# CHAPTER 4: Friend-Zoned at the Finish Line — Bennett's Heart Goes into Extra Innings
Hello, my wonderful readers! Welcome back! How is everyone doing today? I hope you're all cozy and ready for another ride through the messy, hilarious, painfully romantic world of *Just for the Plot*. Today, we're stepping into Bennett's shoes, and let me tell you — this guy is in deep, *deep* trouble. Between a delusional teammate with a flair for the dramatic, a new best friend who has zero filter, and a certain beautiful woman who has no idea she's been living rent-free in his heart for years… well, let's just say this chapter is a masterclass in cringe, butterflies, and fate trying its hardest to give a man a fighting chance. Grab your coffee (or your V8 juice, we'll get to that), settle in, and let's review CHAPTER 4 together!
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Our story opens somewhere far more glamorous than a locker room — well, glamorous if you're into long-necked, spot-covered creatures that slobber. That's right, we're at a PR event at the zoo, and the cameras are rolling as OC — our resident chaos agent in human form — stands before a pen of giraffes, absolutely enthralled. He's putting on a show, marveling at how one of the gentle giants took lettuce straight from his hand with its impossibly long, dark tongue. Honestly, OC looks like a kid at Christmas, and even the director seems pleased enough to call it a wrap for the day.
But OC, being OC, isn't done. His eyes sparkle with that dangerous glint Bennett knows all too well. He floats the idea of one more scene, something he's clearly been cooking up in that theatrical brain of his. The director, wisely, politely declines, offering a "maybe next time" that OC latches onto with a wink and a charmingly menacing, "I'm holding you to that."
As the crew disperses, OC deflates beside Bennett with a heavy sigh and a defeated "Damn it."
Naturally, Bennett has to ask. What was the scene?
What follows is a masterpiece of OC's unhinged creativity. He wanted to reenact *that* scene from *Ghost* — you know the one, with Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze, the pottery, the hands-over-hands, the whispering. But instead of clay? Giraffe feeding. Instead of Patrick Swayze? OC, standing behind Bennett, guiding his hands with lettuce, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.
I'm sorry, what?
Bennett looks at him, and with the patient cruelty of a true friend, delivers the verdict we're all thinking: "You're an idiot."
OC has the audacity to look wounded, insisting that he'd expect that reaction from *Graydon*, the grumpy broody one of the trio, but never from Bennett. Of course, Bennett points out that OC should expect that reaction from *everyone* he tells that idea to. Because, let's be honest, that's not a vision — that's a hallucination.
Before OC can pitch another cinematic fever dream, Bennett's phone buzzes. Two messages. First, from Nolan — the new guy on the team, the one with the crop tops and the god-tier blowjob stories — letting Bennett know he's waiting by the gate to help him pick up his car after the tire change.
The second message makes Bennett's heart do a stupid little flip. It's from Bower. And it's a confession.
She's spilled juice on his carpet. V8 juice, to be exact. And let me tell you, that stuff stains like the devil. She's clearly panicking, having spent an absurd amount of time trying to scrub away the evidence, only to find a faint outline remains. She's heading to the store for more cleaning products, but wanted to confess just in case he found it and thought she'd been stabbed and robbed. Clumsy girl. Sorry. Promise. It'll be gone.
And here's the kicker — the thing that makes Bennett a "fucking fool" — he'd actually *want* her to keep the stain. Because then, every time he walks past that spot, he'd think of her. Pathetic? Probably. But love makes fools of us all. He texts back, keeping it cool: "Don't worry if you can't get it out. It's fine. No biggie."
OC, sensing a shift in Bennett's attention, immediately goes into dramatic girlfriend mode. Arms folded. Pout on. Accusations flying: cheating on me, aren't you? Is it Graydon? Do you two have a secret text thread I'm not in? Because that would just about kill me, you know I'm delicate.
And Bennett, being the good friend he is, reassures him: "I'm not cheating on you, trust me. I can't possibly take on another friend like you."
It's a sweet moment, actually. Because OC is hurting. He's going through it — the trade to the Rogue, the new PR circus, and above all, the silence from his ex, Grace. He thought maybe she'd want to get back together, but the messages are going unanswered, and he can't get her out of his head. Bennett offers the only wisdom he has: maybe that's the best thing for both of you. And as they part ways at the gate, OC calls out a sports farewell with all the grace of a man who's never touched a baseball: "Hit me a home run."
Bennett just grimaces. Yeah, that's not happening. But it's the thought that counts.
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Out in the parking lot, Nolan is waiting in his light blue Porsche Macan. Bennett barely gets his seatbelt on before Nolan floors it, and our hero is thrown back against the seat, white-knuckling the door handle as the electric car launches like a rocket. Nolan grins, completely unbothered, and delivers some truly unhinged commentary about how the acceleration will "blast your dick right off." Bennett, naturally, would prefer to keep his intact. Which somehow devolves into Nolan musing about growing up on a nudist compound and parents walking around "fucking nude as the day they were born." It's a horrifying mental image — until Nolan admits he's joking. Probably.
Right, anyway. Bennett needs to ask something. And he does it in the most awkward way possible. He brings up the girl from the other night. You know, the one who gave Nolan, quote, "the phenomenal blow job."
Nolan's response is nothing short of poetic: "She made me see fucking Zeus, dude. I touched pointer fingers with him just as I came down her throat." It's graphic, it's unhinged, and it makes Bennett realize that Nolan and OC would probably be best friends.
Bennett tries to steer the conversation toward something resembling a normal human inquiry: is he dating her? But Nolan, like a shark smelling blood in the water, latches onto Bennett's discomfort. Why the interest? Looking for a sister? A friend with the same technique? He can tell Bennett exactly where they met, maybe they can scout out the bar and interview the woman about her blow job techniques.
Bennett's face is red as a tomato, and he just drags a hand down his face, exasperated. Finally, the truth slips out: "No, I was just wondering if you were dating anyone." And then, because he can't help himself: "I have a friend that was interested in you, but I told her that you were dating someone."
Oh, Bennett. *Bennett, Bennett, Bennett.*
Nolan's grin is positively wolfish. Interested in me? Well, sure, I'm fucking hot. What's her name? I can tell her you were misinformed and take her out tonight after the game.
Over my dead body, Bennett thinks. And then he comes clean. It's *her*. The girl. The one who makes him nearly hyperventilate over a text message. And she'd asked about Nolan. Nolan, with his stupid crop tops and his stupid abs that the fans can't get enough of.
Nolan, to his credit, understands pretty quickly. And he teases Bennett mercilessly for it, because of course he does. But then he turns serious. Why is Bennett telling him this?
Because Bennett wants to ask Bower to meet him at Maritime after the game tonight. And since Nolan hangs out there all the time, he doesn't want things to be awkward. He wants all the attention on him, pretty much.
Nolan nods, playing along, then asks the million-dollar question: "Are you going to make a move on her?"
"I don't know. I mean, I want to, and I feel like the stars are aligned for that to happen."
So what's the hesitation? And here's where Bennett's heart gets laid bare. She's his sister's best friend. She's known him since he was sixteen. She's *eight years older* than him. And she still sees him as a gangly teenager.
Eight years older? Nolan practically drools. That's hot. What he wouldn't give for an older woman. But then he reins it in, sees the desperation in Bennett's eyes, and offers the only sensible solution: he'll be his wingman. Talk him up. Help her see he's a mature man now.
Bennett insists he doesn't need it. Nolan pats his leg and promises him, with absolute conviction: by the end of the night, Bennett will be going home with her. And not for her to sleep on the couch.
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Fast forward to Maritime, and Bennett is a mess. Literally glistening with sweat. Nolan, the absolute menace, keeps pointing out the various shiny spots on Bennett's face, handing him napkins and telling him to swipe again, and again, and *again* — until Bennett finally cottones on, crumples the napkin, and chucks it at Nolan's stupid handsome face. "Asshole."
Nolan just laughs and tells him to relax. He's coming off a hell of a win, he hit in the winning run, he's surrounded by people who worship him, and the girl he wants to bone is about to walk through that door.
"I don't want to just bone her," Bennett says, and it comes out quiet and fierce, because it's the truth. He wants so much more.
They've claimed the private sitting area in the back — old leather couches around a wooden coffee table, decorated with recycled fishing gear from ocean cleanups. It's charming and unique, the kind of place that tells a story.
And then she walks in.
Time slows down. Bower moves through the bar like she owns it, her hair parted down the middle and curled softly around her shoulders. Jean shorts. Frayed hems. A brown belt. A cropped off-the-shoulder top that hugs her figure just right. Her long lashes blink as she scans the room. Her toned legs carry her closer, closer, toward him. And when her eyes finally find his, a huge smile spreads across her face, and Bennett's brain short-circuits.
"Fuck, dude," Nolan whispers. "You are so fucked."
Yeah. *Yeah*, he is.
Security tries to intercept her, but Bennett speaks up immediately: "She's with me." And then she's in his arms, looping hers around his neck, hugging him tight. Her scent — caramel and pistachio and something he can't quite name — intoxicates him completely. She pulls back, her hand sliding across the nape of his neck, and teases him: "Hey there, Mr. Game Winner."
She watched the game. She *watched* it. And then she calls him "Benny Boo Boo" with that smug little smirk, and he's done for.
They settle onto the couch. She takes his beer and sips it like she's done it a hundred times, because she has. She's always been comfortable around him. Familiar. And that's the problem, isn't it?
Nolan, of course, can't help himself. He introduces himself with all the subtlety of a fire alarm: "Hell, if I wasn't taken, I'd be asking you to sneak back to the bathroom right about now."
Wait — *taken*? Bennett didn't know Nolan was taken. But that's a puzzle for later. Right now, he's just grateful Nolan didn't blow his entire cover. Except he already did. Because Bower laughs it off and delivers the killing blow: "Oh, we're just friends. Isn't that right, Benny Boo Boo?"
*We're just friends.*
Bennett can practically feel Nolan wince next to him. The friend-zone. Declared before the first drink is even finished. And she uses the nickname. He clinks his glass with hers and forces a smile, because honestly, what else can he do?
But Nolan, bless his chaotic heart, refuses to let it die. He launches into a full-blown hype campaign. Good-looking. Killer at the plate. A six-pack that makes every teammate drool. Sure, Bennett says, he works out — but Nolan lifts his shirt and *flashes* his abs at her before he can finish. Bower smirks, delighted. And then Nolan really goes off the rails: "And the dick on this guy... when I say he's the whole package, I mean the *whole* package."
Bennett wants to die. He wants the leather couch to swallow him whole. But Bower, ever composed, just sips her beer and crosses one leg over the other. "Is that right? Then how come you're hanging out with your older sister's best friend rather than calling over one of the many girls who are clearly frothing to get into this space?"
Nolan chuckles, and Bennett can see it in his eyes — the exact moment Nolan gets an evil idea. "Because he has a massive—"
"DONALDSON!"
The shout echoes through the entire bar. Both Bower and Nolan turn to look at him like he's grown a second head. Bennett points frantically toward the bar, where Donaldson, one of their relief pitchers, is oblivious and nursing a drink. "Donaldson... uh, he's calling you over. He wants you, Nolan. Better go see what he wants." And then, under his breath, with a shove: "Take your time."
Nolan knows he's lying. But he goes with it, something unspoken passing between them. Because Nolan wasn't just about to say anything — he was about to shout from the rooftops that Bennett has a massive crush on Bower. And Bennett, quite simply, would have melted into a pile of sweat, never to be seen again.
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With Nolan banished to the bar, it's just the two of them. Bower leans back on the couch, relaxed, comfortable. She calls Nolan "kind of strange but super fucking hot," which is the general consensus, apparently. And then she notices the decor — the fishing nets, the buoys, the lobster cages hanging from the ceiling. Bennett tells her the story: the owner and his crew comb the beaches regularly, pulling debris and pollution from the shores, recycling what they can or hanging it here as a reminder of their mission. A portion of the profit goes back into ocean cleanup.
Bower's eyes light up with genuine appreciation. "Kind of crazy that this was all washed up on the shore."
And then they talk. Really talk. About the game, about his schedule, about how tired he must be. But he tells her the truth: "This is what I wanted. I'm living the dream. I'll never complain when I get to live out what I worked so hard for."
She smiles, softly. "Your sister taught you well."
And Bennett aches. Because if she knew how he felt, and if she felt the same way, this would be different. Her legs would be draped over his. His hand would rest on her thigh, claiming her, letting every other motherfucker in the vicinity know she was off-limits. She'd be whispering in his ear what they'd do when they got back to his place. Instead, she's praising his sister for raising him right.
The conversation drifts to her apartment. She's still staying with him while the painters finish up — she wants to let the fumes air out. Her movers delivered her stuff today, though. All of it in the center of the apartment. They were complaining about her books.
Her *books*. Bennett asks the fatal question: "But you collect them?"
She gasps, mock-offended. "Bennett Brinkman. Of course I collect them. Those are my trophies."
*Trophies.* She calls her books trophies. Every time she finishes one, she puts it on the shelf as proof: "Look what I did. I read a book." That's more than a lot of people can say.
And then Bennett admits the ultimate sin: he can't remember the last time he read a book.
Her hand lands on his chest — *oh god, her hand is on his chest* — and her eyes go wide with passion. "Bennett, we need to change that." And then, with a spark of pure excitement: "We can start our very own book club. How do you feel about bloody hand jobs?"
Bennett blinks. "I, uh... what?"
She backtracks, flustered and adorable. She was getting ahead of herself. She wants a buddy to read with her, and Gabby just isn't the one. If Bennett's willing, she can open his world to romance books, and they can talk about them and analyze all the bloody hand jobs.
He's lost. Completely. "Are there bloody hand jobs in the books you're reading? Also... what is a bloody hand job?"
And she explains — with all the earnestness of a professor lecturing on comparative literature — that it's when the couple uses blood as lubricant instead of spit or lube or, you know, other things. She's never tried it herself, not really into that kind of mess, but she read about it once, ever since Ryland and Gabby first started dating, and it has lived in her mind rent-free ever since. She's been thinking about it for years. It's not healthy! She needs someone to talk to about this stuff. "Please tell me you will be my person."
Her lashes flutter. She wets her lips.
And Bennett knows, with absolute certainty, that if she asked him to walk off a cliff with her, he'd follow. To the inner depths of hell where bloody hand jobs and whatever the hell else she reads exist. He says the words that seal his fate:
"I'll be your person."
"Really?"
That smile. That absolute radiant, sunshine-and-hope smile that stretches across her face.
And Bennett knows he's in love. Completely, hopelessly, catastrophically in love.
She throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around him, hugging him with everything she has. He holds her tight, breathing her in. And over her shoulder, his eyes lock with Nolan at the bar.
Nolan smirks. Then he brings two fingers to his mouth, parts them in a V, and laps his tongue between them.
Fucking. Inappropriate. Man.
But also... if only.
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And that's where we leave them, folks. Bennett, friend-zoned and hopeless, holding the woman he loves in his arms, having just agreed to be her book club buddy in a world of romance novels and bloody hand jobs. Nolan, watching from afar like a very inappropriate guardian angel. And Bower, completely unaware that the "gangly teenager" she's known since he was sixteen has grown into a man who would follow her anywhere — even into the pages of a smutty romance novel.
Until next time, my friends. This story is just getting started.
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**READER'S IMPRESSIONS & STAR RATING:**
Okay, can we just take a moment to appreciate the sheer emotional whiplash of this chapter? One minute I'm cackling at OC's absolutely deranged *Ghost* reenactment pitch (giraffe feeding, I'm crying), and the next minute I'm clutching my chest over Bennett's quiet, desperate confession that he wants more than just to "bone" Bower. This man is *gone*. Completely, utterly gone. And the friend-zone moment? Brutal. Absolutely brutal. When she called him "Benny Boo Boo" and declared them "just friends," I felt that in my soul.
But here's what I love most: Bennett doesn't give up. He doesn't pout or withdraw. He stays. He listens. He agrees to explore her world, even when that world includes blood-as-lubricant romance novels. He becomes her person. That's not a man playing games — that's a man falling deeper and deeper, and I am here. For. It.
Nolan, meanwhile, is a walking HR violation and I kind of adore him for it? The "Donaldson" save was cinema. Pure cinema.
Also, the V8 juice confession from Bower? Adorable. The fact that Bennett wants to keep the stain? *Pathetic and perfect and I'm crying.* The book-as-trophies speech? I felt personally called out and honestly, inspired.
This chapter is a beautiful balance of laugh-out-loud humor and genuine heartache. It's the calm before the storm, and I can feel something big building on the horizon.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.8 / 5 Stars
**NEXT CHAPTER PREDICTION:**
Oh, this is getting good. Nolan has officially inserted himself into the romantic equation, and he's not subtle. I predict that next chapter, Nolan is going to take his "wingman" role way too far — possibly with direct, unhinged interactions with Bower that embarrass Bennett beyond belief. Meanwhile, their conversation in the car left a lingering thread: Nolan mentioned being "taken," which he conveniently never explained. Could that come back around? More importantly, Bower and Bennett's new book club is going to bring them closer, and I suspect a late-night reading session might get... heated. Will Bower start to see Bennett as more than her best friend's little brother? Or will another misunderstanding — maybe involving Grace, OC's ex, or a certain jealous moment at the bar — throw a wrench in everything? I'm predicting a confession scene is coming, and it's going to be messy, chaotic, and absolutely unforgettable. Buckle up, friends.
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