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My eyes drop to the black box letters stretched across her chest—right above two screen-printed bandaids covering where her nipples would be.

Licensed to Poke.

My gaze tracks the giant needle printed beneath the bandaids, two vials sitting on either side.

Dylan giggles to herself as I attempt to stop my teeth from grinding.

Lenny lifts her brows, letting the sleeves of the jersey slink down her shoulders before turning so I can read the back.

Ask Me About My Bedside Manner.

Dylan shrugs, her lips tugging down. Lenny faces me again.

"Would you rather I wear this?"

"Yes," Dylan and I say simultaneously.

Lenny glares playfully at both of us before her eyes land on me. "They didn't have one of yours," she says, softer now. Sincerely. "I asked."

Pride fills my chest, and though it doesn't help completely, I stand a little taller.

"I'd much rather have one with your name on it," she adds. She gives me an unapologetic once-over. "Trust me."

Blood rushes south as I take in the way her eyes burn through me. As I imagine my name written between her shoulders like it always should have been.

Lenny watches me, swallowing hard as her brows pull together.

Before I know it, my fingers find my top button, working quickly to undo it. I do the same with each that follows in record time.

Lenny studies me while Dylan's stare bounces between us like she's watching a tennis match. And when the knit jersey slides down my arms—leaving me in nothing but my compression shirt and signature blue sleeves—I hold it out to Lenny.

For a second, neither of them moves.

Then, Dylan's mouth falls open as Lenny just stares at it balled in my hands.

I offer a closed-lipped smile. "Now you do."

She hesitates before taking it, her hand brushing mine when she finally does. She tucks it between her thighs as she removes the other one, and for that moment, I'm jealous of a goddamn jersey.

In the meantime, I ignore the fading music calling me back to the dugout—and the fact that Skip and the entire team are absolutely staring holes into my back.

When she slips it on, no doubt still warm from my shoulders, the fabric swallows her more than the first one did.

But it looks so much better. Right.

My name on her back where it's always belonged.

"Pretty smooth, Holloway," Dylan says, smirking as she drops into her seat.

Lenny pulls the two sides of the jersey together, holding it as close to her as I'd like to be. "Are you sure about this?" she asks.

The sound of her voice—breathless and thick—teases me even more with this fence between us.

"Oh…" I drag a hand down my face, images of everything I'd like to do to her in it running through my mind. "I'm sure."

Her bottom lip dips between her teeth, then slips out as she parts her lips to speak. "Wait," she says. "What are you going to w—"

"Holloway."