Chapter 14

Mackenzie

Night gamesin March are freaking cold, but the weather won't stop me from hitting the ballpark tonight.

I have season tickets on the third base line, and Sarah's with me, and we're going to win.

Dammit.

We have to.

We have to.

"Totally naked?" she asks over a bag of caramel corn while we watch the guys warm up.

"Not even a sock."

"And?"

"And what?"

Her dark eyes sparkle with mischief. "And did you like it?"

"It doesn't matter if I liked it. It matters that he keeps his pants zipped so he can hit the ball. We need every single player doing every damn thing they can to win. Every. Single. One."

My seats this year are four rows back from the field, right on the aisle, halfway between third base and left field. Most years, I've resisted season tickets, because the Fireballs win more when Sarah and I watch the game at her house.

But she sold the house recently since she's living full-time with Beck now, who not only renovated the terrace of his penthouse to make it friendly for Sarah's beehives, but also convinced the city to set aside part of Reynolds Park for an apiary—with funding for the necessary staff coming from his pocket, naturally, because that's what Beck does.

So between Sarah's house being unavailable, because even though I have a key still, I don't want to get arrested by the new owners if I randomly show up for baseball games, and also this year being about trying new habits and patterns to help my team, here we are.

Darren Greene's in left, tossing the ball with Luca Rossi, the Fireballs' new center fielder who's played for like half the teams in the league, while we wait for the first pitch and national anthem. At third, Brooks is out there fielding balls and warming up with the rest of the infielders.

The guys are in their thermal shirts under their uniforms. Tripp and Lila are out on the field talking to the team manager, wrapped up in Fireballs jackets, with Lila in a stocking cap too.

My loaded fries are already cold, which is fine, because I'm ready to pull on my Fireballs gloves and I don't want to get cheese all over them.

The three mascots suddenly run out of the dugout. Glow the Firefly grabs Lila's hat and makes a mad dash for the opposite dugout, his giant glowing butt swishing, while Firequacker the Duck steals Tripp's phone from his hand and darts and weaves, acting like he's going to throw the device into the stands.

And while both team owners take off chasing the first two mascots, Spike the Echidna puts a big claw to his mouth—the universal symbol for shh—and tiptoes to third base.

None of the players are paying any attention to the mascots, until Lopez, who's playing shortstop, starts to grin as he tosses Brooks the ball.

I can't see Brooks's face.

I don't have to.

Because suddenly I realize what's coming.

I bolt to my feet before I realize I've moved. "Bad echidna!" I yell. "Bad!"

I'm thundering down the steps to the edge of the field, hollering, "Bring back Fiery! Bring back Fiery!" when Spike snags Brooks's hat.

Brooks spins around. He points at Spike, who's rapidly retreating as the crowd takes up my chant and I realize Spike wasn't going to yank Brooks's pants down.

Heat floods my face at my overreaction, and then heat floods my chest when the weirdest thing happens.

He smiles.

Brooks is actually smiling at the mascot contender stealing his hat.

Spike acts out giggling, which is hilarious for a terrifying creature with claws that could put someone's eye out.

Brooks tucks his glove under his arm and gestures the echidna back to third.

Spike shakes his head, holding Brooks's hat high in the air.

Or as high as a man in an echidna costume can, anyway.

Brooks taps his fist against his palm.

Spike tilts his head.

"C'mon," Brooks calls, loud enough for his voice to carry over into the stands. "You a chicken?"

The Bring Back Fiery chant has died as quickly as it started while everyone watches the Fireballs' newest acquisition and its current third-place mascot option have a stare down.

Brooks taps his fist on his palm again.

Spike tucks Brooks's hat into his back pocket, then does the same.

And the two of them launch into a rock-paper-scissors battle while Trevor Stafford sneaks out of the dugout behind the echidna.

Not that it's much of a battle.

Spike can't bend his fingers, so he's playing paper every time.

Brooks still plays rock twice, and yeah, my heart is melting a little at knowing that he's letting the mascot win a couple rounds.

"Is Trevor going to de-pants Spike?" Sarah whispers beside me.

She's barely gotten the words out before Stafford yanks on Spike's pants, and the mascot's furry bottom flashes for all the world to see.

Brooks flashes Stafford a thumbs-up. Stafford grabs Brooks's hat and jogs it out to third.

And when he turns back to continue warming up, he's smiling.

Smiling.

Like he's happy to be here.

It's more potent than seeing him in all of his birthday suit glory, and confirming for myself that yes, the Elliott brothers are all blessed in the penis department.

"Sarah?" I whisper.

"Yes?"

"He's really cute when he's happy to be playing for the Fireballs."

"Are you saying that because he's a baseball god, or are you saying that because you'd go to dinner with him if he asked?"

"I am not having dinner with Brooks Elliott."

"You made him bacon."

"I'm guarding his innocence and making sure he didn't have a woman in his apartment. Plus, if he falls in love with me, he won't want another woman. This is psychological warfare for the greater good of winning."

She lifts a brow.

She knows he crashed Periwinkles last night. She knows I'm hypersensitive about people being dicks to my dads, and I don't know if he knows who my dads are, or if he knew why I was there, but I know I didn't want him there in that drag club.

And that, more than anything, is why I won't be going on a dinner date with Brooks Elliott.

Go to dinner with him to keep him from taking anyone else?

Yes.

But it won't be a date.

Because I am not sleeping with Brooks Elliott.

Period.