Page 74 of Stroked Long
“Well, after that reaction, I’m clearly not going to say the mascot race.”
“Our friendship would end if you said that.”
“Yikes.” I cringe. “Don’t want to do that. All right,” I think and then say, “in all seriousness, my favorite part of the game is watching a rookie get their first hit in the major leagues. There is nothing like experiencing that first crack of the bat with someone who’s working their way up the farm system. There’s magic in the air when it happens.”
Looking at me intently, Bodi’s eyes blaze with something I’m not quite familiar with . . . longing?
“Well-thought-out answer,” he says before turning to the field, his demeanor shifting from playful to serious.
Will I ever understand this man?
Setting my beer down, I grip his hand in mine, linking our fingers. Caught off guard at first, he stiffens and stares down at our connection, but when his eyes lift to mine, he visibly relaxes.
“What’s your favorite part?” I ask him, leaning close, wanting to make sure he stays present and doesn’t escape into that over-worked brain of his.
Pulling his attention away from the field, his lips tilt to the side. “I can’t really pick anything.” He’s quiet for a second. “It’s something I shared with my dad. We would sit together and watch every single Oakland A’s game we could. The sport is engrained in my blood now.”
My heart breaks from his despondent voice. It’s the first time he’s mentioned his dad, and the thought of a young Bodi sitting on his dad’s lap watching baseball makes me want to cry.
Squeezing his hand, I say, “I completely understand that.” And to lighten the mood, I add, “But you don’t have to lie to me. I know your little kale-loving self loves the smell of greasy hot dogs floating through the air. That’s why you really come to the games.”
He takes the bait and smiles that rare mega-watt grin at me. “You caught me. Man, do I love mystery-meat smell. Gets my battery charged every time it floats around me.”
“Battery charged? Are you saying you get ‘excited’ over hot dog grease?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I said,” he answers sarcastically.
“My, my, my, Bodi Banks likes a good sausage fest.” I can’t contain the smile that graces my face from the furrow in his brow. “I would never have guessed.”
He squeezes my hand and says, “My sausage fest goes right along with your taco eating.”
“Hey,” I playfully snap, pulling my hand away from his to put on my hip in indignation, “I told you not to compare tacos to vaginas.”
“Did I say the word vagina?”
“You implied it?” I counter.
“Pretty sure I was talking about tacos.” He winks and grabs my hand again, linking our fingers together intimately. He places our hands on the arm rest between us, and I can’t help but stare at the connection. I held his hand first to make sure he didn’t retreat in conversation, so why is he now holding my hand?
Anxious nerves roll through me as the thought of Bodi Banks actually liking me floats through my mind. I hate that I’m totally fangirling inside. Yes, there is more to Bodi than his devastating, handsome good looks and those muscles constantly rippling under his shirt. He’s intelligent, kind, and sweet. But that still doesn’t stop me from lusting over the fact that BODI FREAKING BANKS is holding my hand.
My hand.
Quirky, very strange, spastic me.
The rest of the game we talk about our favorite players, who we’ve watched since we were young, what kind of a person it takes to stand among a crowd to shout obscenities, and of course, the traditional ballpark wave.
As we walk to the car, Bodi makes a quick call to Eva, checking in on her. He’s so cute. We’re still holding hands—eep—when Bodi confesses, “I hate the wave. Who ever thought that would be a good idea?”
“What? You don’t like the wave?”
“Who really does?”
“Uh, me. It’s so amazing. Thousands of people, without any cues, all of a sudden break out into standing rhythmic formation.”
“It’s inconvenient.”
“Why? Because you have to stand every few seconds? This coming from the workout king.”
