Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
So we play. Or try to. Because neither of us actually knows the rules. The croupier, whose name tag reads “Deb,” attempts the impossible task of explaining things to half-listening, half-drunk ballplayers, who might play a sport with a lot of intricacies but who aren’t necessarily great at absorbing those rules.
Like, er, me.
Deb explains how craps works. Twice. But something—the champagne, the press of guys in a relatively small space, how Derek’s shoulder brushes against mine—prevents me from listening to what she’s saying.
“It’d probably be easier to just play,” Derek says, though he sounds more amused than irritated. Or it’s possible he’s laughing at the carpeted table surface that says “Come” in large letters.
I wave to him, unwilling to admit I don’t know what I’m doing. “You first.”
He plunks down a few chips, a wad of bright pink Bark Buck bills, then takes the dice Deb gives him. He holds them out, displaying them like he’s expecting me to do something. Is craps the one where people blow on the dice? It must be, because he nods like he’s daring me to do it.
Instead I tap my hand against his, then knock back a gulp of champagne. Even though it’s warmed, it tastes pretty good. That fizzing feeling lasts through Derek casting his dice then looking to Deb for confirmation.
“Did I do that right?” he asks.
She gives him a warm smile. “You did.”
“Thought you knew how to play,” I say. It comes out flirtatious. Possibly because I’m flirting with him. The harmless kind that won’t go anywhere. He might not even pick up on it.
But he arches a challenging eyebrow. “You wanna show me how it’s done?”
Or maybe he will pick up on it.
I know nothing about craps. But flirting is all instinct and the next words out of my mouth are, “If you ask nicely.”
Derek’s lips curve. “Maybe that’s not my style,” he says.
What is your style? I’d like to ask. Instead, I keep it subtle. “So you’re not nice?” I ask.
Derek blinks. I’ve surprised him. Hell, I’ve surprised myself.
Even though the table has mostly cleared out, we’re still standing close. I should move, interject some space between us, for about a hundred reasons.
Starting with we’re both ballplayers. On opposing teams. Well, they would be opposing if my team was any good, which is another issue.
Another issue is—I’m supposed to be upstanding. Nice. Or so my parents keep reminding me. But maybe I’m not so nice, since I get a few flashes of what Derek might look like sprawled out on the plain white sheets of my beige little rental house bed.
He rolls.
A three and a one.
I picture his lips parted as I move down his chest.
A four and a six.
I hear the sounds he makes as I travel closer.
A two and a three.
I feel the urgency in his body.
Oh, that’s five, and Derek practically crows the way he might after hitting a home run, arms psyched with victory. At some point, he takes off his suit jacket; the fabric of his shirt is thin. My reminder to myself not to check him out diminishes like a glass of champagne.
He gathers the dice, slapping them into my hand. “Your turn, Chason.” A smirk. “Unless you want me to blow on them.”
“Yes, Miller, please blow on them,” I counter, getting into this rhythm faster than I expected. I hold out my hand, dice displayed for his approval, and receive a puff of air across my palm. It shouldn’t—shouldn’t being the operative word—do it for me. But, fuck, it does.
“There,” he says.” That’s your luck.”
Luck. I like the sound of that. “Let’s see if I’m lucky.” I throw, squinting to see what numbers are displayed. A combination adding up to six. “Is that good or bad?”
With that, Derek laughs. “You tell me.”
3
Derek
After one glass of champagne, Adam Chason is handsome, put together, and apparently kind of shy. Adam. He feels like an Adam now to me. Attraction will do that to a guy. After a few more glasses, Adam loosens the top button of his collar, rolls his shirt up his forearms, and laughs, big, easy, like all that shyness got shed with his suit jacket.
If that’s what taking the jacket off does, what about the rest of his clothes? I admit, I’m curious. I could use a helluva distraction for one night, especially considering the shitty start to spring training so far. Yeah, it’s spring training but I don’t like to underperform ever, and the last few days haven’t been my best. Blowing off steam is always good for a reset on the diamond. I didn’t have Flirt with the league’s golden boy on my bingo card for the evening—and I definitely didn’t have him flirting right back.
But this twist works for me.
Except the evening is wrapping up, the bar subtly then not so subtly turning up its lights to encourage us all to split. Spring training mornings start early. I should go home and get some sleep. Adam isn’t leaving either, casually leaning against the high lip of the table, displaying the toned muscles of his forearms. Maybe he’s lingering because, like me, he’s got nothing at home but an empty bed.