“It’s gonna be good,” I say, the corner of my lips curving into a grin. “I just know it. Gut feeling. I won’t be wrong.”
“Cocky, and I like it. But it might hurt. Just tell me if it does, okay? We can adjust.”
It’s cool that Declan is so caring, but I’ve got this.
“I will, but you know I’m a catcher, right? I’m bruised all over. Every game, I catch more than a hundred baseballs flying at me like rockets. Sometimes I catch them with my knees. I play and live with pain,” I say. “It is literally part of my job.”
“Show off.” Declan laughs, his head falling back into the pillow, his fingers sliding through his hair. “And you know how to crouch for hours too, rookie. So, you can just ride me all night.” Then he lets the laughter fade as he reaches for me, pulls me closer so I’m looking down at him. “All I’m saying is, for all your rough-and-tumble, badass baseball-is-life attitude, sex might be awkward. It might be . . . uncomfortable. But if you tell me how you’re feeling, I’ll do everything I can to make it good for you.” He takes a pause as his gaze bores into mine, vulnerability flashing in his brown irises. “And you can do the same for me the next night when you top me. Deal?”
Best deal ever. “I’m good with that.”
Then he hauls me in for another kiss. Proving what he said earlier. How much he loves kissing me. I can feel it in his lips on mine. In his hands sliding down my back. In the murmurs he makes.
And when we break the kiss, I serve up another piece of my insides to him. “I kinda had a crush on you before I met you.”
His brow rises. “That so?”
“Yeah, you were hot and talented.”
“And am I living up to it? To your crush?”
I stroke my chin, considering. Then shrug a shoulder ever so casually. “Ask me tomorrow night.”
Declan laughs deeply. “Fair enough, rookie. Fair enough.” He glances at the door, but he doesn’t bother to get out of bed, or to check the peephole. He just shoots me a we’re-in-this-together look. “I should stay till the middle of the night,” he says.
“You should.”
“Then, I will.”
Here we go, doing it again, curling up together, his arm draped around me.
Only this time it feels completely intentional.
From both of us.
27
Declan
Emma lifts her golf club, waggles her hips, and stares down the range the next day. “Mark my words, gentlemen. I’m going to hit the one-hundred-yard sign,” she declares.
“Next stop PGA tour,” Fitz announces from his spot next to his sister.
“Don’t bet against me,” she says, then takes aim at the little white ball, whacking the hell out of it. It soars, arcing over the grass at the driving range, then flying high before it lands smack underneath the one-hundred-yard sign.
My eyes bug out. “Whoa. Have you been holding out on me? I didn’t know you were a golf prodigy.”
Laughing, she polishes her nails on her shirt. “I didn’t either. Then I went to the driving range with a friend, and it turned out I was a natural.”
“A friend?” Fitz asks, as he lifts his five-iron. “Is this friend a boy?”
She rolls her blue eyes. “And what if he is?”
I set down my club and wag a finger at her. “Emma, are you seeing someone and forgot to get him approved by your big brother?”
She smacks her forehead. “My bad. I must get all potential dates approved by James.”
“Thank you for remembering the house rules.” He stabs the head of the five-iron against the turf. “Now, I want all the details. Profession? Name? Any criminal arrests? Pets? And is he going to be good to you for the rest of your life?”
His sister cracks up as she drops another ball onto a tee. Since today’s my off day, the three of us decided to snag some time on the range before we grab lunch.
Plus, I won’t be able to catch up with Fitz after the hockey game, since I’m pretty sure my focus post-game will be singular.
Getting Grant naked and under me.
Stat.
But for now, it’s friend time, and Grant is on the back burner of my mind.
Albeit on a simmer.
Or maybe a low heat.
Possibly a medium boil.
“My friend is definitely not going to be good to me for the rest of my life, James,” Emma says, answering. “Because I’m not interested in a forever thing. I just returned from a year studying in England, and I have zero interest in anything serious. But his name is Clint, he works at the Getty, he studied art history, and he’s hotter than Declan.”
I straighten my spine. “How is that possible?”
Fitz cuts in. “So, not very hot, Ems?”
“More like, ‘How did you meet someone at the hotter-than-Mercury level?’ But hey, good on you.” I hold out a fist for knocking and Emma knocks back.
She gives me a saucy wink. “Thank you. You’re a hottie but he’s a hottie-er. And I’m seeing him in LA tomorrow.”
“Ah, so he’s the thing in LA,” I say, sketching air quotes.
“He is definitely the thing.”
We chat more about Emma’s date as we work through a few more rounds. When we’re done, we turn in the clubs, then head to a nearby taco joint for some grub.
As we nosh on chicken tacos, I hunt for just the right spot to drop the news of my date tonight.
My stomach roils though, and it’s not from the spicy salsa.
Why does it feel so strange to say that Grant’s coming with me? Maybe because they’re the first people I’m telling about him? Or maybe because I’ve enjoyed the secret of us.
But possibly, there’s another reason for the churning in my gut.
Exposure.
What it means.
How it’s gone for me in my life.
So far, not so well. I’ve learned when you yank a secret out of the dark and into the light, it dregs up drama along with hurt and shame.
But this thing with Grant is not my past, and I’m not dragging it into the limelight. I’m simply sharing guy news with two good friends who’ll have my back.
Only, Grant hardly feels like other guys I’ve dated. He’s not like Nathan with his empty promises, or Kyle with his lack of boundaries. They’re sepia photographs that faded fast. Grant is vivid, high-definition color, and I can’t look away from him.
And I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack what that means for the end of spring training. The end of our affair.
I lift my iced tea, take a cold drink, and gird myself. “So that extra ticket you gave me to use for the game tonight,” I say in as even a tone as I can muster.
“Yes?” Emma arches a brow.
“I’m bringing a guy.”
Fitz wiggles his fingers. “Serve it up. Who is your spring training hookup?”
I bristle at the term. Grant hardly feels like a hookup. I don’t want to pretend he is. Not with two people I can be honest with. I hate lying to anyone, but especially to my friends. I won’t do it.
“Actually, he’s kind of more than a hookup,” I say and it’s strange to speak those words aloud for the first time, but also . . . not.
That time with Grant last night, talking about baseball, reassuring him, felt like one of the purest moments of my life. The connection between us went deeper, the understanding felt truer than it has with anyone else in the past.
It felt real.
Fitz sets down his fork, leaving his plate of tacos looking lonely. “Dude.”
That one word contains multitudes.
So does the look in his eyes. Concern crossed with curiosity. Maybe he can read my body language and tell this is no ordinary date.
“Who is he?” Emma asks as she squeezes my arm. “Also, you’re in trouble. Why is this the first I’m learning of your new man?”
I swallow roughly. Draw a breath. As I test the words in my mind, they’re so forbidden. Grant is completely off-limits. I’m going to shock th
em. Jaws will drop. Forks will fall.
I shrug, then go for it. “He’s a teammate.”
Emma gasps.
Fitz freezes.
And all I can do is gulp, shrug, and take another bite of my taco, like the food will cover up the enormity of the bomb I dropped in the middle of the table.
Complete with a countdown clock that’s ticking fast to the end of this fling.
After several seconds of stunned silence, Fitz goes first. “For real?”
I give a what-can-you-do shrug. “For real.”
“Wow.” He drags a hand through his hair, processing the grenade.
“Is it serious?” Emma asks in a gentle voice with no judgment.
I scratch my jaw before I answer, my throat tightening. We aren’t serious, Grant and me, so the answer should tumble from my lips.
A quick, fast no.
But no is wrong.
These nighttime trysts have all the ingredients of something serious. They’re the recipe for an off-season affair. Only I’m having it now.
“Not really,” I say hoarsely, but that sounds like a vicious lie. So, I follow it up with something true. “But it feels like it could be.”
Fitz sighs sympathetically. “What are you going to do?”
The next word that comes out tastes like sand. “Nothing.”
That’s the only answer in the whole universe.
There’s nothing I can do about the way I feel for Grant.
And the way my feelings grow stronger every day.
28
Grant
Today is the day, and I am fired all the way up.
Since Declan spent the night—he took off at five—we agreed to skip our morning workout.
Instead, I catch up with the other rookies in the gym for weights and nautilus machines. As I head into the workout facility, I’m already pumped. I’m a Labrador who’s downed two espressos. I’m wired like it’s the playoffs.
I sneak a glance at the clock. Eight-thirty. If the hockey game starts at seven, lasts about two and a half hours, we should be back by ten and in my bed by ten-thirty, so in a little more than twelve hours the rest of the world will disappear.
“Leg day!” Sullivan shouts like a frat guy at spring break, his exuberance palpable.
He breaks me out of my dirty daydream.
“Let’s see who can squat the most,” Miguel challenges as the two strut over to the weight bench. “You in, G-man?”
Is he for real? I tap my chest. “You guys want to take me on in squats?”
The rangy Miguel parks his hands on his hips. “Why not?”
I chuckle, shaking my head as I glance at the outfielder who easily weighs forty pounds less than I do, then the relief pitcher who’s tall and long. “Have at it, bros.”
“No, seriously, I want to know why I can’t take you on in squats,” Miguel pushes.
Sullivan lifts his chin defiantly, but the spark in his eyes says he’s playing dumb. “Yeah, are you a squat guru, G?”
“Allow me to show you,” I say, and I proceed to school the fuck out of my teammates, squatting more weights, more reps, more times.
When I’m done, I rub my thumb and forefinger together. “Do not bet against a catcher when it comes to squats. My entire life is squats,” I say to them, though I’m sure Sullivan was putting on his naïve act.
“Dammit,” Sullivan mutters, smacking the outfielder. “Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Maybe because we’re dipshits sometimes?” Miguel answers.
Sullivan cracks up, big and loud, pointing at Miguel. “Or maybe you are. How the hell did you think you could beat G-man in squats?”
Miguel grumbles. “Maybe because I’m a competitive bastard.”
“Keep that up, especially on the field. And feel free to lay a wager down next time you want to compete with me in the weight room. You might not have noticed, but I’m kind of one of the biggest guys on the team. Catcher and all,” I say as I move on to lunges.
“Yup. And we want a brick wall at the plate,” Sullivan says, switching to deadlifts, then shifting conversational gears too. “Off day. Know what I have going on tonight?”
“A date with your Xbox?”
“A nice, hot bubble bath?” Miguel puts in, and I shoot him a well-played smile.
“Nope,” Sullivan says with a wicked grin. “I’ve got a date with a . . . wait for it . . . thirty-year-old research scientist at the local university.”
“Well done,” I say, since Sullivan loves the brainy ladies. “But how did she find you?”
He clucks his tongue. “Smart women are on Tinder, and they like hookups too.” Then he whispers, “And let me tell you, it has been too long without any action, know what I mean?”
“Do I fucking ever,” Miguel seconds, then tips his chin at me. “But not you, I bet. You’re probably getting it every night on Grindr.”
I scoff. “You think because I’m gay I get laid all the time?”
“Dude, don’t slut shame. That’s not cool,” Sullivan chides.
Miguel cringes. “Is that slut shaming?” The outfielder sounds devastated, and it’s hilarious to watch since I know what’s coming next from my former roomie.
Living with Sullivan in Bakersfield revealed there’s much more to him than meets the eye.
“Actually, slut shaming is criticizing women and girls and often gay men as well for behaviors that might be considered promiscuous,” Sullivan offers clinically, sounding like a Wikipedia entry.
“Did you take a gender studies class or something in college?” Miguel asks.
“My major was psych,” he offers. “Also, straight men are rarely slut shamed for liking sex, or for engaging in behaviors like wearing sexy clothes, so it’s not cool to slut shame women or queer people.”
“I don’t even think he slut shamed, Sully,” I say.
“I know. But now he’ll know what it is,” Sullivan adds in a teacherly tone.
“I love getting more woke,” Miguel says, rapping fists with Sullivan. “So, I am all good with this.”
“Also, I believe everyone should have more sex,” Sullivan says.
“What are you? Like the Santa of sex?” Miguel puts in.
“Maybe I am. Or Oprah. You get sex! You get sex! You get sex! Everybody gets sex!” he says, imitating the TV star handing out cars.
“I will accept that gift,” Miguel adds.
“Also, for the record, I’m not on Grindr so no, I’m not hooking up,” I correct, and it feels good to say that. Sure, I was into quick hookups in college, but right now I’m definitely not.
However, I’m absolutely into whatever is happening tonight with the shortstop.
“So, what are you doing tonight then, G-man? Bubble bath for you and a good book?”
Oh shit.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I go deeper into the lunge, hoping the weights cover up the flare of embarrassment.
“Going to a hockey game,” I say, as evenly as I can. Do I add with Declan?
Would that be weird? Or weirder if I don’t mention him? But what if they see us leave together? Ah, hell, I’ve got to say it, and I’ve got to remember there’s nothing wrong with going to a hockey game with a teammate. “Sweet! I heard New York was in town. I’m jelly. Good seats?” Miguel asks, as he drops down into another squat.
“Definitely. Center ice,” I say, wincing as the half-truths roll off my tongue.
Miguel’s dark eyes twinkle. “Got extra?”
Ah hell.
I can’t hide this.
“Don’t think so. Fitzgerald got them for us. Declan is tight with Fitz’s sister, so I’m going with the two of them.”
Please don’t ask anything more.
“Got it,” Miguel says, then launches into dead lifts. “You and Declan?”
My pulse spikes. Tension tightens my bones.
But Sullivan cuts in with a side-eye at Miguel. “They’re friends. Don’t make assumptions.”
Miguel hol
ds up his hands in surrender. “I’m cool with whatevs.”
I clench my jaw, hating assumptions, hating when other people try to tell your story, hating it even more when they get it right.
“We’re friends,” I say. “Just like I’m friends with you guys.”
That ought to make it clear, even though that’s a bald-faced lie.
One that twists my gut.
When I’m back in my room, I need to find a way to untie the knot in my stomach, or it’ll weigh me down. And I think I know how to do it. I grab my phone, and text Reese.
* * *
Grant: You around for a call?
* * *
Reese: For you? Anytime.
* * *
I ring her in a split second.
“That was fast. Are you okay?” she asks.
I sigh heavily. After lying through my teeth, I’m pretty sure I’m about to vomit up the truth. Like my insides are heaving, and I need to puke out all the words, I hurl them up at my best friend. “I’m having a thing with Declan. He’s incredible, and we’ve been getting together every night, and I’m out of my mind for him.”
Silence comes first, then it’s chased by a long, intrigued ohhh.
“Really?” She sounds excited, and her tone buoys me. “How did this happen?”
“We started working out together and talking.” As I flop onto the couch, I tell her nearly everything.
“Wow. That kind of sounds . . . amazing,” she says, but there’s a hitch in her voice, like she knows this can’t end well.
Dropping my head in my hands, I sink farther into the couch, dread stalking through my veins. “He’s . . . just . . . soooo . . .”
I can barely talk. I can hardly put into words the enormity of what’s happening to me all at once. My career is shooting sky-high, I’m on the cusp of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to catch my first Major League game in less than two weeks, if I make the roster, and I’ve got a massive thing for this guy.
Scoring With Him Page 19
