by Nicole Dykes
Cannot say that though. “He’s busy, Mom.”
“Well, you two can catch up. I saw he’s dating that cute little girl from that show . . . What’s it called?”
“I have no idea, Ma.” I do, but I’m not saying it. Grady has had lots of girlfriends over the past seven years. All really high profile celebs like himself.
“Well, maybe you can double-date. If you’d ever bring anyone home, that is. I heard that girl reporter . . . the blonde one that’s so cute. What’s her name?”
“Veronica.” My mom has been trying to set me up with her since she interviewed me my rookie year.
I could go into the whole “Mom, I’m gay” thing again, but what the hell’s the point? My mom and dad prefer to live in deliberate ignorance. In their world, their son isn’t gay. He’s just a player who hasn’t quite found the right girl yet.
“Right. Well, I know she’s sweet on you.”
“I gotta go, Mom. I’ll see you later.”
“Yes. Go win the World Series, Ry. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks.” I lean back against my headboard, swallowing tightly. She’s proud of the baseball player.
But not the man I really am.
“You sure you don’t want to go another round?” I look over at the gorgeous stranger in my bed, running her painted red fingernail over the tattoos on my ribcage.
“Sorry, sweetie. I have shit to do.”
“Right. Super Bowl or some shit.” She sits up showing off an amazing pair of tits and making me regret not going for round two. But I actually do have to get going.
I laugh at that. She’s funny. “World Series.”
“Baseball?” Okay, maybe she’s not funny . . .
“Yes.” I nod, and she shrugs, finding a shirt from the floor—my shirt—and putting it on. Damn, that was one of my favorites.
I already know I’m not getting it back though. “Well, I’ll cheer for you. I’m not really a sports person.”
Clearly.
“Well thanks, sweetheart. You want me to call you an Uber?”
She finds her skirt from last night, tugging it up and then swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Nah, I can handle it.” She leans over the bed, her lips brushing mine. “Call me.”
I don’t have her number. I don’t need it.
“Sure thing.”
She winks and walks out of the hotel just as my manager walks in, carrying coffee in both of his hands and wearing a stern expression. The girl giggles as she exits, and Waylon walks toward the king-sized bed in my hotel room. “Really?”
I roll my eyes and hold my hand out for my coffee. “What? I’m not allowed to have fun?”
“You’re dating Victoria Bishop, remember?”
He hands me my coffee. I bring it to my lips and take a much-needed drink, sighing when I do. “Yeah, except that I’m fucking not, and you know that.”
“Why must you make my life harder than it needs to be?” He flops his 120-pound body onto my bed in his totally dramatic, Waylon way.
“You love the challenge.”
He rolls to his side, careful with his own coffee. “That girl has party girl written all over her. She probably took a dick pic.”
I shrug. “It’s a good dick. I’m not worried.”
He scoffs, smiling because Waylon always puts up with my shit. We get along well. He’s a good ole southern boy named after an actual country singing legend. But he’s barely over a hundred pounds with bright blue eyes and stylish blonde hair, and he loves dick. So, his Bible-thumping parents aren’t exactly fans.
Something I can relate to and which made us fast friends as well as client and agent.
“Do I have to spank you?” he teases.
I wiggle my eyebrows. “Careful, you might turn me.”
He laughs at that as if it’s beyond ridiculous. “You really think that one is going to keep her mouth shut about whatever it is you two did in here last night?”
He looks at the sheets with comical disgust. “What the fuck do I care? Three orgasms and a big dick is all she can relay. I don’t think it will hurt my reputation much.”
“Except you’re dating Victoria.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to last much longer.”
He groans, “What did you do?”
“Didn’t check your social media today, huh? Seems my ex was seen and photographed kissing a girl.” I lean in closer as if it’s a scandal. “And I think she liked it.”
He actually laughs at that. Victoria is a lesbian. She has no interest in dick whatsoever. But the family-friendly show she’s been on for five years wasn’t having that. So, our agents got together and formed a plan.
One we’ve both grown sick of over the past couple of months. The show is ending next week. Vicky wants to live her truth, and I’m all for it.
“So, that’s it? You’re back to bad boy?”
“Wasn’t I always?”
Waylon nods, sitting up and taking a drink of his own coffee. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Seriously, what the hell could that chick say that’s going to make your life any harder?”
I don’t give away anything. I fuck and run. That’s it. He knows it. He takes another sip of his coffee and shrugs his small shoulders. “Maybe that you can sometimes be a little . . .” I wait. “Cold?”
“Ouch.” I put a hand over my heart, acting wounded. “Fuck you too.”
He laughs and then pouts playfully. “Oh, don’t be like that. You know what I mean. You have to admit you’re a little . . . disconnected. You get what you want, and that’s all you worry about.”
“I’m not like that with everyone.” I know he’s mostly joking, but there’s a hint of truth there too. I try to shrug it off. “Well, maybe I am, but hey, I care about you. Where’s that boyfriend of yours?”
He raises an eyebrow coyly. “Boyfriend?”
“Yeah. Kevin . . . Ken . . . It started with a K.”
“Steven?”
I shrug and stand up, not worrying that I’m still naked. He’s seen it all before. Probably more than he wants to. He’s been responsible for cleaning my drunk ass up way too many times. “Yeah. I was close.”
“We broke up months ago.”
Well, fuck.
“Sorry,” I offer. Maybe I am a little disconnected.
He laughs and climbs off the bed. “No worries. You don’t mean to be an asshole. You just are.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You ready for tonight?”
To see my ex-best friend? The guy who disappeared and ignored all my attempts to figure out what his fucking problem was?
No.
I’ll never be ready for that.
“Singing is what I do. It’s no problem.”
He eyes me suspiciously even though he doesn’t know about Ryan. No one does. I was pretty adamant that I didn’t want to do this tonight. But in the end, my record label has me by the balls.
I do what they say when they say it, still paying the price for fame. I sold my soul seven years ago.
“I’ll be ready.”
“Alright. I suppose I have a shit storm to go clean up.”
I chuckle, heading into the bathroom. “Thanks for the coffee, Waylon.”
He waves me off as he leaves, and I’m left alone to my thoughts. It’s a dangerous place for me—my own head.
Will I even get a chance to see Ry tonight?
Do I even want to?
“We’re going to do this, boys. It’s happening.” Bennett wraps his arm around my shoulder as he delivers the pep talk to our team. We’re in the locker room, dressed in uniform and about to walk out to our fate.
Bennett is our star pitcher. The pitcher to my catcher on the field only. He’s the closest thing I have to a best friend these days and 100 percent straight. Never once has there been a flicker of attraction there, and I’m fucking grateful.
My heart learned long ago not to go down that road.
; Still . . . no one—not even Bennett—knows which team I play for off the baseball field.
“Hell yeah, it is!” Kris Mastro, our team’s third baseman pumps his fist, already claiming victory. But I’m not so sure.
My stomach is twisted in knots. With Bennett pitching tonight, the odds are in our favor. But anything can happen, and I won’t call it a win until it’s over.
Bennett’s face is overtaken by a massive smile as he points at Mastro. “Hell, yeah! That’s the spirit.” He drops his arm and pats my ass, shoving me forward. “Where the hell is your head at?”
“It’s on the fucking game.”
He chuckles, and Mastro nudges my shoulder, aiming a cocky look over at Bennett. “He’s probably thinking about all the pussy we’re going to get after we win this shit.” Couldn’t be further from the truth. But of course, I don’t say anything. How they haven’t figured me out yet, I have no idea. I guess I’m a better actor than I thought when I go out with the guys. But even if I dance and flirt with the women on the dance floor, I’ve never once left with one. He nudges Bennett. “Unlike you.”
Here we go. Bennett, who’s happily married and expecting his first kid just grins. “Don’t you all ever get tired of the partying bullshit?”
Mastro looks at him as if he’s insane and then tucks a beefy arm around my shoulder, tugging me close to him in a frat-bro-style hug, “Hell, no.” He turns his head to look at me. “What about you, Bailey?”
“Hell, no. You know me. I’m always up for a party.”
I hear the sarcasm in my voice, but I don’t think anyone else does. The truth is, I’d much rather go home than to a club these days. I’m tired of the act. Of going to the crowded clubs and watching my teammates search the crowd for the easiest prey while acting like I’m there for the same thing. When really, it’s the shy barista at my local coffee shop with green eyes and an ever-present five o’clock shadow or the male sports reporter on the six o’clock news that have captured my attention.
Bennett eyes me a little too long, and I think he might sense my hesitance but doesn’t call me on it. “Whatever, losers. While you all are out trolling for pussy, I’ll be home with my perfect, gorgeous wife.”
“Your wife is hot.” Mastro grins, waggling his eyebrows. “Hopefully, she’ll soon grow tired of your ass and come to me.”
“You’re going to get punched before the game. Your agent is going to be pissed if you have to explain that shit,” I say with a smirk, and Mastro flips me off before heeding my warning and walking out with the rest of the team.
Bennett is at my side as we trail behind. “We’re going to win.”
“Let’s go warm up.” I can’t shake my nerves. This is everything I’ve always wanted. My dad is watching. This is his dream.
I can’t blow it.
After warmups, we line up on the field as the crowd goes absolutely insane. Then a man walks out to the middle of the field, waving with an overwhelming, larger-than-life presence.
One he’s always had.
Grady fucking Bell.
He’s dressed in black ripped jeans with a white tank top showing off his lithe, toned body that’s beautifully decorated with swirled ink covering his entire left arm and most of the right. His dark hair is styled in a just-fucked way and his plump lips are made for sin and visible even from the sidelines as he approaches the mic set up on the field only for him.
He owns the crowd, everyone standing and shutting up as he demands attention.
Immoral is a rock band with him as a headliner. They’re the real deal. Think the White Stripes, The Killers, and Queen all rolled into one. Grady has no problem singing the national anthem in a way that is 100 percent his own.
The goosebumps that form on my flesh aren’t surprising.
That’s always happened to me anytime he’s opened his mouth to sing any note. When he’s done, the crowd goes wild, and we head out for the game of our lives.
But my mind . . .
Yeah . . . it’s on the man who’s always owned me.
They won.
They won the motherfucking World Series.
My best friend in the world just won the biggest honor in baseball, and I’m not even there to celebrate it with him.
I mean, I was there. I watched as he played a flawless game with not a single error, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t even know I was there.
Ryan has always been in his own head. It’s why he’s so good at baseball. He can focus on the game and tune everything else out, but off the field, he’s always overthought every single thing.
It’s killing me that he didn’t even bother to say hello or even acknowledge my presence. And maybe it’s selfish of me, but that pisses me off.
How many nights did we dream of being in the World Series. Of the crowd and the fireworks?
Fuck this.
I call Waylon and beg him to call in a really big favor by securing Ryan’s home address, and before I can overthink it—not really a problem for me—-I’m at his gate, ringing the buzzer.
The odds of him actually being home two hours after winning the biggest game of his career are slim, but I’ll wait for as long as I have to. While I wait, I look up at the bigass Kansas City mansion secured by an iron gate and smile to myself.
“Damn, Bailey,” I whisper.
He’s definitely made it. “Hello?”
Well, holy shit. He’s home. What if he’s not alone?
I shake that off. Why the hell do I care? “Bailey, let me in.”
His voice is off, kind of shaky when I hear, “Grady? What the fuck are you doing at my house?”
“Just buzz me in. We need to talk.”
There’s a pause, and I know he can see me on the security feed he no doubt has. But for me, it’s just a voice coming out of a speaker. “No. We don’t.”
“Yes. We do.” I wait a beat. “Are you seriously not going to let me in?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, that’s rude. I should call your mother.” Nothing. I roll my eyes. “Fine, buzz me in or I will sit out here for as long as it takes and give TMZ a call.”
I can see his jaw ticking with anger even though I can’t actually see him. I feel it. I know him better than I’ve ever known anyone. Which is why it really fucking sucks that he disappeared, and I still can’t pinpoint the reason why.
“Fine.”
With that, the lock clicks and the gate opens, allowing me to drive my rental car through the gate. When I park in front, I’m greeted by a pissed-off Ryan, who’s flying out his front door in a pair of dark gray joggers and sporting messy bedhead. “Were you seriously asleep at ten o’clock the night after you won the World Series?”
He ignores my question, folding his muscular arms over his chest in a pissed-off stance. “What are you doing here?”
“I want to talk. You gonna let me in?” I look around, knowing there isn’t a neighbor close by but also knowing how private Ryan has always been. So, I raise my hands out to my side and say in a loud voice, “Or would you prefer to talk about how you left me without any explanation, all because of one fucking kiss outside on your lawn?”
“Jesus,” he hisses, running his fingers through his hair and growling low, “get inside.”
He moves out of the way and allows me to shove past him into the wide expanse of a grand foyer. I let out a low whistle. “Sure have come far, haven’t you, Bailey?”
I turn to see him glowering at me as he closes the front door. “You’re one to talk.” Again, he folds his arms over his stomach I can’t help but notice is fucking chiseled. He was always pretty built once we started working out in junior high, but now the fucker is solid. No doubt, he spends most of his life in a gym.
I grin. “Yeah, all our dreams came true, huh?”
“Why are you here, Grady?”
“Why did you leave?” It’s abrupt and probably not what he was expecting me to ask, but I don’t care anymore. I’m tired of wondering.
He
scoffs and walks away from me down the foyer, but I grab his bicep. He pulls away, acting like my touch scalded him.
“Jesus Christ, Bailey. I get it, okay? We were drunk off our asses and partying, and it led to a fucking dumbass kiss. You didn’t have to fucking bail on me.”
He stares at me, his blue eyes threatening to burn through me. “What?”
“What?” I grip the back of my neck, feeling oddly vulnerable. I’ve never talked about that kiss, but it has to be the reason he left. “It wasn’t a big deal. And you kissed me back, FYI, fucker. It’s not like it was all me.”
He blinks twice and then shakes his head in confusion. “You think I left because a guy kissed me?”
I let out a huff. “And you kissed a guy.” I walk closer to him, hating the cold distance he’s putting between us. The distance he put there seven years ago. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal, but you didn’t have to fucking bail.”
“I didn’t leave because of that.”
I stare at him, uncertain and searching my mind for anything else it could have been. “Then why?”
“I thought you were going to freak the fuck out.”
I stare at him, me being the confused one now. “Why would I freak out? It wasn’t that big of a deal. It was a kiss, man. You didn’t have to throw away a longtime friendship over it. I definitely wouldn’t have.”
“And how did I know that, huh? You aren’t gay.”
“So.” I shrug. “Neither are you.”
His eyes flicker with something I almost miss, and then he straightens his back. The fucker is massive. He’s broad and made to withstand a grown-ass man barreling toward home plate. “I am.”
“You are what?” I cock my head to the side, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. None of the pieces are fitting together.
“I’m gay.”
He’s what?
This is just fucking great. Exactly what I wanted to deal with tonight.
An angry, confused Grady Bell in my house, demanding answers.
“You can go now,” I say to him, hoping for this moment to be over. I can’t take him being disgusted or disappointed or whatever the fuck.
