Page 23 of Hiding in the Outfield

His teeth flash in the low light. There’s barely any light back here, just a bit peeking from the hallway. It reflects off his eyes, off that grin, but I can barely make out his features now. He keeps leading me back until we’re practically ensconced in darkness.

It helps. Gives me the layer of protection I need right now.

We stand there, a foot of space separating us. My choppy breaths are loud in the quiet space. I’m breathing way too hard for a leisurely walk down a hall.

He runs a finger down the center of my chest and abs.

And now I’m no longer breathing.

He pulls gently on my shirt, guides me to turn.

I do. Let him lead until my back hits the wall behind me. I sink against it, and even losing those couple of inches, I still tower over him.

“What are you thinking?” he asks in a hushed voice.

“How tall are you?”

A breathy snort leaves him. “Interesting. Six-two. Which usually means I’m taller than my partners. But we can’t all be Greek gods like you.” He pauses, and the fingers resting on my stomach flex into me. “Crafted in the image of Ares. Strength. Power. Athleticism. But I have the feeling the only place you display brutality is in that batter’s box.”

My jaw slackens at the comparison. It lands too close to the truth. A truth I wasn’t even aware of. I am a product of my father’s work, shaped muscle by muscle, action by action. My training routines are designed by him. My friends are directly influenced by his approval. Everything I offer the world comes right back to his standard. He might not be cruel in a physical sense, but the hate he harbors is no less destructive.

I drop my gaze to the floor, my heart falling with it.

The lightest press of fingers tilts my chin back up. Our eyes catch, and his gaze searches mine.

“What happened there? I didn’t mean for the comparison to be negative. The opposite, actually.”

“I’m not a good person, Frankie. If you’d heard some of the things I’ve said, the way I’ve acted toward others. Let’s just say I don’t wield my brutality with my fists, but it doesn’t mean I’m not just as bad.” And the worst part is, I have worked so damn hard to be that person, fully aware of how monstrous that makes me.

“Maybe.” He lifts a shoulder. “Maybe you’ve been a horrible person. Does that mean you have to be for the rest of your life?”

That… Wow.

His soft laughter wraps around us. “You’re so young, Jackson. Don’t give up on yourself yet.”

I reach for his waist and tentatively place my hand there. My pulse shakes in my throat.

“I don’t know what you’ve done in your past.” His whisper coasts over my lips. “But from what I’ve discerned so far, there is definitely hope for you.”

A small smile breaks free. I hope he’s right.

He hums. “That boy-next-door smile gets me every time. There’s nothing sexier than a bashful behemoth.”

I choke on a laugh.

His hand slides up my chest and wraps around my nape. My laughter dies a quick death.

“Did you join me back here for more conversation? Or did you want something else, Jackson?”

My gaze dips to his mouth, and I curse the shadowed alcove. My eyes have adjusted, but I still can barely make out his lips, just the slight outline. At the same time…

I’m not sure I’d have it in me to do this in the light.

I lean down and kiss him.

And my life implodes.

Silken lips brush over mine, and it sets off something in my chest. A current of shocks and sparks bursts into life. His mouth is so gentle, so welcoming. Warmth sinks into my skin, weaves around me, until I’m dizzy with it.