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.”
11
Grant
I do love a hot pair of wheels, so I tell Declan as much when I slide into the BMW that waits for us outside the complex.
“Sweet ride,” I remark, trying to keep my voice steady as I compliment his rental. I slide into the passenger seat, buckling the seatbelt, clicking it in. “I’m going to get one of these someday. You’re happy with it?”