CHAPTER 16 BOWER #2
“Right.” The crowd cheers as the Bombers take the field to do some warm-ups, my eyes finding Bennett immediately as he jogs out to the outfield grass, where he tosses the ball with Nolan Hart. I can tell it’s Nolan from his tattoos.
A group of women huddled against the netting catcall out to them, waving signs and making complete asses of themselves. If I know anything about Bennett, it’s that he won’t pay attention to such blatant behavior.
He’s sophisticated.
He’s—
“He looks so much bigger,” Gabby says. “Every time I see him, I swear he’s packed on another ten pounds of muscle.”
I can vouch for the muscles, as I’ve seen him with his shirt off. He has a lot of them.
But this is the first time I’m noticing that he has quite the ass. Very round. Has it always been that round? Has he always had an ass? Maybe it’s his tight pants that are accentuating said feature. Or the way his broad shoulders tug on his shirt, forcing the fabric to narrow down around his waist.
Oh, you know what, it’s probably the belt.
Unsure if I’ve ever seen him in a belt. Well, that’s not true.
I’ve been to games before and he’s worn a belt, but maybe I’m used to him in street clothes, because he’s not walking around the apartment in his baseball uniform. That would be quite comical if he did.
Either way, he probably did gain ten pounds of muscle, but it’s ten pounds of ass muscle, because that junk in the trunk was not there before.
“Seems regular to me,” I say, just to make sure she didn’t somehow read my thoughts about his ass. Not that I’m attracted to his ass. I just noticed it, but given Gabby’s reaction earlier, I don’t want her to know that I noticed his ass.
So…there you have it.
Although…it is a nice ass.
But that’s all I’ll say about it.
“You know, baseball can be quite thrilling,” I say as I sail some popcorn straight from a plastic helmet directly into my mouth.
The score is tied. I think it’s ending soon, something about last inning, perhaps. And there’s a runner on second with one out.
“Shhh…” Gabby says, sitting on the edge of her seat. “Bennett’s getting on deck.”
I look straight ahead and watch Bennett step outside of the dugout, slipping his helmet on simultaneously with one hand, his forearm flexing as he does so.
He rests his bat against his leg as he adjusts his batting gloves, tightening them around his wrists before picking his bat back up and strengthening his grip around it.
My eyes travel the length of his back, how his shoulder blades pull at the fabric and once again…his butt on full display.
I really think it’s the belt.
Has to be.
Going to make a note to ask him where to get such a belt, because I wouldn’t mind a little pop of the booty like that.
The batter swings, hitting the ball straight into the ground, which I think baseball fanatics refer to as…
wait for it…a grounder. The guy in the middle, I want to say shortstop, grabs the ball, scares the base runner back to second with what I can only imagine would be a growl, and then throws the batter out at first, yeeting the ball with all his might.
Quite an impressive display of athleticism.
Unfortunately, it didn’t assist in us winning.
Now, according to the giant screen right in front of me, there seem to be two outs. That guy still on second who might have pissed himself, can’t be sure, and our boy is up.
Some lucky motherfucker with a mic announces Bennett’s name, his number—which is twenty-two because that’s the day he and Gabby left foster care—and his walk-up song plays.
It’s some techno beat drop that gets the stadium going every single time and they accompany the drop with a light display, which of course gets my nipples hard.
I glance to my left, where Gabby and Ryland are both on the edge of their seats, holding hands, looking so adorably nervous.
So I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “Come on, Bennett! Make Mommy proud!”
Smirking, I see both Ryland and Gabby turn their heads toward me, causing me to laugh.
“Mommy?” Gabby asks.
“Just trying to lighten the mood. Did it not work?”
She chuckles and shakes her head, turning back toward the game.
With one foot in the square thing that all players must stand in when attempting to whack the ball, Bennett stares at his bat held in front of him like a sword, ready to slay the mighty beast.
My guess is he’s whispering sweet nothings to a piece of wood, convincing it that now is the time to make a significant impact.
Some drunk guy to the right of me shouts that Bennett sucks.
A lady down in front pumps her fists in the air like she’s at the club.
And a vendor—who I like to consider a good friend of my wallet—shouts about peanuts.
The dramatics.
Finally, after mentally making love to his bat, Bennett steps into the square of truth—truth because we shall see if making love to wood pays off—and he gets into position to slay.
I’ll be honest, despite not being overly involved in the sport, I do enjoy the tension of it all.
Will he or won’t he?
Will he be a hero?
Or will he be like the guy before him, getting thrown out by a yeeting clown in the middle of the field?
Only time will tell.
The pitcher fingers the ball, lifts his leg like he’s blowing a fart, and then sails the ball toward Bennett at such an enormous speed that I’m unsure how anyone can track such a thing.
The man dressed in armor, let’s call him the king of the court—others might refer to him as an official of some sort—sticks his hand out to the side, showing off his finger guns.
Ah-ha, I know what that means.
It was a strike.
“That’s not good,” I say.
“It’s fine,” Gabby says. “He likes to take the first pitch most of the time unless it’s a fastball, but that was a curve and he’s not going to waste a swing on a curveball if he wasn’t clocked in on it. It was a good take.”
No idea what she just said, but I clap anyway and shout, “Great take, great take.” I point toward the field, talking to the people around me. “He meant to do that.”
They all look at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
And perhaps I have.
I am slightly intoxicated.
I have had far too much cotton candy—two bags, yikes.
And I think the popcorn is sitting awkwardly in my system.
Not to mention I feel restless. I’ve been sitting in this seat for so long that—
The crack of the bat pulls me out of my thoughts as the crowd erupts.
What happened?
Where did it go?
Everyone stands, so I do the same, no problem in being a follower at this moment.
And then, before I can even make sense of what’s going on, Ryland and Gabby are screaming, jumping up and down, and…ew…making out.
What the fuck is wrong with them?
I look out toward the field, where I see Bennett casually trotting around the bases while his teammates are billowing out of the dugout, bouncing up and down and throwing…is that gum? I hope they pick that up, because what a waste.
“He did it,” Gabby screams, excusing herself from Ryland’s mouth for a second.
“Did he win the game?” I ask.
“He hit a home run! Yes, he won the game. That’s why it was so smart that he let that first ball go. He knows he can’t do much with a curveball unless he needs to, so he zeroed in on that fastball and took it yard.”
Took it yard, what a weird term.
Either way… Yay, Bennett!
You, your bubbly ass, and your lover—his bat—did it.
Now, let’s go to the bar!