Page 18 of The Fake Out

She huffed and glared at me for a full minute, slowly chewing. Finally, she set her sandwich down, wiped her hands, and sat back against the sofa cushion. “When you never get the happily ever after, it’s annoying as fuck to have to keep watching it happen for everyone else.”

Her tone might have been biting, but the vulnerability in that statement stole the smile off my face.

“I never get that.” She picked up her grilled cheese and pointed it at the woman who was practically glowing with happiness on the screen.

It was like a knife to the chest, knowing that the men in her past hadn’t made her smile. I was nowhere near stable enough to be a forever guy, but I made sure I always left any woman, whether I hooked up with her or not, with a smile on her face. Bringing joy to the people around me was a privilege. And it sucked that no one had gone out of their way to do that for Gianna.

“You’ll find it someday.” Even with her rough edges, she more than deserved to be loved fiercely. She stood up for people, and she worked hard. I surveyed her, taking in her dark hair, her dark eyes, the serious expression. She had that spark—not happiness; more like heat. Everything with her was hot, and I loved basking in that glow. The prospect of getting burned gave me that same rush that I experienced every time I kicked off the bag to steal the base.

She snorted. “Whatever you say.”

Maybe that was what I could do for her in the next few weeks. Show her she deserved more joy.

“That man is like lightning.” The voice had me glancing up from my phone. Avery’s friend Wren was staring down at the field from our box. “I bet he steals second before the first pitch.”

“No,” Avery shook her head. “Em always waits at least one pitch. He loves the fake out too much to go too soon.”

Wren chuckled and cocked a knowing brow. “That’s true. He’s mastered the art of the fake out.”

Avery giggled in response, clearly understanding the joke there that made no sense to me.

I bit back a huff. I didn’t want to be annoyed with them, but I felt out of the Emerson loop, and that was…oddly frustrating.

He was oddly frustrating. I couldn’t get a read on the guy. After last night, maybe I really did understand what they meant by him being good at the fake out. Twice between the building’s super storming in and the end of the night, I thought he was about to kiss me. Both times, he pulled away and went back to his friendly, goofy self. It left me feeling dumb for reading into something that clearly wasn’t there.

I had planned to just avoid him today. The team was leaving on a five-day road stretch, and my hope was that when he got back, we’d both have forgotten. But I’d already promised Avery that I’d come to the game with her and Wren and Wren’s parents. She was convinced Wren and I would get along.

She promised that we had similar interests in art and fashion, and I wouldn’t say that she was wrong. Wren worked at the Boston Auction House, facilitating the sale of artwork. And even while attending a baseball game, she had a classy air around her. The high-waisted pants and a silk tank top she’d chosen, along with a pair of wedges, made her look more ready for lunch at the country club than a sporting event.

I had considered not wearing this sundress to the game, knowing Avery always opted for jean shorts and my brother’s jersey, but as adorable as she looked in a jersey, those things made me look like I was wearing an oversized box. Now that we were here, with Wren and her parents dressed to impress, I was glad I’d stuck to my favorite blue sundress.

“Look, he’s already playing with him.” Wren tipped her chin to first base.

Down on the diamond, Emerson crept away from first, leaving just the tip of his cleat on the bag. He was smiling and joking with the first baseman while he waited for Mason Dumpty to get up to bat.

“Walking Em seems dumb.” Avery shrugged. “Chris stresses when there’s a threat of a steal on first base. It’s odd to do that on purpose.”

I didn’t follow baseball enough to add to that comment. I probably should know more. My dad had coached high school ball until his heart attack, and obviously, Chris had played his whole life, but sports just weren’t my thing. Even if I had knowledge of it, at the moment, I was too preoccupied with watching Emerson in his pinstripes as he shifted two lengths from the base with a smirk on his face.

I could tell he was messing with the first baseman just by that expression. He moved a bit farther from the bag, taunting the pitcher. All over the stadium, fans were pointing at him. Like they were just waiting to see him make his move. Or maybe they just liked the view.

Couldn’t blame them for that.

His long, lean body looked good in the white stripes, but his uniform hid the tight muscles I knew were beneath. Swallowing, I tried to push away the memory of how he looked sprawled out on the couch shirtless as he ate his grilled cheese last night. How the light caught the silver chain on his neck. How every chuckle tightened the muscle and deepened each cut of abs that lined his torso. How his corded forearms lifted the bread to his full lips.

How much my body heated in his proximity. At some point during the night, a switch flipped in my mind. Since I’d met him, I’d known that my brother’s best friend was a gorgeous guy that women everywhere wanted, but last night, I found myself falling into that category. Suddenly, I craved him too, and I didn’t know what to do about it.

My plan for the evening had been to finish my painting, but instead, I found myself one cushion away, trying not to laugh along with him and enjoying myself while watching reruns of a show I’d seen multiple times.

And now I found I couldn’t look away from the third baseman.

He shuffled two steps farther, and the pitcher turned, but by the time the ball left his hand, Emerson was already back on base. With a grin, he waved his hands, and the fans cheered. The Bandits’ first baseman tossed the ball back to the pitcher and glared at Emerson. That look, though, didn’t stop him from immediately doing it again. He continued his taunting until the pitch count was at two balls and two strikes.

Then as the pitcher started his wind-up, Emerson’s lunge got just a hair deeper, and the muscles of his ass tightened for a split second. Then he was moving.

In a blink, he was racing for second. Before the ball even got to the catcher’s glove, he was dropping to the dirt, and in the most graceful motion I’d ever seen from Emerson—hell, from any man—he slid toward the bag and popped up to stand back on both feet just as he reached it. The drop-and-lift was pure art in motion. Fluid like the swell of an ocean wave.

The stadium broke out in cheers for yet another stolen base. But Emerson just wiped at the brown dirt on his chest and smirked at the second baseman.

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