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I lift my hand and raise my voice. "Tom, love!"
He sidles over, cleaning out 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 purposes 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, because usually I am going 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 spiderman." 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, because 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?
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