Home Plate (Easton U Pirates 2)

It didn’t take Girard long to lose his load. He squirmed and swore and began panting in more urgent bursts before groaning and shooting into my mouth. It was a bit too much jizz, and I definitely couldn’t swallow it, but I thought he liked looking at how messy he’d made me. He’d grinned in this satisfied way as I’d swiped at my mouth.

Just as I pulled out the pizza box and was about to transfer my meal to a plate, my cell buzzed with a text from Girard. My stomach dipped in that weird way.

I know this is a long shot, but my mom invited you to join us for dinner.

At the bowling alley?

No, goofball. That’s closed. I wasn’t birthed under a pinball machine.

Well, you sure act like it sometimes.

I chuckled to myself.

Ass. My parents’ house is just five minutes down the road.

So crazy how I hadn’t even given his childhood home a thought.

Anyway, I did my duty. Mom asked. Gemma and Dad liked the idea. I did too. But it would probably be a bit much for you.

The idea of being with the Girards filled me with a strange warmth, but maybe it had everything to do with the atmosphere of the bowling alley. Their house was altogether different and more intimate. I’d already declined the friendly invites from Donovan and Hollister, so why would I accept Girard’s?

Because it’s different with Girard, and you know it.

I lifted my cell and started typing.

You sure this isn’t a pity offer? I don’t want to put you guys out.

Have you met my mom? She made enough food for an army.

I can only imagine.

And pity? Really? Can’t you just accept the idea that some people enjoy having you around? Though I have no clue why…

Burn. You know why.

My pulse throbbed as I waited for his response. Pathetic.

Because I like when you’re all sleep-warm?

Sleep-warm? That’s a thing?

If not, I just made it one.

I shook my head, feeling my skin pebble. God, he was something else.

So you’ll come? You should, if only for the leftovers she’ll send home with you.

I grinned stupidly.

Deal.

But as I got changed, the giddiness I felt during the text conversation turned to pure nerves. It wasn’t like I hadn’t met his family before. I had even spilled some personal stuff to his mom over soft pretzels, for Christ’s sake. They were obviously magical. Or maybe she was, and that was the draw. Right. Nothing to do with Girard at all.

I punched in the address he’d texted me, and was on my way before I could reconsider. My mind wandered all over the place, and before I knew it, I’d arrived in an older neighborhood with modest-sized homes. I could almost picture Girard playing baseball in the empty lot across the street.

And the strangest thing was that as soon as Gemma opened the door, I instantly felt calm. I knew this family; they were only in a different setting. And they’d invited me to share a meal with them just because, if I were to believe Girard.

“There you are, Mason,” Girard’s mom said as I stepped into the kitchen. “I sure hope you’re hungry.”

“I told you,” Girard said with a shy smile and, damn, he looked nice. Why did he have to look so good in those tight jeans with a button-down shirt? Now who looked dressed up? Maybe they’d gone to church or something. Easter was a big Christian holiday, and from the cross his mom always wore around her neck, I suspected it meant something to them.

After Girard took my coat, he pointed out different areas in the house, including his old room where he still kept some baseball memorabilia. I wanted to ask if his last girlfriend had been a frequent visitor here. Whoa, where had that thought come from? It wasn’t like we were boyfriends, just secret hookup buddies. Secret everything really, and for the first time, that sat uneasily in my stomach. But I wasn’t sure I would’ve been so eagerly invited if they knew the truth or if we’d been something more to each other. And wasn’t that exactly where most of my apprehension was coming from? Not being accepted, or maybe not being understood.

As it were, I already struggled with those things, and though I was beginning to acknowledge that this attraction was part of me, accepting it or admitting it aloud was something altogether different.

We sat down to a dinner of ham, green bean casserole, and scalloped potatoes that were easily the best thing I’d ever tasted. When I moaned around another forkful, Gemma giggled.

“Sorry, been a long time since I’ve had homemade food.”

I regretted my words when Girard’s mom threw me a look of sympathy.

“Guess that means you’ll have to join us for more dinners,” Mr. Girard said.

“Oh, I couldn’t impose,” I replied, feeling my neck prickling.