Finn is struck suddenly that this is the perfect birthday present—a luxurious box where he can watch his favorite team away from the crowds, his mates doing what they love in ways that Finn loves, loudly, and all of it behind a locked door.
His happiness overflows, so he throws his arms around Jay’s neck. With his lips on his alpha’s ear, he whispers, “Is this where you blow my mind, or are these the ‘other things’ you mentioned earlier?”
Jay smirks. “I could…but don’t you want to catch the first pitch?”
“Dammit,” Finn mutters under his breath. “That’s not fair…”
“You could multitask, but I think what I had planned might be too much for the balcony seats…”
Just as Finn thinks he could give up the whole first inning for a make-out session with Jay, the announcers begin their jobs in earnest, and the crowd roars. He’s out the door with a last kiss to his alpha’s laughing mouth, slipping by Luca standing at the glass, and into his seat beside Rowan.
He accepts an ice-cold beer from Grayson. “Wasn’t sure which way that was going to go for a minute there.”
“Dude, if you’re not going to…I am going to see if I can get to second base.” Rowan waggles his eyebrows, toasting them with the bottle of José Cuervo. He disappears back inside, and a few seconds later, Rowan has their pack alpha pressed against the glass.
Leo slides in next, a plate piled high with sushi and nachos in his hand. “Shit, we better hope the cameras aren’t interested in the boxes so early in the game…”
The thought that the crowds of fans might be watching them making out against the glass sends a jolt of arousal down Finn’s spine. Ah, yes…his ever-reliable voyeurism kink, only ever activated by his mates’ exhibitionism.
What? It’s complicated.
“Tempest friends and Braves family, please turn your attention to the field…leading off for Tempest, playing second base—Matteo Ruiz!” booms through the 50,000-seat venue, the responding boos and cheers raising the hair on his arms.
He hears a squeak from inside, and he takes his eyes off the field just in time to see Rowan dragging Jay away from the window and out of sight from any possible outside watchers. His alpha’s large handprints are clear on the previously pristine glass.
After that, Finn lets the joy of the game fill him to overflowing.
The organ belts outSweet Caroline, and Finn and Grayson bellow the “ba-ba-baaa” with identical grins. The Kiss Cam rolls across the jumbotron, landing on an older couple who ham it up like pros. He saysawwwwwalongwith the crowd, accepting a wet kiss from Leo as his beer sweats in his hand.
Between innings, he’s buzzing, his mates moving in and out of the box, their eyes on him more often than the players on the field.
The game moves fast, with the Tempests up early, holding a tight one-run lead that stretches the tension like wire over the innings. Finn screams himself hoarse with the Braves faithful fans, jaw tight with every stolen base, every close call at first.
At the bottom of the sixth, the Braves grind their way back into it—a hit through the gap, a sac fly, and finally a line drive that sends the crowd to their feet. The score flips, 2–1 Braves, and Finn’s heart is in his throat.
He’s mid–third beer, thinking maybe he should hit the restroom when the Tempest’s centerfielder steps into the box.
Two balls, one strike.
Then—
Crack.
The ball sails high, dead center, landing deep in the stands.
Home run.
The crowd groans. The score: 2–2 tie.
Finn slumps back into his seat, stomach turning. He watches the centerfielder jog the bases—No.?11. Skye Kidd.
“That was cool,” Leo says, swallowing the last of his beer.
“Yeah, up from the minors. Four home runs this season, and he parks one 412 feet off our closer? What the hell,” Finn complains. He’ll have to pay closer attention to the twenty-one-year-old from LA.
His bladder pings again, reminding him of his own three beers. There’s just enough time to hit the restroom during the seventh-inning stretch.
“Going to hit the head,” he says to Leo, who has stuck by his side through the whole last inning while the others have come and gone.
