10. Grant
Grant
Like that, we’ve become workout partners.
Early birds and all.
It’s not deliberate. It just happens. We run. We lift weights. We spot each other. One morning, I’m on the bench press and he asks where I’m from. Funny that this hasn’t come up in our many conversations.
“I grew up in Petaluma. It’s not too far from San Francisco,” I say, pushing up the weight bar.
He gives a slow and easy smile. “I know where Petaluma is.”
“Didn’t mean to imply you didn’t know your geography as well as your ornithology,” I tease, lowering the bar then pressing it up again. He stares down at me, his eyes roaming over my chest but never straying too far.
“I know my geography just fine. I also live in San Francisco,” he points out.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you venture to Petaluma.”
“I’ve been there on the way to wine country,” he says.
Out of nowhere, envy thrashes in my chest, painful as a cleat in the ribs.
This is what happens when you become friends with your crush.
I know why he’s been to wine country. He once dated a guy who lives there, a chef.
I picture him cruising up the highway, laughing with some other guy in the passenger seat, free and easy.
He’s headed for a weekend getaway. A weekend he could spend with that guy because they weren’t teammates.
“Must have been nice. Going to wine country.” I push up the bar, doing my damnedest to shove away this dumb jealousy too. “You from there?”
“No. I grew up in Los Angeles, but we moved to San Francisco when I was in middle school.”
“You and your family?”
His jaw tightens. “My mom and me.”
That’s all he says, and I let it go. There’s more there, but now’s not the time to mine that territory.
Instead, I ask, “You and she are close?”
“Definitely. Me and my stepdad too.” He answers, but his tone is clipped. I should change topics, but he does that himself. “Kind of crazy to wind up being drafted to your hometown team.”
“Maybe it was meant to be,” I say.
“You’re someone who believes that?” Declan sounds doubtful. “That things are meant to be?”
“I believe in hard work. But yeah, I think sometimes things are meant to be. I take it you don’t?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Not one bit.”
The shadows in his eyes go even darker, and if we weren’t treading on dangerous ground, I’d ask what he meant. But I know it’s for the best to nip this convo in the bud.
I set the bar down on the holder then sit up, my chest heaving. I’m about to stand when I catch him staring shamelessly at me. My pecs, my abs, my arms. My piercing...
“Like the view?” I ask. I can’t resist danger sometimes.
Without a reply, he tips his forehead to the bench, a sign for me to skedaddle. Hoping I haven’t pissed him off, I stand quickly, making room for him as he settles in. “You know I do,” he mutters, and a bolt of lust slams into me.
We’ve tangoed, and we’ve toyed. But that’s the first admission that he feels these sparks. This heat. This fire that’s blazing between us. It’s the first time we’ve outright fanned the flames.
I throw kerosene on them too. “Look at us... switching positions.”
Declan stares up at me, hunger in his eyes. “Is that a metaphor or a challenge?” His voice is husky.
And holy fuck, I am treading on uncertain ground. I’ve got to be careful. But holding back would be like letting a fastball down the middle pass you by. You have to swing.
“Maybe both,” I say as he pushes up the bar.
With a huff, he shakes his head.
Is he annoyed?
Shit. I do need to behave.
“Sorry,” I add hastily. “I’ll rein it in.”
Declan lowers the bar. “Rookie, we are both guilty.”
The way he says that— rookie —sends sparks down my spine.
“Very, very guilty,” I add, and inside, I’m beaming.
I shouldn’t be, but I am.
Another lift, another press, another sexy glance. He doesn’t talk, just grunts as he lifts in the early-morning quiet of the hotel gym.
When he finishes his reps, he racks the bar and wipes a hand across his forehead but doesn’t sit up.
Instead, he picks up the thread of the conversation. “You know how hot you are,” he whispers.
“Why would I know that?” I ask, fishing shamelessly for compliments.
He cranes his neck, taking a backward glance at my body. “You’ve got eyes. You look in the mirror. You know what you see. You know what I see.”
Electricity crackles and pops as I croak out, “What do you see?”
He sits, cocks his head, strokes his jaw. His dark gaze cranks my thermostat to furnace hot. “ Danger . I see danger.”
That one word contains multitudes—in it, I hear him saying he wants danger, he craves danger.
But he won’t let himself have it.
I want it too, and I’m pretty sure I’m more reckless than Declan. The man seems so in control, and I feel wildly out of control with him. But it’s a feeling I crave more and more each day, even though I know the stakes. I’m well aware of the risks. We are as taboo as we can be.
I’m not flirting with some guy I won’t have to see at work. He’s someone I have to work closely with every single game, every single day on the field.
But the field is where I need perfect concentration. A millisecond mistake can cost a game. If my mind wanders to the guy manning shortstop, can I call the right pitch at a critical moment in a game?
No idea.
Trouble is, when I’m near Declan, my body lights up. My skin tingles, and everything inside me spins faster and faster. He’s like adrenaline, and I want another hit, then another.
I set a hand on the weight bar, not too far from his. “Our job is dangerous. Standing at the plate every day as someone throws a ninety-five-mile-an-hour ball at you is pretty risky,” I counter.
A sliver of a smile tugs at his lips. “Yep. And so is flirting with you.”
“You could stop,” I offer. I want him to know I’m not going to pressure him. I’m chill with being buds. “Or you could just acknowledge we enjoy some harmless flirting. That’s all it is, right?”
Those full lips curve into a grin. His eyes sparkle. He seems to weigh my question in his hand then decide he likes it. “That’s all it is, rookie. Harmless flirting.”
I hope he’s lying, like I am.
When we’ve finished our workout, he drops a hand on my shoulder like he did the first day we met. No one is around. He curls it tighter, clasping me. I nearly die of pleasure—his touch drives me insane with longing. I want those hands on me, grabbing me everywhere, reckless and crazed.
He squeezes, and that’s it. I am gone.
“Tomorrow, I won’t flirt with you,” he says as we leave the gym, and it sounds like a solemn swear.
One I hope he’ll break.
That night, I call Reese. She answers on the third ring. “I’m studying for a Spanish test, so this better be good,” she says.
I play my ace. “It’s the report you want. And my report is... you were dead wrong.”
She’s silent for a few seconds. “About what?”
“You said that my crush would go away when I met him in person.”
She laughs. “I am pretty sure you said that, not me.”
“Whoever said it was a dipshit,” I say, pacing my room. “Everything about him is intense. He’s also sarcastic, and interesting, and smart. And he notices things. And he’s the biggest flirt I’ve ever met.”
“So, this is a two-way street.”
I drag a hand down my face, nodding even though she can’t see me. I’m not the most experienced guy. I don’t have gobs of sex intel to draw on. But I know a hell of a lot about one thing—trusting your instinct. Everything is instinct with Declan.
“It’s not a one-way street at all, Reese. It’s like an electrical charge runs between us, and it’s frying my circuits.”
“But, Grant, are you going to do something about it?” Her question is an icy-cold shower. It’s bracing, and it knocks me out of the haze I’m in.
Ice—we need to keep this thing on ice.
I sink down on the couch, push my head back against the cushion, and heave a long sigh. “I’m not going to do anything. That’d just be dumb. So, I’ll do nothing.”
It’s gut-wrenchingly painful to say.
“But do you want to do nothing?” she asks tentatively.
“Girl, I want to do everything with him. Everything I’ve never done.”
She hums thoughtfully. “You need to be careful.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” I snap, and it sounds like I’m lashing out at her. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” She takes a beat. “You really like him?”
I shake my head adamantly. “It’s fine. I can handle it. Because I’m Grant ‘Lock It Up’ Blackwood.”
She laughs softly. “Are you, though?”
“Fuck, yeah. I’ve got this. I’ve done it for years. No one is better at this than I am,” I say, full of a bravado I don’t entirely feel.
But maybe I need to fake it.
We end the call, and I catch up with some of the other rookies. We hang in Sullivan’s room on the second floor, chowing on pizza in between Xbox sessions. Like we did in the minors when Sullivan and I were roomies and Miguel would hang at our place.
Sullivan bests Miguel and me in a ruthless game on the virtual court, brutal enough to take my mind entirely off that other guy.
After another thrashing, Sullivan sets down the controller.
Hip hop blasts from his phone. “Dude, how much better is this suite than our shitty little apartment in Bakersfield?” He’s always had a kind of casual cool that makes him easy to hang with.
“We’ve got our Xbox, and pizza and our music. ..”
“The only thing that would make this better would be a couple of babes,” Miguel says. “And you can wingman us like you did in Triple A.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say.
“With your face and my charm, it’s a one-two punch reeling them in,” Sullivan says.
I crack up. “You wish you reeled ’em in.”
“I do have a good face, though. Admit it. Spitting image of Ryan Reynolds,” Sullivan says, setting a hand on his cheek and batting his eyelashes.
I snort. “Hate to break it to you... you’re more like Ryan Reynolds in your dreams. IRL, maybe his second cousin or something.”
Miguel guffaws. “So, if he’s Deadpool, can I be Michael Pena?”