8. FRANKIE
EIGHT
FRANKIE
June.
This has been a week from hell. It’s been full of long-lost half-brothers and asshole fathers. Not mine.
I study Shaney-babe from across the bar. The team went out to Zingers tonight, and Maddy and I were informed the purpose was to help Shane get over his slump. We were in the car and on our way right after a quick trip to my closet.
A bar and alcohol aren’t going to fix my poor dove.
My muscles go rigid. His vile swine of a father broke him.
That man was abhorrent. I hated what he said about me, about the queer community, but the worst of it all was when that man looked Shane dead in the eye and denied acknowledging Shane as his son.
Insulting Shane’s sexuality was the cherry on top of a shit-sundae.
“Frankie,” Jed greets me.
“Hey, handsome.” I sweep my gaze over him. Looking fine as always. I glance at my brother. “Hey, ugly.”
Paulie’s expression goes flat. Then he dives on me. And he touches my fucking hair. I growl and spin until I get my arm around his neck and squeeze—hard. Paulie coughs. He may be the professional athlete, but I work out, bitches.
“What have I said about touching my hair?” I grit out.
“Not to,” Paulie whines.
I let him go and run my hand through my hair, hoping it’s not totally ruined. Curse my little brother! “Damn fucking straight. You do that again, and I will castrate you.”
“Uh… Why are people getting castrated?” comes an uncertain voice. A familiar, uncertain voice.
Olander shifts on his feet, his gaze darting between all of us until it lands on mine. My heart trips over itself. I barely hold back my whimper. The man is quite literally the most beautiful human to grace this earth. Every time his eyes fall on mine, the addictive pull he has on me strengthens.
“I just wanted to get a tray of shots,” he says slowly. “Maybe I should come back when…my balls are safe?”
I lean back and cross my arms. I rake my stare down him. Tight black tee. Biceps popping. Jeans hugging those powerful thighs. To say I’m starving would be an understatement. “Oh, Ollie-babe, your balls are definitely safe with me.” I wink.
Olander’s eyes go wide, and his cheeks flush the prettiest pink.
I inwardly swoon.
“Frankie, behave,” Maddox and Easton say at the same time. They grin at each other. “Jinx.”
Ugh. Why are those two so adorable?
“Leave him the fuck alone.” Devereux’s growl slices through the group. He steps up to the bar next to me and shoves my shoulder. Hard.
My temperature goes from comfortable to boiling. I don’t budge. This homophobic asshole doesn’t get to push me around. No. Fucking. Way.
I lean into him. “Careful, honey,” I purr. “I’m touching you. You might catch the gay. And wouldn’t that be a shame to the entire queer population?”
“Back. The fuck. Off,” Dev hisses.
We lock eyes, and oh the murder I am committing in my head. I dare him to touch me again. I fucking dare him. I would love to show this big, bad, never-going-to-make-it athlete that a gay man can put him on his ass.
“Dev, relax, man,” Olander says with an awkward laugh. “It’s Nebs’s brother, for fuck’s sake. He’s just joking around.”
My gaze shoots to Olander. That might have been the first attempt I’ve heard him push back against Dev.
Paulie steps in and pulls on my arm. “Not worth it,” he mutters. He pulls me aside and lowers his voice. “I don’t understand why you and Maddox give Olander the time of day.”
He wouldn’t. Paulie is blinded by his protective nature. But…I’m fairly certain Maddy sees some of the same things I see in Olander. I don’t know how anyone can miss the loneliness lurking in those blue eyes.
I let him drag me away, but only because it’s the first time I’ve ever seen a flash of worry on Pao Pao’s face around Dev, like he’s actually nervous Dev will retaliate. I slide in next to Maddox, and he hands me my drink. Such a doll.
The bartender slides the toadface his whiskey. Dev grabs it and turns a scathing look on me. “I’d back off if this one could go five seconds without making someone uncomfortable with his creepy remarks.”
“You mean, like you do with the women here?” Jed throws out.
Zingggg! Jed Stone throwing stones. Direct hit.
Dev’s jaw tightens, but he turns and stalks off.
“It’s okay,” I call loudly. “He’s just jealous because he’s the only man here I wouldn’t be caught dead flirting with.” I take a sip of my Campari. “I’m not picky, but I wouldn’t touch that with a fucking ten-foot pole.”
Olander clears his throat, eyebrows pinched tight. “Sorry about him.”
He says it to everyone, but his eyes are on me. He places an order for shots and then comes over our way.
It’s a bummer Devereux is here tonight. I haven’t forgotten the night Ollie-baby and I spent with our legs tangled together underneath the table at this very bar. This man wants out of his closet, but he’s petrified.
And my heart aches for him.
“Hey, Barnes.”
Maddy dips his chin. “Olander.”
They do their cute little bro greeting. Athletes are just so adorable with their huggy greetings and butt slaps.
“I don’t get a hug?” I bat my lashes.
Olander freezes. “Uh… Um.”
He looks at Maddy, eyes wide. I can see the question there. Am I supposed to hug him?
Maddy bursts out laughing. “He’s teasing, Olander.” He collects himself. “Though, I guarantee a few of the guys here would squeeze the shit out of him just to tease him right back.”
I grin. “Like that time Araujo picked me up and spun me around?” I let out a dreamy sigh. “So strong. And ohmygosh that man smells like fucking vanilla frosting. He’s lucky I didn’t lick him.”
Maddy dissolves into laughter again. Olander, on the other hand, just stares at me. At my mouth, more specifically. I cock my head and bite my lip, slowly letting my teeth skate over it until it pops free. His gaze follows the movement.
Oh, Ollie-baby. You can have a taste, love. I won’t tell anyone.
The tray of shots appears, and Olander practically stumbles in his haste to get it. “Let’s go!”
“I feel like this is a horrible idea,” Jed mutters.
“We don’t have a game tomorrow,” Olander calls over his shoulder and settles at the table of Clippers players.
“I’m pretty sure I’m too old for this,” Paulie says as we approach the table. “Is that bad? I’m twenty-five, and I think I’m too old to do shots.”
I snort. “Clearly, you’re not cool.” I’m twenty-eight and not too old for shots.
Olander lifts a shot to his lips. I snatch it and down it, eyes locked on him.
And dear fucking Mary above, what the literal dogshit is this stuff.
“Ooooh,” I say with a shiver and a grimace.
It’s like fucking battery acid. “Terrible. You ball fondlers have no taste.” I lied. I’m too old for these shots.
“Ball players.” Paulie rolls his eyes at me.
“Oh, puh-leaze. I’ve seen how pitchers massage their balls. And didn’t you tell me the team literally has someone who massages all new balls to get them ready for use? You are professional ball fondlers. I won’t believe otherwise.”
Baseball is an extremely dirty sport. When a guy gets a home run, they all cheer he took him deep! Him, as in the pitcher. And have you seen the Clippers’ pitchers? I’d take them all deep given the chance. Well, I’d prefer they take me deep.
My attention settles on Olander. He quickly glances away and throws back a shot, throat bobbing in a swallow.
But if I had my choice of any man on the Clippers, a certain center fielder would be my number one.