“That’s a one-eighty.”
“Yeah, but I still want to know. It’s not true, is it?”
I grin, slow and easy. “Why ever would you say that?”
Grant hums, like he’s deep in thought, then taps his temple. “See, I replayed that pitch in my head. And I remembered the pitcher hesitated, that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t throw you his best slider. So, I found the clip on YouTube while I was waiting for you in the room.” I keep a straight face as Grant continues assembling the clues. “He threw you a cement mixer slider. That ball was begging you to hit it. And it became legend. But it wasn’t because you’re an evil genius with sliders. It was a bad pitch that you went yard on.”
Letting go of his hand, I slow clap. “Well, aren’t you just a regular Sherlock Holmes. Figuring me out.”
“And now the whole damn league thinks you’re Hank Aaron at the plate and you eat sliders for breakfast.”
I blow on my fingernails. “Yeah, they do. But guess what?” I say, leaning closer to him, lowering my voice.
“Tell me,” he says, curiosity dripping in his tone.
“I will but you can’t tell a soul.”
“Oh. Do you want me to sign an NDA?”
“You are my NDA.”
Grant wiggles his finger for me to serve up the goods. “What’s the deal?”
“I mean it. Don’t share this, okay?”
He rolls his eyes. “Who the hell am I going to share it with?”
I give him a look like the answer is obvious. “Your team.”
Grant raises a palm like he’s taking an oath. “I won’t tell anybody.”
“They’re my weakness,” I whisper. “Can’t hit ’em for shit.”
He whistles in appreciation. “What do you know? The great Declan Steele has a weakness.”
I level him with a stare, then speak from the bottom of my heart. “You’re my weakness, rookie.”
A tingle rushes down my chest as I say those words, then along my whole body when he whispers back, “You’re mine.”
I take his hand again, rubbing the pad of my thumb over his knuckles. “It’s going to be hard waiting till November.”
“I know,” Grant says heavily, then perks himself up. “But hey, I have a long list of things I want to do with you in bed. We only got through four. Four. I want so much more than four.”
A zip of pleasure slides down my spine. “Tell me.”
“Well, rim jobs. Giving and getting. As you know,” he adds.
“And I can’t wait.”
“Sixty-nine. I definitely want to do that. Because what’s better than one blow job? Simultaneous blow jobs.”
“I’m down for it.”
“And,” he says, taking a beat, letting a rumble slide past his lips, “I really want to flip fuck. I’m kind of obsessed with it. Always have been.”
Images flicker past my eyes, him and me, taking turns. I have him first, he takes me next. We trade off in the same night. After I linger on those pictures, I tell him something I think he’s really going to like. “I’ve never flip-fucked with anyone.”
His eyes widen. “Yeah? You’re serious?”
“Never have.”
Grant’s tone borders on desperate. He stretches his hand across the table and holds my face. His thumb strokes my jaw. “Save it for me.”
“I will. I want to with you,” I say, then I let out a heavy breath as he lowers his hand. “Grant, it’s going to be hard not talking to you. Not seeing you.”
“But we need to,” he says, eyes locked with mine, gaze serious.
He’s right. I know he’s right. But still. I want what I want. “Do we, though?”
He crooks his lips at the question. “Do we what?”
“Do we really have to go cold turkey?” I ask, reaching for something, anything. My desperate heart doesn’t want to go without him. “What if we talked? What if we FaceTimed? What if we Skyped? Maybe not during spring training. Maybe you need to figure out what’s going on over the next few days. But I don’t know that I can go six months without you. Why can’t we Skype and FaceTime?”
Grant doesn’t answer because River arrives with the food. “Bon appétit,” he says.
“Thanks, River,” I say, but I don’t pick up my fork. Neither does Grant.
“You really want to do that?” the man across from me asks. “Long distance?”
“Better than nothing.” But I don’t want to make things worse. I don’t want to get in his head. I wave my hand, like I can lighten the mood. “Think about it. I don’t want to put any pressure on you. But the truth is, I’m going to miss you so fucking much. And a little bit of Grant is better than none.”
“Deck, you know I’ve never been able to say no to you. You know I’ve never been able to resist you,” he says, laying out his truth.
“I’m glad, because you’re irresistible,” I say, then I pick up my fork and we eat.
When we’re done, I pay the bill, and then we tell River goodbye and return to the room to spend our last night together for six long months.
He rises at four in the morning, kisses me hard, then says he’s catching a Lyft. “I should get back to the team hotel.”
I drag him close—one more kiss for the road—then I gird myself to say something I’d rather not say. But I know my dad’s right. And it’d be wrong not to tell Grant.
“In the last couple games,” I say, “your weight was too far back on your knees. Shift forward maybe a millimeter. Like you usually do.”
Grant’s smile is easy and carefree as a bird soaring across the bright blue sky. “You’re right. I’ll do that today.”
He leaves.
A little later, I head to the airport, but I stop in my tracks when I spot a TV playing a report on the Cougars on The Sports Network. Grant’s passed ball yesterday blazes across the screen.
38
Declan
I adjust the bill of my Hawks ball cap as I watch the report. My stomach curls, but it’s like an accident on the side of the freeway and I can’t look elsewhere.
A woman’s crisp voice blares from the overhead screen at my gate.
“The San Francisco Cougars are shaking things up at spring training. Yesterday evening, we broke the news of star shortstop Declan Steele’s trade to New York, and now our sources are saying it’s no longer a neck-and-neck race between rookie Grant Blackwood and league veteran Jorge Rodriguez for the starting catcher slot. The veteran backup just might be pulling away from the new guy. A couple of wobbly games both at the plate and behind it will do that to you. Now it’s looking like Rodriguez just might come out of spring training on top.” She takes a long pause, stares at the camera. “And that the rookie might be sent back to Triple-A for some more time in the minors. Back to you, John.”
Gritting my teeth, I tear my gaze away from the screen of doom, my chest knotted, my muscles tenser than a courtroom waiting for a verdict.
I head to the jetway as the gate agent calls for my group, then make my way onto the plane.
Sinking down in the cushy leather seat, I grab my phone, and google Grant.
The first hit is a sports blog, It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over.
A headline from yesterday says it’s a toss-up between Grant and Rodriguez. But today’s post says the slot is the veterans to lose.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
I’ve had bad games in spring training. Hell, I had bad games my first time there. I still made it.
But . . .
I wasn’t up against a solid vet who’d put in the time as a backup. Dragging a hand down my face, I read on.
With every word, regret swirls in my gut.
I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved.
I told Grant not to get involved.
I said make sure you have no distractions.
And what did I do? Broke all the rules. I put myself in his path. I let my attraction get the better of my reason. I let my desire overrule my logic. I knew this could h
appen especially to him.
Me? I’ve been wearing blinders since I was a kid.
But Grant is all new. I should have kept my distance. Resisted temptation.
I curse under my breath, bang my head against the headrest, and close my eyes.
Should have, would have, could have.
I fucking did it.
Rubbing my temples, I open my eyes, click on my messages, and scroll to his name.
All my instincts tell me to send him a text. Tell him he’ll do great. All he has to do is keep his eye on the ball.
But I’d just be distracting him then, wouldn’t I?
I don’t write to him about the news report. As much as I want to reassure him, it won’t do him an ounce of good. I power down my phone as my gut twists and my heart tears in half.
39
Declan
The flight from Phoenix to Tampa is four hours. I spend them all worrying.
That’s four hours contemplating Grant’s future.
I should be sleeping. Resting up after last night when I didn’t get much slumber. But I have no regrets. Unlike Grant, I’m not on the chopping block.
I wish there were something I could do for him. Some way to help him, to protect him.
But when the plane lands, I have to do what I came here to do.
Play ball. We have an afternoon game, and I need to be One-Track Steele.
That mentality has gotten me through the majors, brought me to where I am today—safe and sound from my past, and far away from the men who belong in the rearview mirror.
Far away from the damage.
Including the damage I’ve done.
I get off the plane, sling my carry-on over my shoulder, walk to baggage, and wait for my suitcase.
As the carousel goes ’round, my phone pings with a text.
My heart skips a beat with the wish that it’s from Grant. But when I open the messages, it’s my group chat with Crosby and Chance.
* * *
Crosby: Going on record now. I’m going to finish the season with more homers and RBIs than you, and when I do, you’re gonna buy me a beer in New York at the Sports Network Awards.
* * *
Declan: And you can buy me an iced tea when I school you.
* * *
I’m about to put the phone away when I sense an opportunity. The guys are my friends. They’ll hopefully be Grant’s friends for a long time to come. No reason they can’t look out for him now, especially with the news reports circulating. Hell, I looked out for him as a friend. It’s time to pass the mantle.
I write back.
* * *
Declan: In all seriousness though, can you guys look out for Grant for the next week? I know he’s nervous AF about the starting catcher job and maybe getting sent down. Take him out tonight, or grab a bite with him or something, okay? I’d appreciate that.
* * *
Crosby: We’ll have his back.
* * *
Chance: Um . . . Declan . . .
* * *
I wince at those two words. That can’t be good.
* * *
Declan: Spill.
* * *
Chance: You know we have the same agent, Grant and me?
* * *
Declan: I didn’t know that, but okay. What does that mean?
* * *
Chance: Crosby and I just ran into her after we finished our workout.
* * *
My pulse skyrockets. My nerves tighten as I write back.
* * *
Declan: And what does that mean?
* * *
As the dots wiggle on the screen, I glance at the luggage belt. I spot my bag coming around.
* * *
Chance: She’s here at the complex. But she didn’t come to see me. She’s here to see someone else and she wouldn’t say who. The thing is . . . she usually only shows up in person like this, unannounced, if she needs to let someone down.
* * *
My heart sinks—a hard, heavy weight. No way. No way can this be happening.
* * *
Declan: Look, if he gets sent down, just remind him it’s not the end of the world. It’s happened to plenty of others, and he’ll have another shot.
* * *
Crosby: Of course, man. We’d do that anyway.
* * *
Chance: We’ll look out for the rookie. He’s a good one.
* * *
Declan: He is.
* * *
I thank them, close the thread, and curse under my breath. I march over to grab my bag, and a few minutes later, I’m in the black limo the New York Comets sent for me.
The driver’s chatty, wanting to talk shop, discuss predictions for the season. I don’t have many, but I offer any tidbits I know about this team, mostly to take my mind off Grant. I finish with, “I hope to take them all the way back to the World Series and to bring the trophy home.”
When I reach the ballpark, I ask the driver to drop my bag at Brady’s house where I’ll be staying, not far from the Tampa complex.
The driver says he will, then I get out, head into the vaunted home of the New York Comets, and breathe in the history of this epic team. I reach the locker room, say hello to some of the guys who I know from playing against them, then button up the blue and white uniform they have waiting for me.
Number eighteen, just like I had in San Francisco.
It’s good to be treated like baseball royalty. Once more, my heart thumps painfully as I think of Grant.
He deserves to be baseball royalty. He deserves to be treated well. He’s so damn talented.
But what’s the best path for that?
What can I do to help him?
A dark thought flickers through my head, but I shove it away.
I trot out to the field, ready to join my team for batting practice before the game, when my eyes laser in on a familiar set of shoulders.
Is that . . .?
No. It can’t be. Not here. Not now.
I peer over, narrowing my eyes at the back of a man.
He’s in the first-base seats, leaning over the side, chatting with the players.
My chest craters, my heart slamming to the ground as my skin prickles cold and clammy when he turns around.
His eyes find mine.
A man from my past.
In one cruel second, everything I tried to put behind me breaks away. My past lurches viciously forward, spilling into my present, landing smack-dab in the middle of my new life.
40
Grant
The next day
* * *
Haven calls.
I hit ignore.
I’m not in the mood to talk.
Not one bit.
I need zero distractions. Need to get in the zone. This is it—do or die. The job is on the line. Coach is giving me one last chance and it’s time to go balls to the wall.
I’m not in the mood to talk. Not to anyone. Not after the text I got late last night.
Sullivan walks behind me, stops to clap me on the back. “You’ve got this,” he says.
“Thanks,” I mutter, powering down my phone, stuffing it in the back of my locker, as if that’ll erase the sting of the message.
I shove it far, far away.
I need to get away from the text. Must erase it from my mind.
With a clenched jaw and a rapid heartbeat, I make my way out of the locker room and head straight to the diamond.
Keep your head in the game.
My grandfather’s words play on a loop in my mind.
I have to play my heart out and my ass off.
Baseball is mental and I will laser in on the pitcher, the plays, the ball.
When stray thoughts try to enter my mind, I will swat them away like flies. Kill them dead. I picture the arrow on my chest. My reminder to focus on my goals.
But I don’t need the talisman for that today. I need protection from the people who let you down. The arrow is my arm
or today.
I take batting practice, and once it’s time for the matchup, I crouch behind the plate, pull down my mask, and call the first pitch.
The Las Vegas Coyotes batter swings and misses.
Like that, I set the tempo and give the signs. My pitcher retires the side for a flawless first inning.
In the dugout, I stare straight ahead the whole time, seeing nothing, thinking nothing. No one talks to me. No one says a word. I refuse to let my mind meander to what’s in my locker.
When it’s my turn at the plate, I shift my weight back the slightest bit like I usually do, like I’ve done my whole life, and thwack—I knock in a runner.
Take that.
I know how to fucking play.
Soon, we return to the field, shutting the Coyotes out until the fifth inning, when our pitcher gives up a walk, then a single.
They’ve got a runner on first and second when the cleanup hitter comes to the plate, takes a few swings, then gets in the box.
I call for a curveball, and it drops at the corner. The batter takes a massive swing at it, connecting with a loud crack, sending a line drive out to left field. It’s a double, for sure, and the runner on second goes full throttle to third, the base coach waving him home.
Oh, no you don’t.
Not on my watch.
Scoring With Him Page 26
