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Once, Bishop and Jin fought over who got to keep me in their dugout.
First time I ever smiled for real.
Feet hurting as much as the memories, I stop to loosen Dany’s micro-shoes, leaning against the dugout’s crumbling wall.
The park used to be legit before the town got condemned. Lights and scoreboards haven’t worked in thirty or forty years, but it has all the right equipment—all it needs is a little care and rehab.
Just like me.
I snort, breath fogging.
Even the air tastes nicer on the field.
Dirt and grass.
Morning dew and a hint of maple syrup.
Okay. That last one is someone’s breakfast wafting down the street, but still.
When Vivian had heats, and the bio kids got shipped to their aunts and uncles, I’d sleep in the dugout.
Sometimes Reese did too.
Neither of us had anywhere to go before he moved in with Dutch.
This was my home.
I breathe deep, not just maple, but a sudden whiff of mouth-watering bacon.
Sugar and buttered smoke put my stomach on swoop.
Then a noise lifts every hair on my body.
I whirl to a growl as low and buttery as that scent.
A shadow rises from the dugout, rubbing his eyes.
Big.
But it’s not the size that has me panicking.
Dutch.
He’s built like an upside-down triangle with legs.
When his blanket falls away, his stupid huge chest heaves. No shirt, just hard nipples, action figure shoulders, and more abs than I can count when I’m hypnotized, tracking his soft, gold happy trail.
Dutch’s sweats droop so low below the V of his tight waist, he flashes more than just a trail.
He’s packing the whole mountain.
Someone pass me a carabiner.
No!
No climbing, no rope, and absolutely no trespassing.
I should already be running away.
