And I still pushed.
I still prodded.
I said give me more.
“Do we really have to go cold turkey? What if we talked? What if we FaceTimed? What if we Skyped?” I’d asked him.
More, gimme more.
I’m just like my father, asking for more than I’ve earned. More than I deserve.
I knew Grant wouldn’t turn me down. That I’d get everything I wanted, no matter the cost to him.
There is no room for love and baseball as a rookie.
Only baseball.
I am a distraction.
My heart caves in on itself, aching with what I’m about to do. Grant won’t, so I’ll have to.
Returning to my messages, I check the time. It’s after midnight on the east coast, a few hours earlier in Arizona. I type out the rest of the text to Grant. If I get on the phone with him, I’ll cave. If I call him, I’ll tell him everything.
Because he’s the one I want to call for advice.
He’s the one I want to ask for help.
He’s the one.
But I can’t lay my burdens at his feet where they’ll trip him up.
I have to be strong.
Make a clean break.
It’s all I can do. It’s all I’m good at, anyway.
I finish the message.
* * *
Declan: This is killing me, Grant. You have to know. But making plans was a mistake. We can’t do this. Any of this, including November. Miami is a bad idea.
* * *
I schedule my phone to send it in thirty minutes, then I get to work cleaning up the broken glass of my life.
I don’t trust my father. I don’t trust him to stay away from me, from my teammates, from baseball. I need him far, far away. As he sleeps, I make plans. I call Barry, my dad’s cousin in Oakland, and ask if he’ll take him in as they focus on the shop.
Barry says he will, and I buy a plane ticket as we talk. He’ll pick my dad up tomorrow at the Oakland airport.
Thirty minutes later, I set my phone to do not disturb except for my six-thirty alarm.
The next morning when I turn on my phone there are no messages.
No missed calls.
But then, the do-not-disturb option on my phone never shows missed calls. I shake my head now, disgusted at myself for hoping for a missed call.
If I’m making a clean break, Grant probably is too.
But hell, does it ever hurt, this silence.
I suppose I ought to be grateful for it. If Grant had called, he might have tried to talk me out of breaking things off. If I heard his voice, I’d give in. Go back.
In a heartbeat.
I can’t. I just can’t. I’m no good for him, and I have to think about him now. Not me.
Besides, what kind of coward wants his boyfriend to talk him out of breaking up?
I don’t deserve him.
I focus on the here and now.
Before I go to the ballpark, I check out of the hotel, take my dad to the airport, and walk him to security. Before he goes through the turnstile, I transfer him money. More than five figures.
It feels like hush money.
Probably because it is.
3
Declan
Thirteen years ago
Age thirteen
* * *
As I walked to the plate, I peered up at the stands, hunting for a familiar face.
One with eyes the same shade as mine.
One that came with a voice like a warm hug.
But the last several games—heck, for most of last season—my dad hadn’t been there as regularly as before. He hadn’t shown up next to my mom, leaving her alone in the stands.
She’d waved and cheered me on just the same, and I smiled and waved back, but I’d wished he’d been there.
I missed him.
Missed my dad, my coach, my hero.
When I reached the plate, I took a few practice swings and the pang of missing was so intense, it felt like a hole, tunneling into my heart.
Ignore it.
As I shifted my focus to the pitcher, I said it again.
Ignore this pain. Be stronger.
That was how I had to be.
I had to play like that.
I zoned in on the moment, and I whacked a triple into center field.
That approach worked for a few more games.
Deny, pretend, ignore.
I didn’t miss him anyway.
Who cared? I didn’t need him.
And still, he didn’t show up.
We made it to the championships, and I played my heart out without him, hoping he’d show.
In the last game, I launched a rocket over the fence, and a voice shouted from the stands. “That’s my son!”
My wish was coming true.
As I ran, I snapped my gaze to the stands, excitement curling through my body.
Until I found him, stumbling down the bleachers.
Ignore it.
But I couldn’t pretend.
As I crossed home plate, he clambered over the final seat and ran onto the field to give me a hug, but tripped and fell—a drunken, stinking mess.
His scent clogged my nostrils. That had to be alcohol. Later, I’d learn it was tequila.
He lifted his arm, a plaintive plea, laughing, like this was all so funny.
Nothing was funny. This wasn’t what I’d wished for.
Heat flooded my cheeks, the surge of embarrassment. Shame filled my body.
“Give me a lift, son,” he said, chuckling.
As my throat tightened, I spotted movement on the edge of my vision—a bird swooping by. No, a falcon. I wanted to be that falcon and fly away from here.
From all the eyes watching me. Watching us.
They looked away when my mother ran down from the stands to help, embarrassed for her.
I was keenly, horrifically aware of every stare as I left the field with my parents. I longed, again, to be that bird arrowing away from here, swift and powerful.
And I hoped, then I hoped harder, that this would never happen to me again.
4
Grant
Present Day
The night before
* * *
After an hour of Xbox with the guys, I return to my room, ready to snag a good night’s sleep. Ready, too, for another epic game tomorrow. After I shower and dry off, I get into bed.
Naked.
Why bother with clothes? I’m alone and I’m going to jerk off to the brand-new beautiful, filthy, fantastic images roaming through my mind.
Last night with Declan Steele.
Another first.
Another incredible, amazing first when we fucked, and he set my body on fire. I shudder as I replay yesterday evening in his hotel, how my world turned hot and electric when his body hugged my cock for the first time. When he urged me on, drew me closer, whispered filthy words to me.
Like he’d done the night before when he fucked me.
With those twin memories, a jolt of wicked pleasure hits me like a strobe light. I am rock hard and ready to indulge in images of him and us.
My man just does it for me, in every single way.
My man.
I grin, savoring the knowledge that that’s who he is.
The guy I’ll be seeing in November.
But before I take a trip to Dirty Declan Land, I’ll just send him a note. Nothing too boyfriend-y, since I know fuck-all about being a boyfriend. Something simple. Something that’s focused on the thing we have most in common.
The game.
I tell him how I played tonight, then hit send.
Setting my phone down, I shut my eyes, take my cock in my hand, and imagine the next time I’ll see him.
How I want it to be when we’re together again.
No limits. No barriers. Everything on the table. Just him and me. Me and him. Skin to skin, touching, exploring, discovering more of each other.
I want him inside me ag
ain.
I want to be inside him again.
I want to taste him everywhere. Want him to fuck my mouth. Want him to come on me.
Shuddering, I stroke harder, faster.
Images flicker past my eyes.
He flips me over, fucks me hard, rides me to the edge. Then stops. Leaving me there, right there.
So I can get behind him, do the same, drive him crazy too.
Fuck him like I love him.
Let him fuck me the same damn way.
A charge races down my body, and it doesn’t take me long till I’m coming hard in my hand, picturing us.
I pant, breathe out hard, and let the filthy bliss of my release spread through my body.
Then it’s time to clean up.
After, I check my phone.
No reply, but that’s cool.
He’ll write back when he can, and I’m going to learn how to be the best damn long-distance boyfriend there is.
A stupid grin takes over my face as I get back into bed, and I think of him as I slide into slumber.
I swear I can still smell him on the pillow.
I clutch it closer and fall asleep.
I wake in the middle of the night to take a piss, then check my phone when I return to bed.
Ah, there’s a reply from him.
Bring it on.
What did my guy say? I bet it’s sexy. I bet it’s supportive. Just like him.
I click open the text.
Read it.
And blink.
Is this a joke?
* * *
Declan: This is killing me, Grant. You have to know. But making plans was a mistake. We can’t do this. Any of this, including November. Miami is a bad idea.
* * *
For a long stretch, I can’t move. I can’t think. I read it again, and the same awful words mock me.
Once more, and my head spins. A spike of adrenaline jolts my senses into high-def as the room whirls around me, and I set a hand against the wall for balance.
Is this real?
I heave a breath against the tightness of my ribs, but I’m swallowing sand. Shock and anger make a fist, viciously squeezing my heart until I think it might burst.
Declan broke up with me via text message.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I’ve never had a boyfriend. But I’m pretty sure you don’t break up with one over a text.
I want to believe it’s a mistake—a wrong number or a drunk text.
But Declan doesn’t drink. This note is meant for me and can only be from him because it’s about us. About the end of us.
With a death-grip on the offending phone, I read the message again, but the words are still on the screen in cruel black and white.
The man doesn’t even have the guts to call me and shatter my heart in real time.
Holy fuck. I can hardly keep hold of the cell. I’m shaking because I’m so fucking hurt. I’m trembling because I’m so fucking angry.
I shove my free hand through my hair.
This can’t be happening.
He didn’t mean this. No way this is real. I know Declan.
Better to check—to give him that much credit, at least. Better to follow up and find out.
Better to know.
I don’t care what time it is in Florida. I dial his number, jaw clenched, fists tight, and I swallow my pride as the phone rings and rings and rings.
“Pick up, Deck,” I mutter. “Pick up the fucking call.”
Another ring.
One more.
Then voicemail. “You’ve reached Declan Steele. Leave a message.”
I stab the end button.
The chicken-shit asshole doesn’t answer his phone after he dumps me?
Who does this?
Who is he?
I take a few deep breaths to settle the stabbing pains in my chest, but emotions explode in me.
Without thinking, I hurl the phone at the wall, putting all my arm behind it, like it’s game seven in the World Series, bottom of the ninth, and the winning run is trying to steal a base.
Like fucking hell he is.
The phone hits the wall with a loud crack then falls to the carpeted floor with an anticlimactic thud.
No flying shards of glass or pinging aluminum case.
Seething, I stalk over to stare at the carcass. The glass is spiderwebbed and the screen is black. I try to turn it on, but nothing happens.
Fuck.
I don’t feel one bit better. Instead of a jackass who got dumped by text, now I’m just a dumped jackass with no phone.
After our morning workout the next day, I do my damnedest to avoid my teammates, but as I’m leaving the locker room, Crosby calls me over.
“You want to grab some lunch with Chance and me?” He nods to our closing pitcher, who’s just shutting his locker.
Any other time I’d say yes, but not today. Not now. “Raincheck?”
“Sure,” Crosby says, then cocks his head. “Where you off to in a rush?”
Embarrassed, I rub the back of my neck. “I dropped my phone last night. Gotta get a new one.”
“Sucks, man.”
Yes, it does. For too many reasons.
I start to call a Lyft, but of course I can’t, so the concierge at the hotel calls a cab to take me to the nearest Apple store. I ask the driver to wait. The hassle of replacing my phone and transferring my data stings especially because this is down to my own stupidity.
New phone in hand, I return to the taxi, open my messages, and go straight to my contacts. The delay from last night hasn’t abated my anger or determination.
With fury simmering in every move, I delete Declan’s contact info from my phone so I’m not tempted to call him.
Ever again.
That afternoon, I shove his text to a corner of my mind. I was never supposed to be involved, anyway, with him or anyone else. I came to Arizona to play ball.
That evening, I play my heart out in the game against the Las Vegas Coyotes, knowing my job is on the line.
In the fifth inning, with runners on first and second, the Coyotes’ batter hits a whopper of a double. As the runner on second rounds third, our left fielder gloves the ball and hurls it to Crosby, our cutoff man at third.
“C’mon, c’mon,” I mutter, yanking off my mask, getting in position.
The Coyotes runner charges down the base path, barreling toward home as Crosby cocks his arm.
I’ve got my glove out, ready to field the throw.
As the runner flies toward the plate, I step into the base path, and the ball finds a welcome home in my glove. Sweeping my arm down, I tag the runner—right as he collides with me.
He hits with the force of a freight train.
Oof.
The impact knocks me right off my feet and I hurdle toward the dirt, landing on my back with a deafening thud.
My ass took the brunt of the fall, and pain shoots up my back and down my legs. The world goes blurry and dark, and Declan’s text replays in my head.
Miami is a bad idea.
Fuck him.
Declan is a bad idea.
Losing this game is a bad idea.
Letting a roster spot slip away on account of a hot lay is a bad idea.
I’m not giving Declan Steele the satisfaction of anything, least of all, this play.
Several painful, achy seconds later I pop up and brandish the gloved ball above my head, ignoring the hell out of my aching ass.
The ache will fade because I’m fine.
Catchers fall. Catchers get up.
I brush the dirt off my uniform.
The runner is out, the inning is over. We’re still ahead, and my manager trots over to me. “You okay, Blackwood?” Fisher asks, intent and serious.
“I’m great,” I say, and I mean it.
Because . . . I feel amazing out here on the field. Incredible, even. This close to invincible.
On the diamond, I’m safe from men like Declan.
I am on fire.
“I’m ready for my next at-bat,” I tell the manager as the team trainer rushes out, along with the hitting coach, the pitcher, Crosby, Chance, and Sullivan.
“You okay, dude?” Sullivan asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Never been better.”
Coach keeps his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get you checked out.”
“But I want to play.”
Fisher smiles and shakes his head. “I know. But this is more important.” He hands off the rest of the game to the hitting coach, then walks me inside the facility.
In the trainer’s room, the team doctor checks me out, but I tell him I’m fine. I’m totally fine. “It was just a routine play,” I say.
The doctor scowls. “He slammed into you. That’s not supposed to happen anymore.”
“The ball was in the base path, and the rules say you can field it. Sometimes the runner collides with the catcher,” I explain, still hyped on adrenaline.
Fisher nods. “I know it wasn’t a dirty play. But we can’t let anything happen to you. Got to look out for you, kid. You damn well better be fit for a long career with the San Francisco Cougars.” I can hear his relief as the team doc gives me a thumbs-up, and that relief warms my soul.
In spite of that text, in spite of Declan ‘Dickhead’ Steele, I smile. That relief, that “career with the San Francisco Cougars,” is the best thing I’ve heard in a long time.
It gives me a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, the starting job is still mine to win.
Good thing I went all-out on the field.
But that’s all I know. That’s all I’ve ever done. I play with everything I have.
The only times I didn’t were when Declan was in my room, in my head, in my body.
He’s gone now, in every sense of the word.
And it’s just baseball and me.
As it should be.
When the game is over, I leave the locker room and head down the corridor. I make my way out of the complex and run into my agent on her way in. Haven parks her hands on her hips and shoots me a stern stare. “I’ve been looking for you all day.”
Winning With Him Page 3
