9. JACKSON
NINE
JACKSON
I haven’t been able to take my eyes off him all night. He’s currently kicking Slater’s ass in pool. It’s really sexy. And I’m totally jealous of Slater. I want those smiles, the too-loud laughter that bursts from him when he tips his head back.
I’m fucking pathetic.
All I can think about is his leg pressed against mine. I’d give anything for that again. My teammates always brag about their conquests, and I’m over here trying to figure out a way I can discreetly brush my hand against his.
I throw back my beer—and come up empty. I switched over from shots to beer after Michaels and I downed five in a row.
But I also have nearly six inches and one hundred pounds on Michaels.
My attention falls on him. He’s leaning against a wall close to the hall that leads to the bathrooms, chatting up a girl.
He stumbles…even though he’s standing still.
Yikes. I catch Barnes and Stone lasered in on him.
At least his friends are watching over him.
I glance at Devereux, who’s lost in conversation with an extremely cheery blonde. I wonder if Dev would look out for me the way Michaels’s friends do. Suppose it would depend on if he’d found himself a hookup.
I lift my beer and wiggle it. “I’m getting a refill.”
Neither acknowledges me.
Fine by me.
I head to the bar and lean against it.
“What can I get you?” Tom asks.
I stare at my beer. “I think just a seltzer. Think I’m done for the rest of the night.”
He nods and grabs a glass, quickly filling it up with the soda water hose, then sliding it over me.
“No lime or lemon?”
I jump and spin to face pouty lips curved in a sly smile.
“Jumpy for a big, bad baseball player.” Mahogany eyes highlighted by charcoal eyeliner glimmer with amusement. He turns toward the bar. “Another Campari, Tommyboy.”
“Anything for you, Frankie.”
He blows the bartender a kiss.
I don’t get it. He flirts with everyone.
And they just don’t care. This is a sports bar, and while I’m sure queer guys come here, I’m pretty confident the majority who frequent the place are straight.
They all take Frankie’s flirting in stride.
Well, I guess not all of them. My gaze skitters over to Dev…
and he’s got his tongue down the blonde’s throat. What a great husband he is.
I look back at the bar and grab my drink. I know Frankie’s staring at me. For some reason I’ve always been able to feel it—his attention.
I frown at my drink. Dev’s distracted. My teammates are distracted. I bite my lip and glance at Frankie. Sure enough, our eyes clash. He studies me, a ghost of a smile on his face, those analytical eyes trying to read me.
Come on, Jackson. You’re six-foot-six and nearly three-hundred pounds of muscle. You can do this.
I let out a breath, and with it, a lifetime of denial. “Sit with me?”
I swear the man’s eyes flare. They spark and shimmer back at me, and that hint of a smile grows into one that’s real.
He slides fluidly onto a stool and nods his head toward the one next to his. I cautiously take the seat. Even though I’m the one who offered the invitation. Even though there’s nothing wrong with two guys chatting at the bar.
Frankie swirls his red-orange drink and studies me. “Jackson Olander,” he murmurs.
It’s low and sensual, and I can’t stop the way it makes my muscles lock tight.
And now I don’t know what to say. I’m frozen.
I think…I want to flirt with him. Subtly, obviously.
All I know how to be is that conceited, and more often than not, annoying jock.
Which is fine in the locker room, but I want Frankie to like me.
I don’t want to be annoying, or uninteresting, or—shit—disappointing.
Something in him changes. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but whatever it was about him before that was almost…predatory…fades away. “You had a great game today.”
I relax on a breath. Yes. Baseball. I can do that. “Thanks. Do you…watch all our games?”
“I try to catch as many as I can. Considering I house practically half the team; I need to stay up to date.” He grins. “But in all honesty, I love it. I’m my brother’s biggest fan. Always have been. Boys in tight pants don’t hurt either.”
He leans on his elbow, the position causing his tousled dark hair to dangle over his brow.
I like it. Like the short, buzzed sides, the purposely disheveled longer hair on top.
He’s got a light beard going now that highlights his smooth features.
I like that too. There’s not a single thing about him I don’t like.
The studs in his ears glint in the light from the bar. He has extra piercings in his left ear. A few in the flat of his cartilage. I’ve noticed he switches up the earrings there. Today’s are a trio of connected silver stars.
“You’re staring, hun,” he whispers.
I quickly take a sip of my seltzer. Shit. I was.
“It’s all right. I don’t mind. I’m sure you know by now that I love attention. But just thought you’d want to know you weren’t being subtle.”
My jaw tics and a band tightens around my chest. Squeezes. Fuck.
I scan the room, try to compose myself. Just be normal, Jackson.
“Maybe I should go,” he says slowly. “You look thirty seconds from a panic attack—”
“No,” I burst out, gaze snapping to his. “No,” I say more calmly. “I’m fine. I promise.”
He bites his lower lip. “Damn, Ollie-baby. You make it difficult.”
My brows scrunch. “Difficult?”
“I should be staying away from you. I don’t think you even realize what you’re asking for when you look at me with those eyes. I think you’d be terrified if you knew.”
Yeah. I’m already terrified. But something about Frankie has me unable to stay away. I’m too curious, too drawn, too hooked. And I don’t even understand why.
“Just help me,” I whisper, then glance toward the lounge area of the bar by the pool tables. Dev has disappeared. So has the blonde. My attention falls back on Frankie. “Help me be normal here?”
“All right. Let’s start easy. Why baseball?”
I send him a grateful smile. “My dad played football, and my older brother followed in his footsteps. I did play Pee Wee football, but I think I knew I wanted to…separate myself from them. From day one, I’ve always loved sports.
Tots soccer, T-ball, skating at the local rink.
But yeah, when it came time to choose which one I was going to dedicate my time to, I don’t know… baseball called to me.”
He sips his drink and studies me. “I can see that,” he finally says.
“The way you play… Some people play the sport, others become it. When I watch you, I’m not watching a guy play baseball.
It’s like Stone. Some people are baseball.
I’d say it’s like Pauls, but let’s be real, he just sits on his ass behind the plate. ”
“I mean, catchers—”
He chuckles. “I know. I’m teasing. He’s my little brother, so I snark about him. Biggest fan, remember? He’ll be a Jetty soon; I have zero doubts.”
Pride shines in his eyes, dances through his words.
It’s kind of amazing. My father and brother are both just as invested in my playing, but it’s not even close to the same.
When Frankie talks about Paulie, it’s like witnessing love come to life.
Whenever the Olanders talk ball, I feel like a…
statistic. They might as well be discussing one of their fantasy football players.
“Paulie’s really lucky to have a brother like you.”
He tilts his head. “He is. And I, him. So, an older brother. Any other siblings?”
I shake my head. “Just the one. You?”
“Just Pao Pao.”
A huff of laughter escapes me. “Pao Pao?”
Frankie grins. “You do know Paulie’s real name is Paolo, right?”
“Ah, right. I forgot. He doesn’t seem like a Paolo. I guess I’m just so used to him being Paulie.”
“Oh, yes, totally agree. He’s not nearly sophisticated enough for our Italian names. I, on the other hand, embody Francesco.”
The word skates over my skin and down my spine. I try to harden myself against it, but I can’t stop the small shiver. Yes. He definitely does. Smooth. Suave. Francesco.
His eyes dance, but other than that, he doesn’t draw attention to my shiver, for which I’m grateful. My intense reaction to him makes it really hard to interact with him…yet it’s all I want to do.
“Are you close with your family…?” He hesitates, then continues. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess no. I know being in professional sports…” He tosses his head from side to side. “Adds an additional layer of difficulty, but it’s more than that for you, isn’t it?”
My attention slides away. “I’m close with them. But I’m not close with them. If you get what I mean.” I say it out to the bar because I can’t look at him right now. I know he knows. But we’re dancing way too close to saying things I’ve never even admitted aloud to myself.
“Yeah, Olander, I know exactly what you mean. And I’m sorry.”
I finally gather the courage to look back at him, find those expressive eyes, ones that truly recognize the pain I live through.
“What’s it like?” I whisper. “To be free?”
Those bright eyes fall, the light, the sparkle, instantly snuffed out. “Damn, Jackson. You’re breaking my heart.”
I laugh awkwardly. “Sorry. Look at me. First time flirting with a guy, and I’m clearly fucking it up. Supposed to, like, compliment you and make you feel good, and all I’m doing is depressing you.”
My eyes go wide. Shit. I didn’t mean to say that. But his eyes are back to glowing, and something inside me warms.
“It might not be a bad thing. Flirting is fine. It’s fun.
But it’s superficial. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t need more than surface level to decide if I want to have fun with a guy.
” He winks. “But can’t say it’s not a breath of fresh air to actually learn a little something genuine about a person. ”
An uncomfortable feeling swirls in my gut. I know how easily he picks up. Guys flock to him. With good fucking reason. He’s magnetic. I guess I’m jealous. Of him. Of them. Of it all.