17. Dane

My softball team was good, really good.

The league was divided into four categories, A, B, C, and D, based on the skill level of the players. It only took a few minutes of watching teams play to understand the differences in the divisions.

D players were still trying to figure out which end of the bat to hold, while most of us in the A division had played college baseball.

The Bad News Bears in D were simply trying to make contact with a pitch, while our level had rules limiting the number of times we were allowed, as a team, to hit the ball over the fence, forcing us to place our hits and make the fielders work.

There were sixteen D teams.

There were only two in the A Division, which meant we played the same guys every week—for eight weeks in a row.

Every week, the Aces played the Snatch.

Yeah, we were the Snatch.

The guys thought it was funny, and jokes about said snatch were rampant. Of course, we encouraged juvenile behavior by having a giant flower printed on our uniform, which, from a distance, looked frighteningly like the business end of a lady of the night. It was only when one looked closely that petals and a stem became visible, completing the floral representation.

"If you hadn't let the whole team screw you, that wouldn't have fallen out?" or "You need to sew that thing up," or "Does that snail leave a trail?" were among the most well-worn taunts. Umpires laughed at most but would warn us away from the more vulgar or sexually explicit ones—after they stopped laughing at them.

Because we were guys and gay and would forever be chasing puberty—and maturity—we each had nicknames bestowed upon us by the team. Said names were stitched above our numbers on the backs of our jerseys. Players had no choice in the matter, and most of the nicknames required an age minimum to be read aloud in public; though the worst were disguised beneath a witty double entendre.

The name on my jersey read, "Hot Pocket," which was a reference to my role as our shortstop but often garnered its own level of teasing. It didn't help that my shorts were so tight that our outfielders often shouted, "Your ass is eating your shorts again, Dane," or "Nom, nom, nom!" The latter needed no explanation and was a crowd favorite. They would pick up the chant and keep it going until I turned my butt toward them and pretended to remove fabric from my crack.

That I was generally serious—some might say stoic—only made matters worse. The guys relished the opportunity to make my cheeks redden and head duck. They were relentless.

If it wasn't so hilarious, it might've been degrading.

Nah. We were guys. It was funny.

Game time rolled around, and there was still no sign of Patrick. I trotted out to my position. Everything smelled of cut grass and damp clay. We were the last game of the day, so the lines, once crisp and clean, were little more than a suggestion of powder billowing in the wind. A brilliant sun shone down, blanketing the field in warmth and light.

God, I love this game, I thought as I took my position and stretched my legs.

The ball whizzed between the bases, as our infielders stepped through a choreographed warm-up we could each do in our sleep. Former collegiate ballers, we flung a pretty fast ball, and any lack of concentration would hurt.

I was struggling to focus. I glanced over at the stands hoping to catch Patrick. I'd only thought about him a few times over that next shift following our bowling night, but as the clock ticked inevitably toward the time of our softball date, he invaded my thoughts more and more.

What was it about him that revved my engines?

Our second baseman, Eduardo, missed a pass. He was a muscular dude from Venezuela who made cover models look plain. His thick, almost curly black hair and pearly white smile could make even straight men swoon.

I scrambled, scooping up the errant ball and tossing it to him, earning a sheepish grin for my effort.

Eduardo was one of several hotties on the team who'd made a pass—or ten—at me over the years. These were real men, hunky men, men with muscles and sweat and musk, men whose very presence demanded to have their clothes torn off and their mouths smothered. I'd caught a few of those passes, played with them, toyed and teased, even rounding the bases a few times. None wanted more than a fling, which was fine with me. I didn't have the time or energy for all the messiness that came with dating. But hell, for a night or two, who wouldn't want to fondle guys who looked more like statues of superheroes than humans of flesh and bone?

Although, they did have big bones too.

So, with all that meat on the menu, why was I daydreaming about Patrick?

He was barely a toothpick who'd likely never picked up a glove and ball. A twig I could snap if I rolled wrong or squeezed too tightly. He was completely outside my type, different from any guy I'd normally even notice.

It made no sense. Patrick made no sense.

I guess he was handsome. No, he was handsome. He had hair that flowed, all sand and sunlight and shit. His eyes could melt ice. And his grin, all goofy and awkward, made me feel warm and mushy inside.

God, I just wanted to kiss his mouth and suck on his tongue.

I snuck another peek at the stands, careful to keep my gaze from lingering on the vacant bench that should've been warming under his perky ass.

He had a great ass.

A ground ball bounded past me. I hadn't realized we'd switched to groundies.

"Warming up now," Eduardo singsonged in my direction, waving his glove in the air in a not-so-subtle suggestion for me to use mine next time a ball came near.

I'm such an idiot. I've been on two dates with the guy, and here I am acting like … like … whatever. I grunted to myself … then glanced over again.

He still wasn't there. The corner of my heart drooped.

Another ground ball bounced my way. This time I snatched it up and hurled a rocket to first.

"Snatch that ball, big guy," our third baseman shouted, smacking his glove with his fist.

One team rule stated that any praise to another player should include the word "snatch." We were avid followers of our own rules.

The ump was distracted, laughing with a few of the guys in the crowd, so warm-ups continued well beyond our normal time. When the Aces finally took to the plate to start the first inning, it was nearly five thirty.

There was still no sign of Patrick.

I focused on the batter, trying to ignore whatever awkward thing my heart was doing. I barely knew the guy. Feeling … whatever … was stupid. Silly, even.

Smack.

The line drive shot two feet to my left. I pushed off and stretched out, fully extending my oversized frame, and snatched it out of the air before landing hard in the dirt. I held up the ball and received glove-slapping applause from my team. Even the Aces in the dugout gave me a polite "golf clap" with the tips of their fingers against their palms.

I stood, dusted off my uniform, and hurled the ball to first for an "around the horn" in celebration.

A sharp whistle from the stands jerked my head up.

Patrick was standing beside the stands behind our dugout, fingers in his mouth. The moment our eyes met, both hands flew into the air above his head, waving like he was standing on the docks saying goodbye to a cruise ship. The toothy smile and gleam in his eyes I could see from across the field ignited something in my chest. I reached up and rubbed it absently, my cheeks coloring and head ducking.

Eduardo's head snapped from me to Patrick, then back to me. "Uh-oh. Is there someone you need to tell us about? Team rule: no secrets."

The next batter stepped up, so there was no time to respond. I hoped he'd forget his question by the time the inning ended.

Two quick outs later, he hadn't forgotten anything. As I passed second on my way to our dugout, his beefy arm found its way around my shoulders. "Alright, fire boy, spill. If I don't know everything by the time we get to the dugout, the whole team will hear about this."

"That's blackmail."

I felt him shrug. "Call it what you like. We're almost there."

"Fuck. I hate you."

He laughed. "Boys, Hot Pocket—"

"Okay, fine," I hissed. "His name is Patrick. We've been on two dates. End of story."

We couldn't squeeze through the dugout opening with his arm over me, so he let go and stepped back and declared, "Not nearly enough detail."

Rather than entering behind me, he walked along the fence outside the dugout, facing our boys inside. "Oh, men of Snatch, one of our number is keeping a secret." His voice was a melody of mischief.

Catcalls of, "Speak, speak, speak!" rose. We had so many traditions. Sounding like a bad Game of Thrones medieval trial-by-mob was one of our favorites.

Luckily, I was our leadoff batter, so I grabbed a stick and practically ran to the plate.

The fucking umpire muttered, "So, got a new boyfriend?"

I suddenly hated softball.

Then one person clapping loudly turned my head—and every head in our dugout. Patrick, now standing on the top bleacher, his blondish hair blowing in the wind like Marilyn Monroe's skirt, clapped wildly, then lifted his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

By the time the first pitch was tossed, every member of my team was whistling.

I wanted to crawl under home plate.

When I swung and missed—yes, I missed a slow-pitch softball—my team erupted in laughter and an even wilder round of whistles.

I tapped the plate with my bat, set my back foot, shook my ass like I had since college, and focused on the pitcher. The next ball sailed into the parking lot, smashing into some poor car and setting off its alarm. As I trotted to first, passing our dugout, the team's whistles turned into hoots mimicking the car alarm.

I snuck a peek into the stands. Patrick was beaming—and hooting right along with them.

Roughly an hour later, we jogged to the center of the field, gave each other chest and fist bumps, and shouted rounds of, "Snatch, snatch, you got snatched!" before shaking hands with our opponents.

I'd almost made it out of the dugout when Eduardo shouted above the chatter, "Time to meet Dane's new man!"

Twelve burly, muscular, normally masculine-to-the-point-of-gruff men squealed like teenage girls and clapped. A few hopped up and down like their mom had just promised a trip to McDonald's after the game. I tried to hide the color crawling up my neck.

When Eduardo shouted, "You, come here," I wheeled about. My sexy second baseman was pointing up at Patrick and giving him the "Get over here or I'm coming out there" look. Patrick appeared unfazed, smiling, nodding, and climbing down the bleachers like it was the most natural thing in the world to be summoned by strangers in a dugout. His hair flopped each time he bounded down another riser. I had to fight to suppress a grin. Damn, he was cute.

Very mature whispers of, "Shh, here he comes," "He's coming," and "Get over here," made their way through the guys as they crowded against the chain link that separated us from the spectators. Eduardo had taken his position at the front of the pack.

"Hello, young man," Eduardo said, thickening his accent beyond its normal level of five-pepper spice. "We are the Snatch, and we have rules."

Patrick's head cocked, but he didn't respond.

"You are dating one of our teammates, which means you must submit to our questioning and approval."

Patrick grinned, then bowed in the most perfectly Elizabethan form. "I am at your service."

The guys giggled and clapped. I was witnessing the de-balling of a dozen men. They were literally turning into a team of snatches. I had to blink to believe what I was seeing.

"What is your name?" Eduardo asked.

"Patrick."

"And you are dating Hot Pocket?"

Patrick snorted, eventually covering his mouth with one hand. "That's Dane?"

The guys chanted, "Hot Pocket. Hot Pocket. Hot Pocket."

Patrick's hand fell away as he laughed. His face was almost as red as mine.

"We require a sacrifice," Eduardo proclaimed.

"Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice!"

By then, the ump had wandered over to watch whatever silliness we had going on.

"Um, okay," Patrick said, glancing toward me with a questioning gaze.

I shrugged and nodded toward the team.

"We must see what Hot Pocket sees. Take off your clothes."

Patrick's mouth fell open.

The team began to chant, "Show us snatch. Snatch. Snatch. Snatch!"

I knew they weren't serious, that the guys were giving Patrick the "new guy" routine, but he clearly didn't get the joke. His eyes, already brimming with amused curiosity, flashed quickly to mine. They were wider than I'd seen when I slammed him into the fridge, and I thought they might pop out then.

The mischievous little boy inside me couldn't help himself. I shrugged again, took a pinch of my jersey, and lifted, a clear indication he should strip.

His brows nearly hit his hairline.

"Gentlemen, music, please," Eduardo bellowed.

On cue, every player in our dugout broke into the nineties rock tune ‘Sweet Cherry Pie' by Warrant, acting out every phrase. As hips slammed into each other with, "Swing it to the left, and swing it to the right," Patrick's embarrassment reached new heights. I had tears clouding my vision.

Eduardo's gestures for Patrick to remove his shirt grew insistent. The chorus swelled. The ump doubled over laughing.

And Patrick …

Patrick gave me a pitiful look, then reached for the bottom of his shirt and began lifting. When the first of his abs revealed themselves, the guys howled like wolves.

Thankfully, Eduardo held up both palms and yelled, "Stop! Patrick, no."

Patrick froze, his head cocked again.

"We are teasing you. Please don't strip." Eduardo's triumphant grin should've been on a magazine cover. "Unless you really want to. What we have seen so far is quite delicious."

The wolves howled louder.

Patrick's eyes darted to me, then back to the guys. Something shifted.

He yanked his shirt off and twirled it high above his head, his abs flexing with every motion.

Chaos erupted in the dugout. Howls mixed with whistles and claps and laughter. A few shouted, "Pants!" while others yelled, "Snatch!"

I grabbed my bag and ran around the fence to stand between Patrick and his fans.

"Hey, you," he said through a goofy grin.

I grabbed his face with both hands and planted a kiss on his lips.

The guys went wild.

Patrick melted in my palms.

My heart swelled.