Page 6 of Totally Played (Love In Play #5)

Chapter six

Ashley

Once it became a bro-date, Calvin’s term, not mine, the stress that normally sits in my gut, the will they like me, will I like them drama, all melted away and it became really easy to just hang out with him.

Actually, the more it went on, the more I started to see that Calvin would be the perfect guy for me, if only he wasn’t straight.

Though maybe that’s why I’m not seeing any of the things I would focus on if we were dating for real.

I’m not overanalyzing every action. Was he late, did he talk with food in his mouth, did he look at the servers and have manners when ordering, will he look around the room at other men?

You know… the ick. But I wasn’t doing that with Calvin, or he just didn’t do anything that turned me off.

We talked about hockey and Banana Ball, and I’m actually enjoying watching the replay of his earlier game.

I hate to admit that Redmond was right. Banana Ball is pretty epic.

“No way, come on, he was safe!” I yell at the television as Calvin chuckles beside me.

“Dude, it’s a replay, remember?”

“Shit, yeah, sorry.”

“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.

I get another Baby Ruth bar on my third go.

“Okay, I need a double, and for you to miss your next two. Come on, double,” he prays as he moves the claw over a stack of Twizzlers.

They’re thinner than the others and stacked like they are, he’s in with a good shot at picking up a few if he lines it up right.

I lean over his shoulder to watch, and he pushes the lever off to the side too much, and the timer runs out.

The claw descends and misses the stack and every other candy bar in there.

I’m half expecting him to start banging the side of the machine, but he’s laughing at himself like it’s no big deal. And it isn’t, but so many guys would be pissed to be losing this bad.

“Alright, I can still draw, you just have to miss.”

“Actually, I like your idea of a double. I’m going to get that.”

“Ha, we’ll see,” he says as I press the button to send down the claw right over the stack of Twizzlers. It closes tight over three.

“Wooo, a triple,” he cheers. Does he know how competitions work?

“You’ve got one turn left,” I say, stepping to the side.

“You take what’s left. I concede. Besides, I really want that giant Snickers. Think you can get it?”

“Consider it yours.”

We walk out of the bar with a Three Musketeers, two Baby Ruths, a Butterfinger, three Twizzlers, a giant Snickers, and a bag of mini-Reese’s. He’s ripped into the Snickers the second we’re out the door.

A delicious scent wafts past my nose. It’s rich, sweet, and smoky. My stomach growls.

“What is that?” I ask, and Calvin closes his eyes and breathes in deep.

“The best barbeque in Savannah,” he replies, grabbing my arm and half-dragging me through the streets.

He pulls me into an alleyway and drops his grip on my arm, turning to walk backward through the dark corridor.

“You’re pretty trusting, you know,” he says, the moonlight illuminating his features in a way too sexy way for a guy who I’m supposed to be only seeing as a friend.

“How so?” I ask, a flurry of butterflies swarming inside me.

“You just followed a stranger into a dark alley. What if I were a serial killer?”

“I don’t think serial killers play Banana Ball.” I laugh, and his stoic expression falls away, and he grins.

“Actually, now that I think of it, your occupation is more suited to serial killers,” he says, still walking slowly backward. I lean to the side, checking past him for things he could trip over, but the alley looks mostly clear except for the dark box shape of a dumpster at the other end.

“Are you asking if I am a serial killer?”

“Sure. Yes. Okay, are you a serial killer?”

He takes another slow step back. I’m pretty sure I can hear voices and music in the distance, but I can’t pick from what direction it’s coming from.

“How many would you consider to be serial status?” I ask, and he stops walking, frowns, crinkling up his brow.

“Three,” he finally says.

I shake my head.

“Oh, well, then we’re good. So are you going to tell me why we’re in the creepiest alley in Savannah?”

“You wanted food, right?” he asks, jumping and pulling down a fire stair ladder. I gaze up, and soft orange lights illuminate the rooftop.

“Where are we?”

“Tim’s, he’s cooking, and we’re hungry.”

“You can’t just invite yourself over to someone’s place because you smell them cooking.”

“Sure you can.” He laughs and starts climbing the ladder. “You coming?”

I shouldn’t. I hardly know this guy, and I know whoever Tim is even less. I think he mentioned him at the bar. He’s the Brit, no, the Aussie.

“Seriously, come on,” he calls down, already a flight up. Then a head appears over the edge of the rooftop.

“Who’s there?” they ask.

“Calvin and his bro-date, Ash. Your siren scent brought us, and now we demand to be fed,” he calls like he’s beckoning someone in a mediaeval play.

How many beers did he actually have at the bar?

To be honest, I don’t remember how many I had either.

I’m feeling a little buzzed, probably why I followed him into the dark alley to begin with, but I should go.

“Cool, come on up, there’s plenty. We’re trying out a few new sauces, so you can be guinea pigs.”

Calvin looks down at me.

“See, come on, they need our help to eat all the barbecue.”

“That’s not what I said,” the guy on the roof calls back.

“It’s what I heard,” Calvin replies, smiling at me with those piercing blue-gray eyes shining in the moonlight and wide grin that I shouldn’t love seeing as much as I do.

“Fuck it, okay. I’m in.”

When I get to the roof, it’s not just Tim there. Three tall guys who have to be bodybuilders with the size of them are in a cage at one end playing with a few cats.

“Tim, this is Ash, he’s Tony’s date.”

Tim looks at me with a quizzical grin, but he shakes my hand and doesn’t press for an explanation.

“Nice to meet you. The big guy in the cage is Lion,” he says, turning his head to look that way, then chuckling.

“Okay, the big guy in the purple shirt is Lion, my fiancé.”

My gaze lands on Lion, and I feel like I’ve seen him before, but I just can’t place from where. “The guy in Blue is Beau, and the one sitting on the ground with four kittens in his lap is Levi. Beau and Levi work out with Lion, in case you didn’t pick that from their gigantic, muscled bodies.”

“I’ve actually trimmed down,” Beau calls back with a laugh.

“You still look huge next to me,” Tim replies with a grin. “This is Ash,” Tim calls, and they wave.

“He’s Tony’s date,” Calvin says again as they open the door to the cat enclosure and head our way.

“Who’s what now?” Beau nods to Tim, and he lifts the chopping board up to reveal a metal sink underneath. He washes his hands, then steps aside to dry them so Lion can wash his next.

“I’m Tony’s date, or I was meant to be, but he’s sick,” I clarify.

“Right, I saw the game. Is he okay?” he asks.

Tim chuckles. “I still can’t believe he tried to play. I heard the doc say he had a temperature of one-oh-two.”

“So about the same as Ryan’s fastball,” I reply.

“You’re a fan, might have to get Duckie to have the talk with Tony. You know what they say about dating a fan,” Tim says, and Lion cuddles around Tim’s waist.

“I was a fan, and it turned out pretty well, don’t you think?”

He leans his head back and they kiss, short and sweet, and I can tell by the way they look at each other that they’re totally in love. I want that so bad. I want someone to look at me that way.

“I watched my first game tonight, so I don’t think any kind of talk is needed,” I say, and Calvin appears at my side with another beer.

“Thanks, but I really shouldn’t.”

“It’s no alcohol,” Calvin says, and I check the label.

“Oh, okay, cool.”

Tim opens the hood on the old barbecue, and smoke rises in a cloud of perfect deliciousness that I’m sure has a hint of mint to it.

“Beau has been on the wagon for seven years; he doesn’t mind if we drink, but we’ve also got a game tomorrow.

Speaking of which, I think you’re going to be feeling however many drinks you had tomorrow,” he says, snapping his tongs at Calvin.

He scrunches up his nose in reply, then links his arm through mine and pulls me toward the cat enclosure.

“Come on, Ash, I’ll introduce you to the cats.”

I discover quickly, only a couple have names. Lion runs a shelter, taking in strays and unwanted pets and finding them good homes. A tiny kitten with fur the same blue-gray as Calvin’s eyes meows at me from a carpeted shelf on the side.

“Aren’t you a cutie?” I say, reaching my fingers in to scratch under his neck. The kitten brushes up against me and purrs.

“Aww, I think he loves you,” Calvin says, opening the door, but he wasn’t watching the ground.

“Wait,” I say, but it’s too late, and five cats rush out before he closes it again.

“Stampede!” he calls, getting everyone’s attention.

I’d laugh, but I’m too busy rushing after a black and white cat who’s headed for the fire stairs. We crawl around on the floor, cooing and calling for the cats, tempting them with treats, and it takes about twenty minutes, but we get them all back inside.

“Well, you definitely earned dinner now.” Tim laughs, locking the enclosure. The little gray kitten weaves through the older cats and jumps with its little fluffy legs up the ramp to where I’m standing.

“Come back for me, little one?” I ask, reaching through and giving it another scratch.

“Hey, Lion, I think you might have a new adoptee,” Tim calls, and Lion claps excitedly, then goes back to washing his hands for the second time now.

“If you want her, she’s yours in a week. Just need to get her fixed and chipped.”

“I’m not sure a cat is a good idea for me. I travel a lot.”

“Cats make great travel companions. We take the boys on the road with us whenever we can,” Tim says.

“I’ll think about it.”

The tiny fur ball meows again, and now I’m trying to think of how cute a cactus cat tree would look in my apartment.