The first and only man I’ve ever slept with.
The guy who still makes my skin flash hot.
12
Grant
Baseball is mental.
Once you have the skills, the game is instinct, reaction, practice.
It’s in your mind.
I vow to lean on that as the Cougars take on the Comets, my team against Declan’s.
When he takes to the field in his pinstripe uniform, running to the shortstop position, he doesn’t look my way.
I don’t look his.
That works well for a while.
Then the Comets’ pitcher sends a delicious curveball over the plate in my first at-bat. It’s the first inning, two outs on the board, and I slam a double into right field and pull up at second.
The back of my neck prickles with awareness.
My spring-training fling is twenty feet away. He turns his head, glances in my direction. Those dark eyes of his linger on me for longer than they should.
Look all you want, shortstop. This could have been yours.
And since the game is mental, I swipe him from my mind as the Cougars’ centerfielder comes to the plate.
As Miguel hits a sharp line drive up the middle, I’m sure I’m going to be making my way home. But Declan dives for the ball, scooping it up mere inches from the ground in a killer display of reflexes and skills.
That’s the inning.
“Motherfucker,” I curse under my breath as I walk off the field.
When Declan strides to the plate for his first at-bat in the bottom of the first, I tug down my mask, crouch, and stare only at my pitcher.
Declan takes a few practice swings, and I try, I swear I try, not to look at him.
Not to think of him.
Out of the corner of my eye, though, I can’t help but notice his beard is thicker. He was scruffy before. Now, he’s got a helluva lot more than a five o’ clock shadow. But not grizzly-bear levels. More like just right levels.
I shove that thought away. He’s just like any other opponent.
But when Declan stands in front of the plate and adjusts his batting glove, his gaze drifts to mine once more.
He shoots me the barest of grins, the corner of those lips curving up.
“Hey there,” he says under his breath, just for me. I don’t even think the umpire can hear him.
He says it with a hint of a smile and a trace of memory. It’s as if we’re back in the corridor of the spring training complex.
As if we’re meeting for the first time.
As if we would start over in just this way.
Eyes would lock, the world would go still, and we’d know that this was just the beginning. We’d meet after the game, someplace in New York, and grab a bite to eat, something to drink. We’d flirt, talk, and tease.
He’d invite me over.
I’d say yes.
We’d blot out the world all night long.
Later, we’d tell the story of how we met one day at the plate during a Cougars–Comets game. I was catching, he was hitting, and the rest is history.
In a span of three seconds, I’ve rewritten our love story.
I’ve got to stop this shit.
We don’t have a happy ending. We don’t have a new beginning.
We are over.
I draw a deep, fueling breath and center myself. Then I call for a fastball down the middle, and Declan flies out to center field.
When the inning ends, Crosby catches up to me on the way to the dugout, and we knock fists. “Keep that up. I’ve got a bet to win.”
“I’ve got your back,” I say.
Declan goes hitless in his next at-bat, but a few innings later, his teammates load the bases. At the bottom of the seventh, it’s do-or-die for the Cougars when he comes to the plate.
We’re ahead, but only by one. If Declan knocks in a run, the game is tied. If he hits a hard single, the runners on third and second can score. If we strike him out, though, we keep the lead.
Sullivan, pitching in relief, paces the mound. Declan works the hell out of his at-bat, fouling off pitch after pitch, waiting for just the right one, until he gets to a full count.
This is it.
I lower my hand to call the payoff pitch, and a memory flashes bright and clear—the slider he went deep on last year, the talk of spring training, the play I watched that night in his hotel room.
He can’t hit a slider for shit.
I call for it, and Sullivan blinks, then stares, silently asking if I’m sure.
I nod firmly.
Sullivan fires it off.
Please let me be right.
Declan swings right through it, missing it sharply.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” We lock eyes and he shoots an oh no you didn’t look straight at me.
I smirk. “Better luck next time,” I say, heading off the field.
We go on to win the game.
Later that night, he strides into the pool hall like he’s determined to ignore the fuck out of me too.
But when his eyes find mine, they’re burning hot.
13
Declan
I always make good on my bets.
I take my ribbing like a man too. Crosby gives me a helluva hard time while we play pool, mocking me for my hitless night—as well he should.
It’s the spring training crew, together again, but I’m the odd man out as the lone Comet amid five Cougars—Sullivan, Miguel, Crosby, Chance . . . and Grant.
After an hour or so, Sullivan and Miguel say they’re going to hit a club, and those rookies take off.
And then there were four, just two guys I call friends and my favorite rookie in the whole wide world.
Five and a half months haven’t changed a thing for me.
Time has done nothing to lessen my desire for Grant or dampen my feelings for him.
I’m not entirely surprised I still feel this way. The man hasn’t been far from my thoughts since I landed in New York more than five months ago. But I’m a visual guy, and seeing is believing.
I do believe.
Here I am, mere feet away, and all the feelings have come rushing back. All the longing, all the desire.
All the falling.
My heart beats so damn fast when he’s near.
It’s so hard not to stare at him like he’s the only one. Even with Crosby and Chance around, I can feel a charge between us, reminding me of everything I like about Grant Blackwood. He’s funny, outgoing, gutsy . . .
And he cares.
He cares deeply for people.
I need to get a minute alone with him. The whole evening, my antennae are up like I’m sensing the air or waiting for the perfect pitch. When Crosby and Chance wind themselves up in a debate about the episode of The Office playing on the bar’s TV screen, I see an opening. The guys start googling trivia facts and wander away from the table, and I’ve never been more grateful for Michael Scott.
I waste no time. I turn to Grant, who’s on the other side of the pool table, rubbing chalk on the end of the cue. “What was up with that pitch?” I ask.
He gives me a blank look. “Which one?”
“You know which one. You called for a slider.”
I don’t actually want to talk about the pitch. But you can’t just dive right back into I think about you all the time and all the things we could be. I can’t start this convo by telling him how good he looks, how fast my pulse is spiking, how often he invades my head. So, baseball it is.