“Who is that guy?”
Metal creaks loudly as Cass leans forward, feet planted on the bleacher bench in front of us as he stares quizzing at the field littered with sweaty, sprinting teenagers.
When Coach mentioned he was running a couple of practices over the summer for incoming freshmen, I thought it was a great idea. When he strongly encouraged—code for threatened—the team to help out, I didn’t actually mind. I thought it would be a good way to curry favor with Coach and meet prospective teammates, and that maybe, even if driving back and forth from Serenity sucks, it would be fun.
That, however, was when I had no idea it would involve baking in the hot, July sun for hours, only occasionally pitching in with encouraging words and advice that mostly goes ignored.
Most of the team crapped out after an hour, the threat of sunstroke more daunting than Coach’s wrath. But Cass wanted to stay to scope out the newbies, so I stayed too.
One newbie in particular stands out, the one Cass is watching like a hawk. Kid would probably be a better word to describe this guy. Blond, lanky as shit, a face like a high school freshman. Even from this distance, I can tell he’s got an attitude, cocky as he struts about the field but with one hell of an arm to back it up. Honestly, he rivals Cass’ unnatural talent which is probably why my friend hasn’t taken his eyes off him for the last hour.
“I’ve no idea,” I answer his earlier question. “But he’s pretty good.”
Cass grunts unintelligibly and leans back in his seat, cocking his head thoughtfully.
The moment Coach calls a well-needed water break, Cass is on his feet and working his way toward the stampede of guys desperate for a cold beverage.
Sighing, I follow, nudging my friend in the ribs when I catch up. “Leave the kid alone.”
“I just wanna talk,” he protests, thwarting any attempt to stop him when he cups his hands around his mouth and the booming sound of his voice echoes around the field. “Hey!”
Multiple heads snap our way but Cass’ gaze doesn’t waver from his target. The kid frowns at the attention, head shifting from right to left as he checks his surroundings before pointing at himself, tilting his head, and mouthing “me?”
Stifling a laugh, I mimic Cass’ nod, hoping my smile is a hell of a lot less intimidating than my friend’s downright thunderous expression,
The second he’s within earshot, Cass introduces himself but he’s abruptly interrupted. “I know,” the kid pants, grinning teeth startling white against his flushed skin. “Cass Morgan. You killed it last season.”
I groan internally as a slick smile twists Cass’ mouth. Chest puffed, he shoots me a smug look, his earlier disdain suddenly nowhere to be found. Rolling my eyes, I shift my attention back to the kid, opening my mouth only for my introduction to be cut off as well. “Oscar Jackson. I know you, too.”
I pause a moment before arching a brow. “No compliment for me?”
His smile is nothing short of pure cheek. “You’re pretty good.”
A glowing review.
“You got a name?”
“Ben. Ben Smith.”
“You coming here in the fall?”
“You’re a shoo-in for the team,” Cass points out when the kid nods, and I pray Ben wipes the starstruck expression off his face before my friend’s head blows up. “After today, I doubt Coach will even make you try out.”
I hum my agreement; a severe understatement. Like Cass was, he’s too good to even entertain the ridiculous idea of not making the team. And like he did Cass, Coach is already looking at Ben with hearts and trophies in his eyes.
The kid doesn’t preen under the praise. He doesn’t play the modest prodigy. No, he grins lazily, shrugs, and I bet if he had long hair like me, he’d toss it nonchalantly over his shoulder. “I know.”
God, him and Cass are seriously cut from the same cloth. Talented and they know it, and they will make sure you know it too.
By the time Coach demands everyone get their asses back on the field, both guys are practically levitating, Ben with the excitement of meeting who’s apparently his idol and Cass with the satisfaction and entirely unnecessary ego-boost that comes with being idolized.
“I like him,” Cass declares, watching Ben run off with a look I can only describe as fatherly pride.
I snort. “Five seconds ago, you were threatened.”
“I was not.”
Cass rolls his eyes. “If anything, he reminds me of me.”
“Obnoxiously self-confident?”
A fist meets my shoulder. “Incredibly fucking talented, thank you very much.”
“I agree,” a rough voice chimes in, and I glance aside to find Coach has joined our conversation. The older man’s gaze flits between us and Ben, the Yankees cap with a permanent place on his head briefly lifted so he can scrape a hand through salt-and-pepper hair. “I want him on this team.”
Just like I thought; the kid’s already in.
“You two are gonna keep an eye on him,” Coach commands, doesn’t ask, and we both nod without hesitation—I don’t think anyone has ever argued with Coach Daire Kelly and lived to tell the tale. “Show him the ropes. Make him feel comfortable. If he’s not on that field come February, I will hold you both personally responsible.”
A hard look follows his words, and neither of us get a chance to reply before he’s striding away, hands clapping loudly and a slew of barked orders leaving him.
Hand lifting in a mock salute, Cass huffs an amused yet confused breath. “Did he just give us custody of a seventeen-year-old?”
Raking my hands through shoulder-length hair, I let out a chuckle of my own. “I think he did.”
I imagine that when Coach trusted us with taking care of his new favorite player, he didn’t anticipate us taking him to a grimy, gritty bar frequented by every student on campus.
Well, almost every student—when I say us, I mean me, since Cass was banned from the establishment within weeks of starting freshman year.
Ben’s got stars in his eyes as we shove our way toward the counter, the sea of people taking advantage of cheap booze and minimal security meaning I have to glance over my shoulder every two seconds to check I haven’t lost The Golden Child.
Only my semi-prominent status as Baseball Player and Friend of Nick and Cass gets me through with minimal injury and effort but by the time we make it, a layer of sweat sticks uncomfortably to my skin and I already can’t wait to get the hell out of here.
“This place is so cool,” Ben yells in my ear as he hops on a rare unoccupied stool.
I stifle a laugh; oh, to be a young, naive freshman again, when warm beer and sticky counters and too many people in your space was cool.
And I stifle another when the moment I reach the counter, I spot a familiar face at the other end of the bar, a drink nursed in one large, tattooed hand, an ass cheek in the other.
“Nick!”
Golden eyes laced with irritation flick my way, a dark brown brow quirking as if to say ‘yes? Excuse me? Why are you interrupting my very important business of feeling up yet another pretty girl?’
Rolling my eyes, I crook a couple of fingers to beckon him over, jerking my head toward my new friend.
With a long, tormented sigh that I swear I can hear even over the din of the bar, Nick briefly returns his attention to his new friend. Whispering God knows what in the girl’s hair, he leaves her with a wink and a slap on the ass before sauntering our way. “Whatever you want, make it quick.”
Because in the thirty seconds this introduction is going to take, the girl flashing heart-shaped eyes at Nick’s retreating back will get bored and leave. Sure.
“Nick,” I ignore my friend’s comment, clamping a palm on his shoulder and guiding him toward my newest teammate, “this is Ben. Ben, this is Nick.”
Behave, I’m tempted to add, unsure who needs the reminder more.
“You’re Nicolas Silva.” Ben maintains his perfect record, three-for-three at Campus Guess Who. “Heard some people,” girls, “around campus talking about you. You’re popular.”
He knows, I think.
“I know,” Nick drawls.
I swear to God, I smell the trouble dripping from Ben, sensing the quip a second before he bares shiny, straight teeth in a sorry attempt at an innocent smile. “I didn’t think you’d be, like, old, though.”
The pride painting Nick’s features melts. A scowl contorts that life-ruining face, the mouth so skilled at seduction opening to spit something undoubtedly the opposite but an interruption saves Ben from the wrath of a large, testy Brazilian man.
“What can I get you, boys?”
With a handful of sweetly crooned words, my friends disappear. The crowd disappears. The damn bar disappears. All I see is the blonde waitress planting her palms on the counter and smiling brightly, pinning me with clear blue eyes that render me fucking useless as usual.
She smells like vanilla. Simple, rich vanilla. I want to lean in closer and breathe deep, filling my lungs with the scent until it permeates the organ.
Thankfully, I don’t do that.
I don’t do anything, actually.
She stands there, so goddamn pretty with full cheeks and fuller lips and cheekbones I could spend hours painstakingly drawing, staring at me expectantly, and I can’t get a damn word out.
It’s Nick’s snickering that drags me out of a blue-eye-addled haze, and his elbow jabbing my ribs. He rattles off our order and the waitress scribbles it down, disappearing into the back before I have a chance to get my shit together.
“You’re pathetic,” Nick laughs, shaking his head.
I groan, my elbows hitting the counter, my head cradled in my hands as I brace for the incessant teasing I’m sure is on its way.
But it never arrives.
Frowning, I tilt my head toward Nick, brows furrowing when I find his attention no longer on me. Staring off into the distance, his gaze is weirdly intense, unmistakable lust clouding it, along with something else indecipherable.
Curious as to what—or who—has a man the epitome of cool, calm, and collected looking so… off, I follow his line of sight. A slow smile spreads across my face when I find one of the only people here as often as we are.
A contrast to her coworker, Greenies’ other newest waitress is a tiny redhead with a perpetually worried brow and eerily bright eyes, and all five-foot-nothing of her is currently holding Nick captive.
The guy looks fucking enthralled.
Oh, this is good.
This is so damn good.
“Something caught your attention over there, Nicolas?”
With a cough, Nick rips his gaze away from Red, the curl of his lips flattening as he scowls and shakes his head. Leaning back against the counter, he aims for nonchalance but I don’t think a force in the world could keep his eyes from drifting back toward the girl.
And I’m pretty sure he hates it.
Ben, oblivious to how unusually flustered my friend seems to be, breaks his rare display of silence with a crooked lip and pale, raised brow. “Is that your girlfriend? She’s cute.”
Nick scoffs in unison with my barked laugh. “Nicky doesn’t do girlfriends,” I explain teasingly, although I wonder if right now, he’s regretting that stipulation.
“You don’t do girlfriends?”
“Nope,” is Nick’s simple answer to Ben’s disbelieving inquiry, his blank tone contrasted by glimmering gold irises.
Ben practically exudes mischief as he cocks his head at Nick. “Boyfriends?”
With a low laugh, Nick copies Ben’s stance, tilting his head and crooking a brow. “You hitting on me, kid?”
“You wish, Grandpa.”
