Page 4 of Totally Fanatic

“Do, too,” I reply, and he wraps his arm over my shoulder and lifts his phone to snap a selfie.

“Agree to disagree. Now come on. Let’s get dinner before Ian starves to death at home waiting for me.”

We stand in line, scanning the menu while we wait.

“We should have ordered on the way,” Duckie says, pushing up onto his toes to look over the line of people in front of us.

“We still can, here, the QR code on the menu, scan that.”

He scans the code, and I do the same, and as we stand in line waiting for the people ahead of us to be seated, we order and payand have a pickup number ready to give to the girl standing at the lectern. They could at least get the poor girl a seat if she has to stand there all night talking with people, I think as she looks up from striking off a name on the digital tablet in her hands.

“Do you have a reservation?” she asks, and Duckie shakes his head. Before he can get out that we have an online order, the girl rolls her eyes and sighs.

“We’ve got a thirty-minute wait for a table. You can wait at the bar or outside.”

A girl behind me leans forward.

“They can sit with us. We have a reservation,” she says, and I turn to find a petite woman with bright pink hair standing beside a strawberry blond god.

“We’re actually getting takeaway, but that is sweet of you,” I tell her, and she slaps a hand against the very thick shoulder of the beefcake with her.

He looks familiar, but it could just be my brain recognizing a handsome muscle man and hoping I know him.

“This is Lion, and I’m Mary Beth. You’re Tim, right?” she asks, and that adrenaline rush of someone recognizing me spreads through my body as I nod and smile, but it’s like my mouth has forgotten how to make sound.

“He is, yes,” Duckie answers for me, and I finally find my voice.

“Yes, I’m Tim. Wait, you knew that.” He laughs, and deep fucking gorgeous dimples form in both his cheeks. “Sorry, did you say Lion?”

I’ve never met a guy called Lion, but there is something about him that seems familiar. Not the half of which is his wide muscular frame and stunning strawberry blond locks that totally look like a lion’s mane with it swept-back like it is right now. My hair is blond, too, but it’s Aussie blond, with darker undertones that make it sometimes look like it came from a bottle and notboth of my parents. Mary Beth grabs my hand and shakes it, then passes it into Lion’s palm, and his thick long fingers wrap over mine, his grip calloused and warm.

“Yep. Lion is your biggest fan,” she says, and Duckie’s fingers dig into my shoulder.

“You got your order number?” Duckie asks, and I’m forced to let go to grab my phone and show it to the hostess.

“I’ll check on how long it will be,” the hostess replies and picks up the landline phone beside her.

Duckie moves closer to my side, and I catch Lion’s gaze traveling to his hand still on my shoulder, then back to me. “Really, his biggest fan? That’s a huge call. Have you seen his socials blowing up lately? Some of those fans might like to challenge you on that one,” Duckie says, and while anyone wouldn’t blame a person for being thrown by his comment, challenged even, Lion doesn’t seem fazed at all. His grin grows wider, and he nods enthusiastically.

“When you caught out Mason Besser in that last game, I thought the crowd was going to rush the field. It was so amazing,” Lion says, and my cheeks warm.

“It was okay,” I reply.

“It was more than okay. You jumped like ten feet in the air.”

“I don’t think it was that high.”

He shrugs. “I’m six-one and you could have come right over my head.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would have liked to do that,” Duckie replies, and I jab him with my elbow. Mary Beth’s eyebrows rise with a smirk to her lips, but Lion doesn’t seem to pick up on his innuendo.

“I guess it was a pretty decent jump,” I say.

“Oh, oh, oh, and you hit that home run in game four, and then again in game seven, you were really on fire last year. I can’t wait to see what you do this year.”

I know my cheeks must be on fire by now, but I don’t care. It’s the boost I needed, the reminder that maybe I am good enough and last year didn’t suck balls as horrible as I thought it did.

“Thanks. I hope I don’t let you down,” I say. He shakes his head vigorously, his swept back hair becoming a soft mess like what I imagine he’d look like climbing out of bed after a night of fun.

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