Page 95 of Just for the Plot

He’s sophisticated.

He’s—

“He looks so much bigger,” Gabby says. “Every time I see him, I swear he’s packed on another ten pounds of muscle.”

I can vouch for the muscles, as I’ve seen him with his shirt off. He has a lot of them.

But this is the first time I’m noticing that he has quite the ass. Very round. Has it always been that round? Has he always had an ass? Maybe it’s his tight pants that are accentuating said feature. Or the way his broad shoulders tug on his shirt, forcing the fabric to narrow down around his waist.

Oh, you know what, it’s probably the belt. Unsure if I’ve ever seen him in a belt. Well, that’s not true. I’ve been to games before and he’sworn a belt, but maybe I’m used to him in street clothes, because he’s not walking around the apartment in his baseball uniform. That would be quite comical if he did.

Either way, he probably did gain ten pounds of muscle, but it’s ten pounds of ass muscle, because that junk in the trunk was not there before.

“Seems regular to me,” I say, just to make sure she didn’t somehow read my thoughts about his ass. Not that I’m attracted to his ass. I just noticed it, but given Gabby’s reaction earlier, I don’t want her to know that I noticed his ass.

So…there you have it.

Although…it is a nice ass.

But that’s all I’ll say about it.

“You know, baseball can be quite thrilling,” I say as I sail some popcorn straight from a plastic helmet directly into my mouth.

The score is tied. I think it’s ending soon, something about last inning, perhaps. And there’s a runner on second with one out.

“Shhh…” Gabby says, sitting on the edge of her seat. “Bennett’s getting on deck.”

I look straight ahead and watch Bennett step outside of the dugout, slipping his helmet on simultaneously with one hand, his forearm flexing as he does so. He rests his bat against his leg as he adjusts his batting gloves, tightening them around his wrists before picking his bat back up and strengthening his grip around it.

My eyes travel the length of his back, how his shoulder blades pull at the fabric and once again…his butt on full display.

I really think it’s the belt.

Has to be.

Going to make a note to ask him where to get such a belt, because I wouldn’t mind a little pop of the booty like that.

The batter swings, hitting the ball straight into the ground, which I think baseball fanatics refer to as…wait for it…a grounder. The guy in the middle, I want to say shortstop, grabs the ball, scares the base runner back to second with what I can only imagine would be a growl, and then throws the batter out at first, yeeting the ball with all his might.

Quite an impressive display of athleticism.

Unfortunately, it didn’t assist in us winning.

Now, according to the giant screen right in front of me, there seem to be two outs. That guy still on second who might have pissed himself, can’t be sure, and our boy is up.

Some lucky motherfucker with a mic announces Bennett’s name, his number—which is twenty-two because that’s the day he and Gabby left foster care—and his walk-up song plays.

It’s some techno beat drop that gets the stadium going every single time and they accompany the drop with a light display, which of course gets my nipples hard.

I glance to my left, where Gabby and Ryland are both on the edge of their seats, holding hands, looking so adorably nervous.

So I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “Come on, Bennett! Make Mommy proud!”

Smirking, I see both Ryland and Gabby turn their heads toward me, causing me to laugh.

“Mommy?” Gabby asks.

“Just trying to lighten the mood. Did it not work?”