, and fuck me sideways, the man’s pecs are a work of art.
I look away for self-preservation reasons as he lifts his beer to his mouth.
I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out hoarse. “I figured it wouldn’t be an issue for a man your size.” Okay, that came out way more suggestive than I’d meant it to. Which is a first. Usually, I go for as suggestive as possible.
He chokes on his sip and breaks out coughing. He pounds that delicious chest.
“You all right over there, Olander?” one of his teammates calls.
He lifts his beer and points to his throat. “W-wrong pipe,” he chokes out.
I flutter my eyelashes. “I’ll gladly show you the right pipe if you ask nicely.”
His eyes go wide, and the table erupts in laughter. Did I say I was going to tone down my flirting? Whoopsies.
“Oh my God, Frankie.” Araujo gasps in between laughs. He lifts his fist, and I bump it. “That was fucking perfect.”
“Frankie, behave!” Paulie calls from across the table. His gaze darts to Olander, and he arches a brow. What the fuck are you doing?
“I’m a fucking angel,” I call back.
I lift my eyebrows back at him and throw him a look dripping with attitude. I’m well aware of how he feels about Olander. He thinks I’m instigating. I’m not. I’m…investigating.
“Pretty sure angels wouldn’t use fucking in a sentence,” Shelby says, her dancing gaze meeting mine from where she’s sitting curled into Paulie’s side.
“Clearly, you’re hanging out with the wrong men in wings.” I blow her a kiss, then take a sip of my drink.
“Speaking of men who can fly,” Thompson says, leaning around Araujo. “Olander. That fucking catch tonight was epic.”
“Ohmygosh, yes,” I say, spinning to face Olander. “Like what the literal home run heist magic was that? I swear you scaled the wall like Spider-Man.” If only he’d been wearing a skin-tight bodysuit.
He grins, a dimple winking in his right cheek. “It was a pretty catch, wasn’t it?”
Oh, wow. He’s…dangerous when he shows some confidence. I’ve only ever experienced his nervous, shifty side. I suppose this must be what he’s normally like when he’s not in my presence.
He leans forward and drops an elbow on the table, scooting his chair in closer. “There’s literally no better feeling than robbing a home run.”
I mean, I beg to differ, but I keep that one an inside thought.
“How many did you have last year?” Maddox asks.
“Three.” His smile widens, his other dimple making an appearance.
Somebody kill me, please. He’s so proud of himself, and I don’t think I’m going to survive it. Frankie’s cause of death? Death by dimples.
“But I’m greedy. I want at least five this year.” He takes a swig of his beer.
“Cocky son-of-a-bitch,” Roche, the Clippers’ veteran first baseman, calls out. “Snag ‘em while you can. The walls get higher once you hit The Show.”
Olander leans back in his chair and spreads his legs wide, the picture of confident nonchalance. He arches a brow and shrugs his shoulders. He knows he’s good.
I, on the other hand, have stopped breathing. Because when he spread his legs, his knee pressed up against mine under the table. And he hasn’t moved it out of the way.
My gaze lifts to his. I pull my leg away, and those blue-gray eyes dim. Almost like he’d leaned into me on purpose…
Wanted the contact.
I take a calculated risk. Calculated risks are literally what I analyze all day long at my job. I skate my leg around the back of his calf until my foot slots into place against his. There’s no missing the intention behind it.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move away.
And those blue eyes glow.
That cocksure grin is still firmly in place, but I don’t miss the slight tremor in his hand as he brings his beer to his lips.
Jackson Olander. You are a mystery, aren’t you?