STROKED LONG (22 page)

After what seems like forever, Reese looks up from his phone with a smile on his face. “Looks like your girl is getting a chance.”

“Really?” Damn, I’m excited, but of course I doubt that is communicated in my monotone answer.

“Yeah, I assume Bellini will call her in the next few days. Just warn Ruby if she’s working for Bellini, she’s going to have to have thick skin, and if anything, Bellini expects perfection. I hope Ruby is up for it.”

“She is.” I smile wistfully. Ruby is going to be so fucking excited. “Thanks.”

“Seriously, no big deal. I’m going to head to the showers. I’ll see you at camp.”

“Yeah, take care.”

Sticking my neck out for Ruby was scary, but so fucking worth it. My Rubes will be proud of me, at least I hope so.

Now I need to cash in on the favor I did for her. I really hope she’s game. Pulling out my phone, I text her.

Bodi: Reese said to expect a phone call from Bellini in a few days.

Her response is immediate.

Ruby: What? Seriously? OMG Bodi, thank you so much!

Bodi: Anytime, Rubes. But this little favor doesn’t come free. You owe me.

Ruby: Is that right? What form of payment are we talking here?

Bodi: Are you free tonight?

Ruby: Besides organizing my ribbons, I’m not doing anything.

Classic Ruby. I don’t know any other person who would plan for a riveting night of ribbon organization.

Bodi: Put the ribbon on ice. I’m picking you up at five. Wear something comfortable, something you can flap your angel wings in.

Ruby: *fans face* OMG!

***

I didn’t even have to knock on her door when I arrived at her apartment. She must have been looking through the peephole, waiting for me, because she opened the door immediately only to throw her entire body into mine and ask relentlessly if we were going to an Angels game.

The minute I saw the A’s were playing the Angels this week, I bought tickets in hopes of taking Ruby. Thankfully I didn’t have to persuade her to come. Actually there was no coaxing at all.

Seeing her in Angels gear was a serious fucking turn-on to me. She’s beautiful in dresses and colorful cardigans, but seeing her in a pair of jean shorts and a red Angels tank, paired with a worn Angels cap with her hair loosely braided to the side . . . yeah, fucking boner worthy. She sure as hell knows how to dress for sporting events.

Those shorts, with the loose frays and worn-out hole in the back are going to be the death of me though.

The drive to the stadium was ideal, we only ran into traffic for ten minutes, the rest of the trip was an easy drive with Ruby asking insane questions as I answered them. I was tempted to hold her hand on the way but I refrained, despite the burning need deep in my gut.

Lucky for us, I have some connections and got us parking in the players’ lot, along with seats I’m hoping are going to win me some extra brownie points.

“I’ve never parked here before. Look at you, knowing people,” she coos, her face plastered against her window, checking out all the fancy cars in the lot. My truck looks like pure shit next to the Lamborghinis, Lexuses, and Range Rovers that grace the rest of the parking area. I might have some great endorsements but, I don’t spend money on frivolous things like cars. Instead I’m the fucking weirdo spending my money on state-of-the-art security systems for myself and my family.

“Do you think we will run into any of the players?” Her excitement is contagious. I let my mind soak it in, trying to push away the negative thoughts I have of myself.

“Probably not. They’re already in the stadium warming up.”

“Oh yeah, that makes sense.”

Putting the vehicle in park, I get out just as Ruby does, making me wonder if I should have asked her to wait in the truck so I could open the door for her. But then I remember, this isn’t a date. It’s only an outing between friends.

Friends, that’s all we are.

I meet her at the tailgate. Her purse is slung over her shoulder like a messenger bag, her hands are in her pockets, and her eyes are bright with excitement.

“Are you ready?” I ask her, locking the truck and pocketing the keys. I made sure to wear my Oakland A’s gear: a jersey and baseball hat, paired with a comfortable pair of jeans, and my favorite Vans. We could not be more opposite in our attire.

“So ready.”

Just like every other time we’ve walked together, she loops her hand in the crook of my elbow and holds on tight as we walk toward the gate.

We quickly get through security, have our tickets scanned, and find our way to the field level where we are sitting a few rows from the backstop.

“Are these really our seats?” she asks, looking at our view of the field in awe.

“Yup. Have you ever sat this close before?”

“No. I’m always up in the nosebleeds.” She’s practically bouncing in her seat as she speaks. “Now I can daydream about all the players up close.”

Yeah, I don’t like that.

She must see the distaste for that comment on my face because she’s pushing my shoulder and laughing. “Hey, Mr. Jealousy, want to erase that scowl?”

“I’m not jealous.” I shift in my seat, pushing my hands down on my thighs to readjust my jeans.

“You are so jealous.” Ruby points at me with that endless smile of hers. “Don’t worry, Bodi Bear, I will make sure to give you equal attention.” With a wink, she turns back to the field, puts two fingers in her mouth and blows a loud whistle.

Bodi Bear?

Oh hell
.

RUBY

“He’s out!”

“He’s so safe.”

“Are you blind?” I turn to Bodi, beer in one hand, pretzel in the other while he sits there, a smirk on his face and a water bottle in hand. Water—insert eye roll. “He is so out, by a mile.”

“Really? A mile? Wow, I didn’t even think the entire base path equaled a mile.”

“You know what I mean,” I deadpan. “Come on, he was so out.”

“How much do you want to bet?”

The spark in Bodi’s eyes ignites something inside me, a warm, all-consuming throb. Currently, the umpires are gathering while the play is under review, a new aspect to the game that I’m still getting used to.

“You’re willing to bet me on this?” I ask, loving the way he’s coming out of his shell.

“Yeah. There is no doubt in my mind he’s safe.”

“Well, in that case.” I set my beer down along with my pretzel and wipe my hands. “I’m in. What are we betting?”

Looking to the sky, Bodi twists his mouth in thought. Turning, he shrugs and chuckles. “I’m not sure.”

Rolling my eyes, I reply, “Winner gets to ask the loser to do one thing, and they must follow through on it.”

“That’s pretty vague.”

“It’s a hell of a lot better than your suggestion, which was nothing.”

Adjusting his cap, he says, “Your sass is on point today.”

“Why, thank you.” I pretend to curtsey in my seat, which turns out to be more awkward than expected, but I go with it. “So are we on?” I hold out my hand, waiting for him to shake.

Glancing at my hand and then back to me, he seals the bet. “You’re on.”

Turning to the big screen where they are showing a replay, I wait for it to be clear as day that the player is out. There is no doubt in my mind I will be winning this bet.

Just as expected, the big screen shows a crucial angle of the play where the decision is a no-brainer, making the entire stadium erupt with cheers.

With a know-it-all attitude, I turn to Bodi whose peeking up at me from under the bill of his baseball cap, a knowing smirk on his face, looking beyond adorable. Just then, the umpires separate from the review huddle and signal the out sign, ending the inning.

“It feels so good.” I sit back in my chair, soaking in the sun and drinking my beer. “Being right, that is.” I turn my head and wink at him.

“I should have known you were going to be a gloater.”

“Would you really expect anything less from me?”

He shakes his head and when I think he’s going to shrink into himself, I see a peek of a smile caress his lips as he lifts his water bottle to his mouth. I’m hoping he still has that smile when I cash in on my bet later.

Turning to me, he asks, “What’s your favorite part about a baseball game?”

I sit on that question. My favorite thing? That’s a hard one.

“Besides seeing Angels carry around the players in the outfield?”

He gives me a
get real
look, which makes me snort my beer right out of my nose.

“Yeah, besides that.” There is an evident roll in his eyes. Man, he’s really not a fan of that movie, which is total blasphemy.
I can forgive him.

“Well, after that reaction, I’m clearly not going to say the mascot race.”

“Our friendship would end if you said that.”

“Yikes.” I cringe. “Don’t want to do that. All right,” I think and then say, “in all seriousness, my favorite part of the game is watching a rookie get their first hit in the major leagues. There is nothing like experiencing that first crack of the bat with someone who’s working their way up the farm system. There’s magic in the air when it happens.”

Looking at me intently, Bodi’s eyes blaze with something I’m not quite familiar with . . . longing?

“Well-thought-out answer,” he says before turning to the field, his demeanor shifting from playful to serious.

Will I ever understand this man?

Setting my beer down, I grip his hand in mine, linking our fingers. Caught off guard at first, he stiffens and stares down at our connection, but when his eyes lift to mine, he visibly relaxes.

“What’s your favorite part?” I ask him, leaning close, wanting to make sure he stays present and doesn’t escape into that over-worked brain of his.

Pulling his attention away from the field, his lips tilt to the side. “I can’t really pick anything.” He’s quiet for a second. “It’s something I shared with my dad. We would sit together and watch every single Oakland A’s game we could. The sport is engrained in my blood now.”

My heart breaks from his despondent voice. It’s the first time he’s mentioned his dad, and the thought of a young Bodi sitting on his dad’s lap watching baseball makes me want to cry.

Squeezing his hand, I say, “I completely understand that.” And to lighten the mood, I add, “But you don’t have to lie to me. I know your little kale-loving self loves the smell of greasy hot dogs floating through the air. That’s why you really come to the games.”

He takes the bait and smiles that rare mega-watt grin at me. “You caught me. Man, do I love mystery-meat smell. Gets my battery charged every time it floats around me.”

“Battery charged? Are you saying you get ‘excited’ over hot dog grease?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said,” he answers sarcastically.

“My, my, my, Bodi Banks likes a good sausage fest.” I can’t contain the smile that graces my face from the furrow in his brow. “I would never have guessed.”

He squeezes my hand and says, “My sausage fest goes right along with your taco eating.”

“Hey,” I playfully snap, pulling my hand away from his to put on my hip in indignation, “I told you not to compare tacos to vaginas.”

“Did I say the word vagina?”

“You implied it?” I counter.

“Pretty sure I was talking about tacos.” He winks and grabs my hand again, linking our fingers together intimately. He places our hands on the arm rest between us, and I can’t help but stare at the connection. I held his hand first to make sure he didn’t retreat in conversation, so why is he now holding my hand?

Anxious nerves roll through me as the thought of Bodi Banks actually liking me floats through my mind. I hate that I’m totally fangirling inside. Yes, there is more to Bodi than his devastating, handsome good looks and those muscles constantly rippling under his shirt. He’s intelligent, kind, and sweet. But that still doesn’t stop me from lusting over the fact that BODI FREAKING BANKS is holding my hand.

My hand.

Quirky, very strange, spastic me.

The rest of the game we talk about our favorite players, who we’ve watched since we were young, what kind of a person it takes to stand among a crowd to shout obscenities, and of course, the traditional ballpark wave.

As we walk to the car, Bodi makes a quick call to Eva, checking in on her. He’s so cute. We’re still holding hands—
eep
—when Bodi confesses, “I hate the wave. Who ever thought that would be a good idea?”

“What? You don’t like the wave?”

“Who really does?”

“Uh, me. It’s so amazing. Thousands of people, without any cues, all of a sudden break out into standing rhythmic formation.”

“It’s inconvenient.”

“Why? Because you have to stand every few seconds? This coming from the workout king.”

He gives me a sideways look. “It’s not about standing. It’s about distracting from the game. No one watches when a wave is going on.”

“Of course not. You don’t want to be the lame-o who misses the chance to stand on time, taking part in the perfect float of a crowd.”

“And the wooing.” He rolls his eyes, ignoring my argument. “Throwing your arms up and wooing, fuck it’s annoying.”

I stop in my tracks. “How can you even say something like that? The wooing is what makes the wave so enticing. Have you ever wooed?”

“Can’t say I have.” He smirks.

“You are missing out, Bodi.” He pulls on my hand, forcing me to continue our walk to the car. “Wooing is all about letting your inhibitions go, puffing your chest out, and letting out pure joy.”

“By a woo?”

“Yes, by a woo.” I mock him with a deep, annoyed voice. “You should really try it sometime. I bet it would take that monotone-colored life of yours and add a little rainbow to it.”

“It would add a rainbow for sure,” he jokes.

“Ugh, you’re such a fuddy-duddy.”

“If I’m a fuddy-duddy, then why do you continue to hang out with me?” The lilt in his voice is teasing, but I see the uncertainty in his eyes.

Normally I would joke back and say something like, “I have no clue.” But I’m reading the sensitivity of his question, and it feels like my response needs to answer more than his simple question. I feel as if he is asking me if I like him. If I accept him for who he is: all six-foot-whatever, fuddy-duddy, slightly neurotic, uncertain self.
And I do. Very much.
So, I answer him a mini declaration. “Because, Bodi Banks, you’re fun to hang out with,” then pull on his arm, lining my body against his.