10. Grant #2
I shake my head. “Go for Rafael Silva as a comp. He’s much hotter. And if you don’t believe me, check out 9-1-1: Lone Star .”
Grabbing his phone, Miguel googles the actor then nods approvingly. “Yes! I will take that comp, thank you very much. I will add it to my Tinder profile. How about you, Grant? You cruising for a spring-training hookup?”
Yes, with our shortstop .
“Nah. No time for that. Baseball is what I’m all about,” I say, underlining that in my head, putting it on a Post-it, and sticking it on my mental fridge.
“True. That’s why hookups—and only hookups—are the way to go,” Sullivan says. “We need to be all about baseball.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say.
I wiggle the controller, asking if they want one more round. We go at it, and this time, I win. On that high note, I yawn and tell the guys I’m hitting the sack.
“Catch you in the a.m.,” I say on my way out.
I make my way to the elevator. With another yawn, I push the call button, and when the doors open, I startle briefly. The skipper’s in the lift, holding a carton of what looks like Thai food. He gives me a crisp nod. “Hey there, Blackwood.”
“Hello, sir.”
“How are you enjoying spring training?” he asks as I step inside.
“It’s great, sir,” I say.
“You’re playing well,” he says.
I have no choice but to smile. “Thank you. And is that mango in there?”
“Mango sticky rice. The Thai place down the street has it. I get it every night. Reminds me of this spot I used to go to when I played in the farm leagues.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “That was probably before you were born.”
I laugh—he’s not wrong. Our manager played in the majors for fifteen years as a hard-hitting outfielder before becoming one of the best damn coaches ever, with a killer post-season record. He reminds me of Dusty Baker, in looks and in attitude, and he’s the calm rudder we need and want.
“I imagine it was,” I say.
“And now this mango sticky rice is my spring training vice. I suppose I’m allowed that at my age,” he says drily.
“I’d say you’ve earned it, sir.”
“Mrs. Fisher would have me cut back, but that’s why I indulge when I’m away.” He brings his finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell her.”
“Your secret is safe with me, sir,” I say as the elevator reaches the sixth floor and I step out.
I take a deep breath as soon as the door to my room shuts behind me.
That was fun with the guys.
I needed it too. It took my mind off other matters, and now sleep will do the rest.
I hit the shower, which always helps me crash. I crank the temperature to high, and it heats me everywhere.
Or maybe my thoughts do that—they return to Declan in a heartbeat. All that time with my buds did nothing to squash this desire.
Not a damn thing.
A few days later, Declan and I are running along the golf course again, debating a vital topic.
“Pierce Brosnan is underrated,” Declan insists.
I scoff. “You’re seriously telling me he was the best Bond?”
“I’m saying he doesn’t get his due.”
“Two words. Daniel Craig.”
“I’m not denying that Daniel Craig does a fine job.”
I snort. “A fine job? Daniel Craig is Bond. There is no question about it.”
Declan shrugs easily. “The best Bond debate is not a one or the other for me. You’re a one-Bond man? Only loyal to Craig?”
“I’m saying that once you’ve seen Daniel Craig, you can’t go back.”
“Nah. I’m all for Brosnan. That’s my vote.”
“I would say you’ve got a thing for Brits, but they’re all Brit,” I say with a laugh.
“I don’t have a thing for Brits. Do you?” He sounds more serious than I did, like he truly wants to know my preferences.
I wiggle a brow, fucking with him. “I don’t mind the blokes,” I say in a terrible British accent.
He cracks up. “That was awful.”
“Rubbish. It was rubbish.”
“That too, mate,” he says in a decent Aussie accent.
“Down under, are you there?” I ask, sliding into an Australian voice and botching it terrifically.
“Wow. You really suck at accents,” Declan says.
My big mouth gets the better of me. I don’t even think twice.
“I do, but there are lots of other things I don’t suck at.”
With a slow turn of his head, he locks eyes with me, his deep voice all kinds of raspy. “Such as?”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “Sucking.”
On that note, I do my best to leave him in the dust. But he catches up with me. “I thought we weren’t going to flirt,” he says.
“Is it flirting if you’re telling the truth?”
“You are too dangerous, rookie. Far too dangerous.”
Maybe I want danger.
“You like danger,” I counter, feeling bold.
Declan laughs once, his lips curving up in a grin. “Seems I do.”
The next day, I level-up the Bond conversation. I want to see what will happen if we get personal about our preferences. So, I pull out that reliable but inappropriate icebreaker, “Which out celebrities would you sleep with?”
In the gym at the complex, we name them as we lift.
It’s a roster of a lot of the usual suspects.
For athletes, there’s former soccer star Robbie Rogers and retired hockey player Brock McGillis, and circling around to actors, we agree on Cheyenne Jackson for sure, and call Matt Bomer at the same time.
We knock fists between reps.
“I would not kick him out of bed for eating crackers,” I say. “I’d also kiss him in the morning, and I hate morning breath.”
Declan laughs. “Same here. Also, there’s just something super-hot about men who know who they are and aren’t afraid to be themselves.”
Yes, indeed, there is something super-hot about that.
When the workout ends and we’re heading toward the locker room, I stop tangoing with danger.
I roll the dice and tell Declan, “Wait, there’s one more.”
“Who’s that?”
I’ve never felt anything like this spark, this sizzle. It’s impossible to turn off when all I want to do is let him turn me on. I feel everything I’ve ever wanted to feel as a man. With a man.
This kind of attraction.
This kind of desire.
I am in its clutches and it can have me, so I say, “There’s you.”
Turning on my heel, I head into the locker room, buzzed, and I haven’t touched a drop of anything.
With my every cell humming, I put on my baseball uniform then go out to the field with the team and stretch.
The skipper tells me I’m starting the game today, and our backup catcher, Rodriguez, might come in for the fifth.
I thank him, privately hoping his plan keeps me on track to win the starting slot.
After we stretch, we pile onto the team bus for a game thirty minutes away. I sit next to Crosby and chat with him, doing my best to avoid Declan’s hot stare.
At the moment I told him, it seemed like a good idea. But right now? Hell, I might have fucked up our friendship.
Feels like a gut punch, and I ask myself if I’ve fucked up this team too.
Why the hell did I throw that down?
Because I can’t handle this much lust?
Like hell I can’t.
I put everything else aside, spend the rest of the ride getting into the zone, blocking out everything else.
I call a flawless game, and I play even better at the plate, clobbering in a three-run homer that puts us in the lead.
I breathe a small sigh of relief.
Maybe I haven’t crossed the line.
But there’s no time to dwell on it—in the bottom of the eighth, we nearly choke up the lead when Sullivan struggles on the mound.
I’ve got a hunch about why he’s so nervous. I overheard the pitching coach saying that Sullivan was on the bubble for the final roster. His throwing tonight says he’s feeling the pressure. He’s all over the place, and I’ve been lunging for wild pitches left and right.
Pushing up my mask, I trot out to the mound and clap a hand on his shoulder. “You got this, Sullivan. Take a breath, block out all the crap, and put that curveball in my glove. That is all you have to do. Nothing else matters.”
He huffs out hard. “Thanks, man.”
The next pitch is a wicked curve that the batter misses.
Sullivan walks off the mound, not unscathed. But at least we’re still in the lead. He catches up to me and taps his glove to mine. “I needed that. Appreciate it.”
That’s the type of advice my grandpa always gave to me when I was struggling, so I’m happy to pass on the wisdom to a friend. “Anytime.”
Chance comes on at the bottom of the ninth to close it out, sealing up a win. We high-five, but when I make my way to the dugout, I look for Sullivan. “You want to toss the ball when we’re back?”
His eyes light up. “You’d do that?”
I furrow my brow. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
He exhales all those nerves in a frustrated sigh. “My head’s a mess. That wasn’t surprise, that was gratitude, because I’m glad for your help.”
Sullivan and I meet later on the backfield at the Cougars complex, throwing pitches until he feels the mojo again. It’s just the two of us, and when we wrap up, we knock fists over a good session.
“You’re the man,” he says, more relaxed and confident. “Any chance we can meet again in the morning before the first workout?”
“Of course,” I say, hiding my disappointment at missing my time with Declan. But then, I have no idea whether he’s going to be up for it after this morning.
We head to the locker room, and Sullivan showers lickety-split.
I take my time, letting the water beat down on my head and neck, letting it soothe the aches from the game.
When I turn it off, the locker room has that empty feel.
Can’t say I mind it, though.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I grab another one, drying off my hair before I toss it in the towel bin then turn toward my locker.
Someone’s waiting there for me.
“We need to talk.”