* * *
I grin as I read his last text, loving the sentiment, loving that he’s in my corner.
* * *
Grant: That’s up to the pitchers, but I’ll do my part.
* * *
River: I have no doubt you will. And I’ll see you soon. I’m heading back to SF later in the fall to visit family. We’ll have to check out the best gay bars in the city. I insist. It’s research. Wink, wink.
* * *
Grant: Right. It’s only for research.
* * *
River: Fine, fine. Research and hookups. I can totally multitask. What about you?
* * *
Grant: I’ll let you know when I’m ready.
* * *
I turn off the phone as the plane takes off, soaring into the sky.
Will I be ready then? Who knows—I haven’t hooked up with anyone since spring training.
Maybe that’s for the best. My stats certainly seem to think so. We’re well into September, and I’ve already hit more than thirty home runs. Plus, my batting average is more than .300. I have zero complaints.
Once we reach our cruising altitude, Crosby unhooks his seatbelt, strolling down the aisle to my row. “Rookie,” he says, his voice gruff, like he’s the commander initiating an inquisition on a submarine. “How are your socks?”
“My socks?”
Crosby stares sharply at me. “Yes. Your socks.”
“My socks are just fine.” I tug up the bottom of my jeans to show him my purple socks with zebra print. They’re a gift from my sister—purple is her favorite color, and zebras were her favorite animal growing up. Giving each other silly socks is a long-running joke between us. “Sierra gave me these for my birthday.”
“Excellent choice. Do you wear the same pair when you’re on a streak? You’ve gotten hits in each of the last ten games. I want to know if you’re wearing the same socks.”
I shake my head. “Dude, I put these on today. Because I believe in something known as, wait for it, hygiene. Laundry—try it sometime.”
From the row in front of me, Chance chuckles under his breath.
Crosby continues the sock query. “Are you sure? Because that is some kind of sorcery you have going on—getting hits in ten games in a row without a pair of lucky socks.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “Seriously. No socks were made filthy in the pursuit of my current hitting streak. I change them after every game.”
He hums doubtfully. “That’s just crazy.”
Chance pops his head up over the seat back, staring at Crosby with his dark eyes. “No, that’s called being a grown-ass man.”
Crosby’s eyes shoot death rays at Chance. “Don’t try to tell me you’ve never worn the same pair of socks when you’ve had a couple of saves in a row.”
Chance shakes his head. “I’m not superstitious in the same way as you.”
“It’s not even superstitious. I just like to pay homage to the gods of luck, and I do so with fox socks, monkey socks, chipmunk socks, even elephant socks,” Crosby says.
“And he can tell you which socks he wore to which game,” Chance tells me. “This man has an encyclopedic memory for his socks. It’s pretty scary.”
Crosby claps a hand on my shoulder. “I do indeed. And that’s why I need to know if you have a favorite animal, Grant. Because I might wear lucky socks in your honor.”
I bring my hand to my heart. “Aw, that’s so sweet. But why would you do that?”
Crosby stares at me sharply. “To celebrate the fact that you are on track to be the motherfucking Rookie of the Year, of course.”
“I wouldn’t go there yet,” I say, even though I’m beaming inside at my teammate’s regard—and the suggestion I might win one of the sport’s most prestigious awards.
“Yeah. Don’t jinx him,” Chance says.
Sullivan pops up from next to the closing pitcher. “But G-man, you do have a hell of a shot at it.”
I ignore the prediction; it would be bad form to lean into it. Instead, I return to Crosby’s question. “My favorite animal . . .” I scratch my head. “Are we five? Do we still have favorite animals?”
The third baseman rolls his eyes. “We play a game for a living. We absolutely can have favorite animals.”
Hmm.
What’s mine?
Unbidden and red-hot, a memory springs to mind—Declan prowling up the bed like a tiger, taking his sweet-ass time, ready to pounce on me. “Panther,” I say quickly, shoving the image into a locked drawer.
Crosby smacks the back of the seat. “One pair of panther socks are coming right up in honor of you.” A second later, he furrows his brow. “What are you doing in the off-season?”
The question jerks my heart out of the carefully controlled orbit where it’s been spinning for the last five and a half months.
That’s how long it’s been since I made plans with Declan. Five and a half months since we talked about seeing each other in the off-season. Five and a half months since he asked me to meet him in Miami.