Amusement builds in my chest. Maybe the skipper was right. Some time together will soften me toward the guy, and we’ll start to play better. Though soften is a poor word choice based on the tightness of my jeans right now.
I glance at him. “I’m good at multitasking.”
His eyes fly wide, and I hide my smile behind the back of my hand. I sink another one before Michaels is up.
He stares at the table. And keeps staring. Ialmostpoke him. “You stroke out, man?”
His lips curve, and he turns toward me. “Nah. I’m manifesting, baby.” His gaze sweeps over me. “Visualizing my now, my future.”
“I’ve never been into that woo-woo shit.”
He peers at me. “Not into woo-woo? Don’t tell me you’re not superstitious. Are you sure you’re a ballplayer, Pebs?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I just don’t put a lot of stock into it.”
He studies me, hesitates, then turns toward the table. But I don’t miss his soft words. “Manifesting has gotten me through some of my darkest days.”
My lungs stall. What? This guy—who’s pure sunshine—has dark days?
He lines himself up, and whatever questions thatconfession sparked scatter, distracted by the shaking ass in front of me. I glare at it. I think he’s doing it on purpose. But damn, he’s got a nice ass, so I don’t think I really care. And those ripped, light-wash skinny jeans are doing it for me. They show off every inch of his muscular thighs. My fingers twitch.
He bites his lip, eyes narrowing, and slides his forefinger and thumb over his cue stick…over and over. Can he be any more obvious? And for some reason I don’t hate his antics tonight.
“All right, Michaels. Enough playing with yourself.”
He looks back at me over his shoulder and blinks innocently. “What? I always warm up with a little shaft stroke.” Mr. Cavalier is back in full force.
I shake my head at him. “What am I going to do with you?”
He mutters something I don’t catch as he turns back to the baize.
We trade back and forth, and instead of the game turning competitive, we end up fooling around and trying to make ridiculous shots while Michaels throws out get-to-know-you questions.
“All right. Five-finger icebreaker time,” he says.
My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “Five-finger what now? You always offer handjobs as icebreakers?”
He snorts. “Bro, that isfantastic. I don’t know how I never made that connection. But unfortunately, no, I wasn’t offering a handjob. It’s five questions, one for each finger.”
Unfortunately…? I don’t think he realizes what he just said because his mouth keeps running.
“Thumb is something you’re good at.” His gaze hones in on mine. “And you can’t say baseball.”
“Sex.”
His huff is so full of exasperation I can’t help but chuckle. “You can’t say sex either.” He looks pointedly at me.
“Fine, fine.” I rest my chin on my hand that’s on top of my cue stick. What am I good at besides sex and baseball? I…am actually struggling for an answer. Yikes. I don’t think I like this game anymore. A memory flashes, me and Dad at our town fair making our way through the game booths. I always left there with those giant stuffed animals. “I’m surprisingly good at fair games.”
He cocks his head.
“Like fall fairs, carnivals, you know? Ring toss. Balloon darts. Obviously, any ones involving a ball. I was so good at knocking down those fucking clowns.”
“Huh.” One side of his mouth curls up. “So at one point you were fun. I’ve never been to a carnival.”
“What?”I gloss over the dig because he’s really never been to a carnival?
He shrugs and flashes me a wide smile. “Just never happened.” He turns back to the table for his turn.
