But it would sort of be a waste of a handsome bastard, Tenner could admit that. Well over six feet tall to Ten’s five-eleven, Ross had that sort of rangy body that didn’t seem capable of sinuous motion and was so much more beautiful because of it. Yeah, Tenner hated the guy—and his cocky Jake Busey smile in a leaner, prettier face—but he sure could admire his lazy blue eyes in tanned skin, with hair that was probably more brown in the winter but was bleached yellow by the sun.
God, before Nina, when Tenner had given in to his libido in college, Ross “I’m Gonna Fuckin’ Kill Him” had been right up his alley.
Sadly, for the past few years, nothing had been up Tenner’s alley but a fine assortment of medically safe novelty items with the appropriate washable lubricant, in controlled and very, very private circumstances.
He pulled his gaze away from Ross “I’m Gonna Fuckin’ Kill That Guy” to watch Pat dust himself off, his good humor unshakable.
“Oh, dude! You can’t kill him! That’s my wife’s brother, Ross McTierney.”
“Nice whiff, man!” Ross said, smirking his way toward them. “You gonna go out to right field and see if you can smell that one sailing by?”
“You wanna make a bet,” Tenner muttered to Patrick. “I could slit his throat in a church.”
Pat rolled his eyes. “Go get your glove, Hamlet. We’ve got another inning to go.”
Tenner turned on his heel so he didn’t have to even look at Ross McTierney’s grinning face and snagged his glove from the dugout. He was getting his team back to bat if he had to make every damned out himself.
HE LITERALLY had to make every damned out himself.
Their captain—a little, rather quiet guy in his twenties named Hanford Birmingham—had taken one look at Tenner lacing up his new cleats and been transported with glee.
“You can catch the ball?” he’d asked. “Like, if it comes at you? Our last first baseman used to just sort of scream and drop it. I think that’s why he quit after one game.”
Tenner tried not to sigh and reminded himself that he would get to be on Pat’s team in eight weeks. And at least those guys appeared to know what they were doing.
“Yeah,” he said gamely. “Catch, throw, hit occasionally. I can do it all.”
He’d thought that Hanford was being… well, unassuming was the word that came to mind. But then he’d played the first inning and had seen firsthand how bad it was. The team’s only real asset was Kipp Harding, the pitcher, who could lob a softball up at a perfect rate of slowness. A guy could wear himself out swinging at the damned thing and right when they thought they could connect with the ball, it would crash the last four feet to the ground.
Uncanny.
Between Kipp striking guys out, Danny, who was about twenty years old and could run like the wind and maybe catch, playing center field, and Tenner on first, they were almost not awful. Unfortunately, Tenner was the only one who could hit, and thanks to Ross “Whose Head Would Make A Good Soccer Ball,” he’d just blown the chance to win, five to four.
Tenner was late to pick up his daughter, he’d left a project on his desk that could get him a healthy raise, and he was stuck in the outfield or his team would forfeit when they were that close to a win.
“Piss in His Dead Skull” Ross McTierney was not going to fuck this up.
Fortunately, he wasn’t hitting first.
The first guy—a fiftyish, semi-in-shape engineer—nailed the ball right toward Tenner’s face. Tenner would have taken exception to that if he hadn’t been able to block the ball and make the out.
The second guy lobbed a pop fly up, up, up, until Kipp—in a stunning burst of honesty in the heat of the game—had blurted, “Dude, I’m not catching that. Tenner, get over here.”
And he had.
And then Ross Fuckin’ McTierney got up to bat. He took a few practice swings, spat on the plate, and then, oh God, winked right at Tenner before sizing up Kipp’s thirtysomething runner’s body with a few lazy sweeps of those blue eyes.
And then he swung at the ball and tried to knock it clear to the freeway.
But Tenner was pissed, and he held a grudge, and dammit, he was due. He ignored poor Hanford, looking like a light-struck deer in right field, and hauled his ass toward the back fence and leaped, just as the ball arced down.
And he caught it, his glove raised in triumph, shouting, “Motherfucker, whiff this!”
“No!” Ross screamed, although he sounded more impressed than mad. “No! Oh my God, who does that!”
“I do,” Tenner called back, grinning fiercely as he ran to the dugout. “I do.”
He figured that was it. All they had to do was make one run. One lousy run. He hadn’t made the other four. He’d batted them in, sure, but he was the ninth batter up this time. What were the odds they would fill the bases and get sent to the outfield—twice—without either team scoring?
What were the odds?
What were the odds?
What were the goddamned motherfuckin’ odds?
Nina was texting him the entire time he sat in the dugout. He was only about a half-hour late; he knew that. He knew that picking Piper up in his baseball clothes wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He even knew Piper’s favorite TV show was on right now, so she wasn’t going to wonder where he was.
But every ten seconds his phone buzzed, and by the time he got up to bat, he’d sent Nina a picture of the guys on the field so she could know he wasn’t missing their daughter’s future because he was lazy or lying or in a bar picking up a guy just so he could break the three-year-long dry streak he had going.
One more run, he texted. And I’m on my way.
They can’t make it without you?
They’ll have to forfeit the game. For all her flaws, Nina had a vicious competitive streak. He knew this.
Fine. You owe me.
He wanted to ask her, what else? Alimony? Child support? He paid double, on time, every month. The lost years he could have been happy? She had those too. His solemn promise not to go out and be gay? Well, he couldn’t make it, but he’d promised not to let the worst parts of his “lifestyle” affect Piper, and he assumed that meant dating. Because whatever.
But he didn’t ask her what else, because he had this. He had lights on a warm spring night, and a bunch of guys gamely trying to hit the ball, and he’d made four hits out of five at bats and one helluva play in the outfield.
Sitting there, hoping at least one of these guys could make a run before the final out, he allowed a little peace to seep into his soul.
God, he’d missed this.
And then Hanford made the second out of the inning, and Kipp went up and made it to third base, and it was Tenner’s turn to hit the ball again.
“Hey, batter batter, sha-wing, batter!”
But Tenner had that peace in his soul this time. This time when Ross “Fuck You” McTierney shouted “sha-wing, batter!” he paused a breath, just a breath, before he swung.
The ball never fucking landed.
TEN MINUTES later, he was still trying to pack up his bag to leave, after dealing with congratulations and thank-yous from his team. And, he had to admit, they felt pretty damned good.