Page 15 of Totally Played
“No, you don’t have to apologize, it’s good seeing you get so into it.”
“It’s fun, and it’s more like the Major League than I realized.”
“See, now think how many games you’ve missed out on because you weren’t willing to give baseball’s cool younger brother a shot.”
“I know. Maybe that’s my issue with guys, too. I should go looking for their hot brothers, and maybe I’ll start getting a second date.”
He smiles, bringing the cutest dimples to his cheeks, and I almost count the seconds he’s holding my stare, because for a straight guy, he’s throwing lots of not-so-straight signals. Like when he ordered his last beer, he put his hand over my forearm when he asked if I wanted one, too. Oh, and the lips. He keeps glancing at my lips and then licking his. It could be just a nervous tick, or maybe he has super dry lips. Fuck. I need to not make this weird. I actually really like Calvin, as a friend, I mean. I can totally see us hanging out again. Actually, I’m fairly sure I agreed to come to the game tomorrow.
My stomach growls.
“Okay, we need to eat. What time is our reservation?”
“Ha, about an hour and a half ago.”
“Oh. Well, there has to be something around here. Does Wally have nuts?”
“Yeah, two big ones, but he’s straight, so I don’t think you can ask to eat those.”
I turn and look at him deadpan.
“You didn’t just make a ball-eating joke on our bro-date.”
“Shit, sorry, like I didn’t want to offend you or anything. I’m sure you don’t eat balls. Or if you do, I’m sure you do it great.”
His face is flushed as he tries to backpedal but really fucking badly. I try to hold my expression, but it becomes too much, and I burst out laughing.
“You fucking asshole.” He laughs, reaching over and taking my half-empty beer. “Now I get this.”
He drinks it down, and as I’m reaching to try to grab it, I spot on the far wall near the restaurant entry a candy bar claw machine.
“Awesome. Do you want a candy bar? I’m the king of claw machines,” I say, and he throws down a fifty onto the bar top.
“Thanks, Wally. Keep the change,” he says, then climbs from the stool and heads that way. “I bet I win more than you.”
Another box on my checklist of the perfect guy for me, a great tipper. My grandmother worked for more years than she should have, serving food and drinks to people, the tips are what kept me fed and in school after my mother died.
“Loser pays for drinks next time,” I say as I catch up to him.
“Deal.”
He swipes his card and selects ten plays.
“Are we going by number or bars, or size in grams of all the bars we win?”
“Number of bars.”
“Alright, prepare to lose. Best of ten, we’ll take turns.”
“You go first.”
He gets nothing on his first go, and on mine, I line up a Baby Ruth bar and pick it up perfectly, dropping it into the chute.
“Nice one,” he cheers.
He misses again on his second turn, and I get a Butterfinger. He finally gets a Three Musketeers on his third go and turns to me as it drops into the chute, a proud grin on his face.
“Good one,” I say, and his smile widens.
