Page 66 of Studious
The Dodgers score a few runs. The game moves along, but I’m more interested in watching Alden than anything else. He fills out the scorecard in the program and pays attention to every pitch, narrating to me the whole time.
“Are you this intense when you watch games on television?” I ask at some point.
He gulps and nods. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Passion is my favorite thing in the world.”
“I was scared you’d think I get too into it.”
“I think that’s part of what makes you you.” I shrug. “I know you’ve asked me to help you change, but I don’t really want to change you at all. I just want to boost your self-esteem. The way you are is more than good enough.”
He smiles at me. “I wish I could kiss you.”
“Later.”
Then he turns and starts clapping with determination as the latest Dodgers star saunters up to the plate. The pitcher for the Giants has this weird throw, sidelong, almost like an underhand softball pitch.
Only it goes 92 mph and is absolutely precise. It looks hard to hit. I mean, any MLB pitch looks hard to hit, but this seems impossible.
Alden grips his armrest and then scoots forward. And farther. And farther, until he is literally on the edge of his seat, lips parted, watching as the pitcher throws, the batter swings, and—
“OMG GOOOOOOOOOOOOO, YES!” he yells.
The line drive rockets just over the left field wall.
“We’re killing them!” He’s whooping and hollering and standing up in his seat, watching and clapping as the runner trots home, where he’s greeted by his teammates, who all slap him on the butt. That might be my favorite part of baseball. That and the scruff on some of these guys. My God, they’re delicious. Alden hugs me in celebration, saying, “Being able to do that makes this the best game ever!”
At the end of the night, when the stadium plays “I Love LA,” we stand and clap and let the music, crowd noise, and strobe lights overwhelm us.
Then we take the long walk back to the car. Once we’re there, Alden scrambles over the center console into my lap, getting right in my face. I chuckle, loving his boldness.
He puts both hands on my shoulders. “You’re the most amazing person. I know I wasn’t the best date. I’m sorry for ignoring you.”
“I wasn’t ignored,” I say. “I was amused. We were both into it. You were slightlymoreinto it—although I do like baseball. I just like you better.”
His eager tongue delves into my mouth, and before I know it, I’m scooting my seat back so we don’t hit the horn. We get a few wolf whistles as pedestrians stream by on the way to their own cars, but I don’t care.
When we break apart, I murmur, “I love seeing you come out of your shell.”
He’s hard, and so am I. He feels good in my hands. Against my body. He tastes like peanuts and sweat, and you’d think that would be a bad combination, but you’d be wrong. He tastes real and like Alden, and it’s a heady combination. Every time we kiss, Alden gets more confident… and more desirable.
But I’m supposed to be helping him to kiss other people. Not me.
“I like kissing you,” he admits. “I’m sorry if I’m being too forward.”
“You’re not,” I growl. I lean up to kiss him again, my hands gripping his ass.
“If we keep this up, I’m going to explode,” he admits. “And while that was fun once, I don’t want to get all messy again.”
“Sex is messy. You’re going to have to get used to that.”
“But maybe not outside a Dodger game,” he says, giving me a lighter kiss, which deepens into something that elicits a growl from me.
I haven’t explored just kissing with anyone in so long. I normally kiss enough to get things going and then skip to the fucking.
But with Alden, I enjoy it. I like exploring his mouth. I like how hot he makes me feel.
Still, Alden’s right: we probably shouldn’t let this get any more involved here on the street. “I want you,” I whisper. “Do you want to come home with me?”
