“You know, faking a smile won’t make you any less legit,” Christine comments, offering me a handful of popcorn. “It might just make some people think you’re actually enjoying yourself a little.”

I accept it with the slightest of glowers, settling into my plastic seat a little lower as I pop a few of the kernels in my mouth. They taste good, even if my guilt trigger is immediately activated by them. Salts and carbs are bad, right?

Then again, we’d gone through a serious amount of wine last night, so I think the damage has already been done.

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

“No, you won’t,” Christine snorts, throwing a couple of the popcorn bits at my head.

One of them sticks to my auburn hair, thrown back in a loose plait that day. I pick it out of the long tail and after a moment of consideration, pop it in my mouth. Mm, salty goodness.

“Hey, I’m making an effort by being here, alright?”

And I am, even Christine couldn’t argue that. She gives me a long look but doesn’t say a word, instead diverting her attention to consider everyone around us. The stands are packed, a decent turnout for a Mets-Padres game. Or so I presume. I pull my baseball cap – the one that Christine made me buy, with the Mets logo front and center – lower over my eyes and focus on the popcorn and staring right ahead, waiting for the game to start.

Or end.

“Ooh, he’s cute,” Christine says, nudging me in the ribs and kicking me out of my self-imposed solitude.

She is craning her neck, looking over her shoulder at a pack of guys that have just come and sat down behind us. We are pretty far down in the stands, behind one of the VIP boxes, and that thing was still empty. I hoped it would remain that way so I could prop my legs up on the railing.

I glance in the direction to where Christine was motioning and pursed my lips slightly. They are cute, sure, if you are into the jock-y, big, brutish and muscular type. Which Christine definitely is.

Me? I usually go for the tall, quiet and nerdy type. Admittedly, it hasn’t done so well for me thus far, but at the moment I am not exactly interested in any male attention. It was the first thing Christine pointed out when seeing the oversized jersey and worn jeans I am wearing to the game.

“Hey, ladies,” one of the guys says, leaning forward to our seats.

I’m practically blinded by the white gleam of his perfect row of teeth. Christine giggles appreciatively, putting on her usual routine of the clueless female that works so well on that type of guys. Watching her is like watching art being made right in front of you. It’s sort of amazing.

She twirls a strand of hair around her finger and bites her lower lip, immediately capturing the attention of the guy. He props his elbows up on Christine’s chair and she twists around in it to face him better, looking all wide-eyed and innocent. She isn’t one or the other, but I’m not about to comment on it.

Let her have her fun.

“So what are you ladies up to today? Big Mets fans?” he asks, and the two of them launch into quick dissection of the Mets’ performance this season.

I don’t even know the meaning of half the words they’re using, so I think it’s better if I stay out of this one.

I grab another handful of popcorn and sink even lower, to the point where my cap was basically level with the backrest of the chair. Busy thinking about what the case might bring, and also busy guilt-tripping myself about not being in the library, doing my research, I almost miss when the VIP box fills in front of me.

Guess I won’t get to relax during the game after all, because the seat in front of me is about to be filled with a man who I can only roughly refer to as a mountain. A really hot mountain, which sort of throws the imagery out of the window, but whatever.

The players had already run on the field and they’d been going through the pre-game motions. Just as the two men walked into the VIP box, the first pitch is called. Distracted by the pitch, the guy about to sit down whips around quickly, spraying his beer in a wide arc… directly on me.

I gasp, sputtering as I sit up straight, staring with mortification at my jersey. It’s more like a wet t-shirt contest at this point, the fabric doing nothing to hide me. The outline of my breasts and the white bra I’m wearing underneath is glaringly obvious and when I look up, shock painted on my face, I see the guy with the mostly empty beer, and another man who looks eerily similar to him, staring at me transfixed.

For a moment, I feel entirely stuck, like time decided to loop for a moment and present me with the same damn moment once more. It takes me a good few seconds to realize that their attention has shifted from my general being, to my now-exposed tits.

“Shit,” I mutter, clamping my arms across my chest.

“Shit,” the guy with the beer echoes, giving his cup a glare as if it was its fault that he’s a clumsy jackass. “I’m so sorry, Miss,” he says, producing a cloth handkerchief – who has one anymore!? – and tries to dab at the carnage.

I’m beet red at this point and the silence around me sort of tells me that everyone’s attention in the near vicinity is squarely on me and the two incredibly hot men, who are very busy making asses out of the three of us.

“Jesus Christ, Troy, could you watch what you’re doing,” the other man says, though I don’t miss the slight smile he wears as he pulls his - friend? brother? – back by the arm before he can press his big palm against my breasts one more time.

To Troy’s credit, he looks about as mortified as I am, so that makes two of us not seeing the humor of the moment. It’s a small, but not insignificant relief.

I’m sitting up now, the popcorn still scrunched in my hand, while my arms are crossed over my chest. Christine’s looking at me wordlessly, still leaning into her new friend, who’s wearing a slight frown of confusion on his face. I scramble to get up, absolutely horrified by the situation, and jostle past Christine. As soon as I get to the aisle, I sprint up, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

“God dammit, you see what you did now?” the familiar voice echoes behind me.

I don’t look back.

By the time I make it up to the commons area and am looking for a bathroom where I could hopefully use a hand dryer to dry off my shirt, I suddenly feel surrounded. Turning around, I come face to face with the two men from before, or make it face to chest.

They’re really big.

I look up and I have to push back my cap a little to see them both. Their similarity is even more striking now, both with brilliant green eyes, blond hair and I’d go so far as to say your good old-fashioned boy next door looks… if the boy next door got really hot as he grew up and started hitting the gym like nobody’s business.

My mouth’s immediately dry, my stomach in knots, and all my usual eloquence is thrown out the window.

“I’m real sorry about that,” Troy says, flipping the cup of beer into the closest trash can.

“You have to excuse him, my brother’s easily distracted by the Mets fucking up their first pitch,” the other man says, wearing an easy, amused smile.

I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or if they’re really both looking at me the way I think they are – like they’re undressing me where I stand, even if dozens of people push past us constantly. I think I see a couple of them notice the guys and whisper amongst themselves, pointing – men and women alike.

I get why women would look at them – I mean, I would, given a chance where I thought they wouldn’t notice me staring. But the guys? Whatever, New York City’s a liberal kind of place and I absolutely won’t deny anyone their preferred man-candy.

Except maybe myself.

“It’s fine, really, I’ll just go get cleaned up,” I mutter, turning my back to them and starting my search for a bathroom again that doesn’t have a half an hour waiting line.

“You’ll never find an open bathroom here,” the one with the maddening smile says as they both fall into step with me.

Before I can protest, he’s looped his arm around my shoulders and guides me off the beaten path, to an area that has arrows pointing towards VIP lounges.

“Hey, w-“

“It’s the least we can do,” Troy adds, flashing a badge at a security guard, who nods blankly and lets us through.

They cart me towards a bathroom and when Troy’s brother takes his arm from around my shoulders, I sort of miss the warmth of it. Hell, I might have been leaning against him a little, which honestly is just adding insult to injury. Apparently I can’t even trust my body to be on my side, because every time I look at these guys, my pussy throbs a little.

“You can clean up in there,” Troy says, with his brother lurking deeper into the VIP lounge for a moment, before returning with a Mets white wife-beater and handing it to me.

“Thanks,” I manage to muster.

“Don’t tell anyone, but we’re actually Padres fans,” he says in a conspiratory way, giving me a wink for good measure.

I nod, looking at the shirt in my hand, before giving them one more look. They’re… well, I can’t really describe what they are. Tall? Yes. Incredibly hot? Yes. Dripping with masculinity and testosterone? Hell yes.

I swallow dryly and push through the bathroom door, being greeted by polished granite basins, mood lighting, a hint of perfume and perfect cleanliness. This is definitely not one of your average baseball stadium bathrooms.

“Holler if you need some help, honey,” one of them calls, and I bristle just a little.

I keep my tongue behind my teeth, though. It’s not like I could deal with this situation getting any more awkward than it already is.

The urge to drop my back against the wall and take a few breaths occurs to me, but I fight it off, instead focusing on changing and cleaning up. I feel lightheaded and like I’ve lost my capacity of thought, but the longer I’m removed from my two hunky nuisances, the less I feel the effects.

By the time I’m wearing the clean shirt and have my cap back on, I almost feel human.

When I step outside, expecting the brothers – twins, I presume – to be gone, I’m greeted by two grinning faces, and a big hand pushing a cup of frothy beer in my hands. At the same time, Troy snatches the damp jersey away from me and throws it across his shoulder, immediately putting a hand on my lower back to start guiding me back towards the stands.

“Come on, we’re missing the game. I’ll get that thing dry cleaned for you so you won’t have to worry about it.”

“Least we can do,” the other brother adds.

“Hey, what the hell?” I finally protest.

I step forward and turn to face them, clutching the beer awkwardly with two hands. The twins share a look between them and for the life of me, I can’t decipher it. When they look back at me though, I feel that same familiar discomfort of feeling like I’m unraveling at the seams under the intensity of their gazes.

These guys should come with a warning label. And an impact radius marker.

“What’s wrong?” Troy asks, quirking a brow.

Yeah, what is wrong?

Am I uncomfortable because they’re assuming that they can boss me around? Or is it because whenever one of them touches me, I feel like my skin’s on fire, and I haven’t felt like that in… well, maybe ever?

Or maybe it’s just that they’ve managed to trample on my pride a little and I’m very protective of it these days. There’s only so many times a woman can give her fate in someone’s hands, only to have it stepped on, before she becomes paranoid.

I open my mouth and close it again like a fish out of water. The twins look entirely nonplussed, if mildly amused by it and their smugness makes my nostrils flare.

Okay. I’m done being the nice girl.