He moves aside, but closer to the booth, still looking at me.
Maybe he recognizes me from my short career as a catcher, although after so many years, that rarely happens anymore.
“I’m not a baseball fan,” he says, chatting with a friendly smile, although his energy is a little jumpy. “Sports, yes. I’m totally a sports guy. Baseball is just the one sport I never got into.”
I consider telling him I was Philly’s star catcher when I was his age, but change my mind, not wanting to encourage the stranger.
“Baseball is a great game,” I say sharply, eyes on the screen.
“Home team is up, 2-1,” he says, turning toward the TV, too. It gives me a chance to glance at the annoying young man without inviting his company. He’s wearing a pair of snug jeans and a long-sleeved tee, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. When he shoves his hands in his pockets, the jock in me notices his physique, firm and toned like an athlete’s.
Smoothly, the man turns his gaze back my way, not quick enough to catch me looking, though. “I’m sure you’re a Philly man. I’ll bet you fifty that Detroit wins.”
“No way in hell Philly loses this one,” I tell him, meeting his sight directly, respect for my old team lashing out. “Detroit is about to fall apart. They come in strong, but they falter. Philly wins easily.”
“Okay, it’s a bet,” he says and raises a funny smile. “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears. I realize my heart rate is accelerated. The way he keeps eyeing me, I’m not sure what it’s about. Does he want something from me? Before I can get my head on straight, though, he returns with two bottles of beer, slides into the booth across from me, and hands me a bottle.
“Are we doing names?” he asks. “Or not?”
I squint at him. What a weird way to ask that question.
I set the beer down without drinking from it, not trusting any of this.
“My name is Troy,” I finally say. “And I didn’t take you up on that bet.”
“Orlando,” he replies. “You don’t think Philly’s going to win? What kind of a fan are you?”
I frown. The eighth inning is already done, and the game is almost over.
What the hell. A bet is one way to take Mel’s advice and have a little fun. At least I can shove a few extra bucks in my pocket and put this young man in his place while I watch the end of the game.
“Make it a hundred.”
He smiles. “Deal.”
No sooner do we turn back to the screen than Detroit’s best batter sends one deep into left field. Orlando nearly jumps to his feet when the runner crosses home, the batter safely on second.
“Hell yeah,” he says, pumped. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Don’t get excited by one good hit,” I say flatly.
Orlando leans back and chuckles. “I’ve never done this before,” he says, a little hesitant. “I didn’t know I was jumping into the deep end with a hardass.”
I blink. He used the same phrase Mel used to describe me earlier.
Is this some kind of fucking prank? Did Mel pay this guy to annoy me?
I lean forward, meeting his brown eyes directly. Just because he hasn’t bet on a game before doesn’t mean I’m going easy on him. “You want to know what a hardass is?” I ask. “Keep talking shit about Philly.”
Instead of balking, he leans slightly forward and raises up a half-smile. “Don’t tempt me.”
My pulse thuds in my ears. I’m not sure what we’re talking about or why we’re even talking, but I feel defiant, and I’m not letting this little shit shake me.
He almost sounds flirtatious. But that can’t be right. I’m straight, and if a man has ever flirted with me before, I didn’t notice it. Hell, the walls I’ve got up, flirting isn’t something I do with anyone.
And why the hell would someone his age flirt with me?
