16. JACKSON
SIXTEEN
JACKSON
That game fucking sucked. I drop into the chair in front of my locker room cubby and let my head hit my palms. We’re so out of sync. There’ve been too many changes thrown at us all at once.
“Chin up, bros!” Michaels calls out.
I swivel my chair and lift my head.
“Things didn’t go our way tonight, and we haven’t found our rhythm yet. But this is baseball. We’re going to play around a buck fifty games this season. Go cry into a container of ice cream when you get home, then put it behind you. Show up tomorrow clean slate.”
“If I hadn’t had that passed ball,” Nebs mutters.
“Nope!” Michaels sings. “We’re not doing that. I can go around this locker room right now and point out shit each and every one of you did wrong, including myself. But we all also did a fuckton of badassery out there. We’re going to focus on that. Manifest more of that.”
He turns, searching, until he finds who he’s looking for.
Miles Trent, called up from High-A to man third base and replace Dev.
“Trent. That was a dirty grab in the top of the third. The way you supermanned and stole that line-drive? Man, I was fucking hot and bothered after that. What ice cream you eating tonight, bro?”
Trent’s cheeks go red. “U-um. Pistachio?”
Michaels nods seriously. “Love some salty nuts with my sweet cream.”
I choke, and Nebs loses it completely behind him.
Michaels, still dead serious despite Nebs’s squeals of laughter filling the locker room, turns, searching again. “Slater. That was some of the nastiest stuff I’ve seen you throw over the plate. You beat your record fastest pitch tonight, didn’t you?”
He nods and goes to open his mouth. I can see his rebuttal because he was throwing fast but missing the strike zone.
Michaels shuts him down. “What’s your ice cream?”
“Double-fudge brownie.”
Michaels’s eyes flutter shut. “Yessss, bro. Good choice.”
“Olander!”
I snap to attention.
He raises a brow. “Home run. Do I need to say more? And can we all take a minute to appreciate how deep you went? Like, give me that every night, bro.”
A few wolf-whistles echo through the room, and Michaels grins.
I shake my head, lips twitching. The guy has a serious talent for turning everything into innuendo.
It’s amazing how different the atmosphere is with Dev gone.
I can almost feel him leaning into me to mutter a hateful comment.
But now…now I can laugh and enjoy the banter with my teammates.
“Come on now. Cough it up. Ice cream flavor?”
“Moose Tracks.”
“Ooooh, we’ve got a wild one here, folks.”
Laughter ripples through the room.
Michaels continues his tirade, stopping over every guy who played tonight, highlighting something they did well, and ending with their ice cream flavor.
By the end, I have tears in my eyes, and we’re all out of breath and red in the face from laughing.
The heaviness from earlier is completely gone.
This is the most team-like we’ve felt in a long time.
Bad energy out, good energy in.
“Now channel that and play better,” Shane demands. “Or I will break out the golden thongs.”
A few of us grin—those familiar with the story—and some look a little nervous, which only has me chuckling as I head for the workout room to cool down on the bikes.
Are we magically going to win all our games now that we know each other’s favorite ice cream flavor? No. But it makes a world of difference when you walk out onto that field manifesting the win versus assuming an inevitable loss.
When I get back to my cubby, I snatch up my phone. New text notification.
Frankie
Sleep over tonight.
I hesitate. I didn’t get to see him today, so it’s really tempting. I’ve stopped by whenever I could the past few days. Bringing him coffee, keeping him company while he’s bored-as-fuck, making sure his icepacks are changed out and fresh. We’re getting scarily good at Jenga.
He also sat me down and had The Talk with me.
The extent of that talk with my dad had been: Wrap it up. I don’t want to deal with a woman bitching you got her pregnant. I grimace.
Frankie’s talk was much more comprehensive. It covered the gamut: safe sex, condoms, PrEP, STI testing, the importance of lube—he could not emphasize more the importance of lube. He threw condoms and lube packets at me like confetti.
But he also addressed things no one had ever bothered to say out loud: consent, communication, and the reassurance that there was no rush.
He sent me home with pamphlets and a handful of websites, and let me know I could go back to him with any questions.
I do have questions, a lot of them, but I haven’t been ready to voice them yet.
I glance back at the text. Sleeping over also sounds like…I swallow hard…like the next step. Which is good. Obviously. So great.
Only a teeny tiny bit of pressure crashing over me. Tidal waves are teeny tiny, right?
I blow out a breath.
Me
okay.
An hour later, I stiffly follow Nebs, Winters, and Michaels into Frankie’s townhouse. Nebs was glaring holes in my back the entire post-game wind down. He knows. He disapproves.
I step inside, and there he is. Frankie.
Leaning against the small section of wall in the entry next to the coat and shoe racks.
My gaze clashes with his brown-and-gold irises.
And my heart stills, a deer in headlights.
He’s freshly showered, the long hair on top of his head falling in a wet wave over his brow.
I pause on his cheek. The swelling looks a little better.
He’s rocking a deep-green silk pajama set, more than half the buttons of the top undone to reveal his dark, curling chest hair. I swallow. Damn, he looks good.
Those captivating eyes dance. Like what you see, Ollie-babe? His lips curl, and my attention snags on the movement. “You going to stand in my entry all night, Jackson?”
I blink twice. Then glance around me. I’m still a couple feet inside the front door.
The rest of the guys are already ambling around the house.
My cheeks heat, and Frankie chuckles. I quickly kick off my shoes as he heads toward me.
Those silk pants go tight over his muscled thighs with every step.
Go tight over other things. I let out an unsteady breath.
“Breathe, handsome. You’re just here to sleep. Well, to cuddle too. But no funny business.” He lets out a beleaguered sigh. “I’m still supposed to hold off on having orgasms.”
A laugh huffs from me. Right. The anxiety prickling underneath my skin settles. It’s not that I don’t want it to happen, but I’ve waited so long I’ve built it up into a mountain. The pressure is instantaneous every time I think about it.
“Come on.” He gently laces our fingers together and leads me through the kitchen to the stairs.
My stare locks on our hands. I can’t look away.
My skin buzzes everywhere his fingers touch me like it’s alive.
We’re holding hands. Like it’s no big deal, like I do this every day.
It’s so small and simple, but it has all sorts of things I can’t explain clicking into place.
No one ever talks about how good holding hands feels.
Maybe because it’s so commonplace for others, they don’t even think twice about how truly great it is.
Because that soft weave of his fingers through mine?
I feel it in the organ in my chest. Comfort. Connection.
He shifts, and I glance up to find him staring at me over his shoulder.
His eyes narrow slightly, those brown irises assessing. He softly swirls his thumb over my palm. Warmth erupts in my gut, curling through me in rhythm with his thumb.
“I have the perfect plan for us tonight,” he murmurs, then turns back around and tugs me up the stairs.
Once in his room, he closes the door and leans against it. “So, I had an idea.”
I place my small duffle on the floor by my feet.
“Since we’re stuck at…first base.” He grins, his tongue peeking out between his teeth playfully.
“I thought we’d ease you in with some boyfriend experiences.
Sleepover. Snuggles…” His gaze drops to my mouth.
“Some light making out.” It flicks back up.
“It’s kind of a rite of passage for every boyfriend to have to watch their partner’s awful choice in favorite movie.
So, tonight we’re having a movie night.”
He waves a hand toward his bed, and I turn and falter.
There’s a wooden board in the center of his bed covered in a rainbow of candy and snacks.
My eyes widen, and my mouth waters. That bowl looks suspiciously like ice cream—yes.
That’s a jar of fudge next to it. I spin toward him.
Those eyes glow, that usual teasing smile split into a satisfied grin. Split into a satisfied grin…
“You’re smiling.” I step forward and carefully run my finger along the curve of his bottom lip. My gaze slides up. “Fully.”
His lip softens under my thumb. “Yeah. Still aches a little, but I can manage a full smile now.”
I drop my hand, heat creeping up my neck. “That’s, uh, good to hear.” I shift toward the bed. “This looks amazing.”
“I know it’s not diet approved, but you really cannot watch a movie while eating health food. I debated getting you jerky, but I have zero desire to kiss a mouth that tastes like smoked beef.”
A chuckle sneaks up on me.
He bites his lip and rakes his gaze over me. “Not the kind of meat I like in my mouth.”
And all amusement is now gone.
His eyes dance, and he slinks toward his bed. “Soon, Jackie-boy, soon. Let’s get into bed.”
My stare snags on his ass. Holy fucking shit.
That green silk hugs his tight ass with each step.
I lean forward. Moth to flame. Me to Frankie’s ass.
I’ve always thought he had a nice ass, but those pants hide nothing.
My fingers flex. I wonder if it’s firm or soft.
I wonder what it feels like as it flexes—
“Hopefully Moose Tracks will make up for the fact that I’m about to make you sit through Dirty Dancing.”