That was the day before Declan left.
At the time, he was amazing.
Is he still?
I don’t know.
That day feels like a million years ago.
And like yesterday at the same damn time.
At the event at the Luxe Hotel, I catch a glimpse of Declan in the crowd. Some things do stay the same—like the way my skin heats when I see him. Because damn, does he wear the hell out of a suit.
It’s midnight blue and fits him like a dream.
But I blink away those thoughts as Haven joins me in the reception area with a handsome photographer by her side. Empirically handsome, that is, with his California surfer looks—shaggy dark blond hair and hazel eyes that made men and women alike swoon when he was on the field.
And off, I imagine.
He’s Asher St. James, the former American soccer star and one of the best-known out players, who’s now the it photographer.
“Smile for the camera, Mr. Hotshot,” he says, snapping a shot of Haven and me.
“We should grab one of the two of you for the Alliance since you’re both doing such great work for it,” Haven points out. “Want me to take one?”
Asher flashes one of those megawatt smiles in her direction. “As if I’d let anyone touch this baby,” he says, stroking his camera possessively. “But don’t worry, Grant. I can take fantastic selfies. You’ll look as gorgeous as you always do.”
I laugh. “Thanks. I’m sure you will as well,” I say, returning the compliment. Asher is one of those guys who doles out flattery like party favors. He snaps a selfie of the two of us, then says he’ll text it to me later.
I give him my number, put my phone away, and head into the spacious hall where the awards take place.
As I make my way toward the second row, I spot Declan seated in the middle by the aisle. Just a quick glance at the cut of his shoulders and the swoop of his hair makes my breath catch.
Just like it did last time I saw him.
Will it always be like this?
For the rest of my damn life?
As if he senses me, his head turns. His eyes sail up to meet mine. His lips curve into that sexy grin.
And he mouths Hey, there as I walk past him.
Yeah, it might be like this for the rest of my life, and I don’t know how to deal with the overdose of emotions—desire, want, hurt, longing, regret—I feel when I’m near him.
But I don’t have time to deal with that now.
And an hour later, I win Rookie of the Year.
It’s more thrilling than I expected, but the best part is the way the news spreads online when the event ends.
My social media feed goes wild with young athletes thanking me for being out and congratulating me on being the first openly gay baseball player to win the award.
It’s humbling and amazing.
It’s more than I ever expected to happen—both the award and the way others are reaching out to me. I don’t know any of them, of course. But I also feel like I know them all. I know their struggles and their joys too.
As I walk up Park Avenue, phone in hand, I reply to as many as I can, thanking them for their support.
I’m even more grateful that I’m meeting Declan at his apartment rather than at a bar or restaurant. There’s no way I could have a private conversation with him in public right now.
There’s no way I want to either.
When I arrive at his building, those nerves dock in me again.
I stare up at the sky, drawing a deep, fueling breath before I walk into the unknown, hoping like hell I can make it out alive.
Without getting burned.
Without getting hurt or losing everything I’ve built for the last seven months.
“Hi, I’m here to see Mr. Steele,” I say to the doorman. “I’m—”
The goateed man in the maroon uniform waves me through. “Come in. He’s waiting for you. He’s on the eleventh floor.”
Pride flickers in me, knowing I am on some sort of list Declan gave the building.
Maybe he even gave it to them a week ago, then counted down the hours till now. That’s exactly what it’s been like for me.
I’ve been waiting for him.
Once I reach his floor, I take off my jacket and sling it over my arm as I look around the hallway, take it all in. A sleek and modern building with gray walls lined with modern art prints. He walks this hall every day. Sees these frames every night.
This is where he’s been since he left spring training.
I glance at the walls, then the carpets. Have other men walked down this hall to his place? Has he been with anyone? How would I even ask him? Hey, Deck, how’s New York been treating you? Gotten any dick lately?
I clench my jaw. My chest thrashes with jealousy. All at once, images pummel me—his life, his nights, his dates.
I stop, inhale deeply, try to talk back to the storm of emotions raging in me.
I don’t know what his life’s been like. I don’t know a thing about what he’s been up to since he split with me. All I have to go on are two phone calls and a few minutes in the bathroom at a pool hall when he told me he studied English lit in college.
That means I’ll need to stay in control of the conversation. Keep it light and easy.
I can do that, even though my skin tingles the closer I get to his place. My pulse beats a little faster.
My body is a dog on a leash, tugging me along.
The dog wants what’s on the other side of the door.
Must stay cool.
When I reach the corner apartment, I lift my hand to knock, but Declan’s already opening the door, and he’s waiting—jacket off. Tie loosened. Eyes only for me.
Like he was in Arizona.
The difference, though, is he’s not only looking at me with hunger, but with hope too. And I’ve no idea what the hell I’m going to do with it.
Or how I’m ever going to stay cool with him.
16
Declan
I rehearsed.
Practiced in front of the mirror and all.
Given my speckled history with public speaking, I didn’t want to leave a word to chance.
I recited all the words.
And I also recited the nine short lines of Robert Frost’s Fire and Ice over and over today.
I did it this morning.
I did it this afternoon.
I did it when the doorman buzzed to tell me that my visitor was on his way up . . .
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
But as soon as the door closes, everything I planned to say falls from my mind. So do the other seven lines of that poem I’ve known by heart since I was a freshman.
Who could blame me?
Grant Blackwood is in my home. My heart lunges at him. My brain is like mushy peas.
“Come in,” I say, even though he’s already here.
Hey words, nice time to vacate my head.
After he sets his suit jacket on a chair near the door, he takes off his shoes. Mine are off too. Then, the sexy catcher strides across the hardwood floors, looking around as he tugs at his teal blue tie, the perfect color for those eyes. “Nice pad,” he says as he loosens the neckwear a bit.
“Yeah, it’s got a good view.”
Not of hyacinths.
His gaze drifts to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and he points at the view of the New York night. “Is that . . . the East River?”