Home Plate (Easton U Pirates 2)

When I picked him up in the back lot of the bowling alley, it felt like some clandestine affair. I supposed it sort of was, and when he reached for my hand and rested our entwined fingers on my thigh, my heart ached with so much longing. He was so sweet and gorgeous. And a pain in my ass.

In more ways than one. I chuckled to myself.

“What?” Girard asked, already laughing because that was the way it worked between us, at least lately. We probably looked like a couple of fools grinning at each other as if we didn’t have a care in the world.

On the way to the restaurant, we talked about classes and, of course, baseball. Mainly the continuation of our winning streak.

“Even Vickers stepped up in a big way the last two games.” Girard squeezed my hand and, damn, I would miss this intimate contact from him.

“Right? I mean, he does have a decent curveball, thanks to me,” I teased as we stopped at the red light before the freeway entrance.

“Always so humble.” He smirked as he lifted my hand to kiss my knuckles.

I pulled away, glancing over his shoulder at the car idling beside us.

“The whole point of doing this,” Girard said, a hint of hurt in his tone, “was to be ourselves somewhere more public instead of being cooped up at my place or in a hotel room.”

I breathed out. “Just a hard thing to shake.”

“I know.” He went silent, which I didn’t like, so this time I reached for his hand, and the smile that small action produced was everything.

“So where do you see yourself a year from now?” he asked, and I held back a groan because it was a subject I’d been avoiding thinking about. But this was a conversation that needed to happen between us, to set some things straight, such as expectations.

“I suppose at a small tech company with an entry-level job.” I’d at least brushed up my résumé in one of my classes, using key words the professor recommended we include.

“Think you’ll stay in Kentucky?” he asked hesitantly.

“I don’t really know. Depends on how the job search is going.”

The problem was, I felt pretty aimless. After school and baseball were over, I had no real connections or ties left, except to Louisville because of my stepdad. So honestly, I was free to go anywhere in the world, unlike Girard.

So why did the idea leave me feeling so bereft?

Thankfully, we’d arrived at our destination, and as I pulled into the fairly empty lot, I felt excited that Girard had come up with the idea of a “date.” He was right. It was good to get far enough away that we could be ourselves.

The butterflies kicked up in my stomach as we stepped inside the restaurant and were led to a corner booth.

Once we ordered margaritas—from the same bouncy server I recognized from the last time here with my stepdad and Nina—I felt more at ease. When the guy threw me a flirty wink, I didn’t even flinch. Progress. Besides, we were only two guys enjoying a meal, and no one here would be the wiser if I stared at him a bit too long or if our feet accidentally brushed under the table.

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” I said, licking the salt from my lips after that refreshing first sip of my drink. “You were right. It’s cool to be out with you.”

He leaned forward. “No pun intended?”

I laughed, even as I looked around out of habit.

When our food was brought out, we dug right in, both of us famished.

“See, nobody cares what we’re doing,” Girard said, then arched a brow. “Except maybe Flirty Server Guy.”

“Jealous?” I asked as I doused my chip in salsa.

“Probably,” he replied in a serious tone, reaching across the table to brush his thumb across my wrist. I inhaled sharply, my skin tingling at my pulse point, then found I wanted more. I opened my palm so we could tangle our fingers for one drawn-out moment. When his eyes softened, I absently rubbed at the stitch in my chest.

We ate, sipped our drinks, and talked for who knew how long, so it was a surprise when the server brought the check to the table.

“Take as long as you need,” he said with a knowing glance and, damn, it was really beginning to dawn on me what it meant to have safe spaces and people in your corner.

“It’s my turn to pay,” Girard reminded me from our rainy day on campus, which now seemed eons ago.

“Okay, umbrella boy.” I sighed dreamily, thinking how this was yet another in a long string of nights with Girard that I wouldn’t soon forget.

Back in the car, I couldn’t stop smiling as I turned the key in the ignition. And hell if I didn’t want to prolong this floaty, giddy feeling. I desperately wanted Girard to ask me to stay—in his bed, in this state, in his heart. I was fucked.