* * *
Declan: See you at dawn, rookie.
* * *
Somehow, this makes me as happy as the sex.
23
Grant
When I find Declan on the track the next morning, he gives me a chin nod. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I say, unsure what happens next. Do we just start running? Do we acknowledge last night? Do we flirt still?
I have no idea how anyone navigates trysts, let alone a tryst with your teammate. Then he says, “Apollo,” and shoots me his cocky grin that’s so damn sexy.
I grin right back. “Hey—”
He holds up a hand. “Don’t you dare call me Hyacinth.”
I smirk. “He’s also known as Hyacinthus. That better?”
He shakes his head adamantly. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Well, I won’t invite you to throw the discus with me then either,” I taunt.
“Thanks. Appreciate that.”
Declan nods toward the track, and we start running. “Sleep well?” he asks.
“Very,” I reply, my lips twitching.
“Yeah. Me too.” His mouth curves up the slightest bit as well.
I pretend I don’t notice, but my pulse does. It speeds up long before the cardio kicks in.
We run along the track, then he gestures toward the gate and we take off through it, heading for the golf course. Along the way, we pass the lake. This time, the heron is doing more than preening. It’s rubbing up against another heron.
“Dude, that’s Apollo,” I say, tipping my forehead to the scene near us.
“I think Apollo is banging his Spartan prince,” Declan quips.
“Is it any surprise? Those herons were hot for each other.”
“I feel like I understand birds even more now,” Declan drawls.
“The birds and the bees,” I add.
We laugh and kill thirty more minutes like that. Like friends, not like lovers. It feels right, a necessary antidote to last night. Something about the talking then felt almost too close.
Everything about my life right now is new.
My job.
My career.
My totally-awesome-for-the-first-time-ever sex life.
But Declan is the first guy who’s ever spent the night, and I don’t need to make stupid mistakes with him.
Being friends, though? This I know how to do. “Friends” is also what I’ll have to be with Declan when our affair ends in only a few more nights.
Because it will end, but he’ll still be around. I’ll still be around. And we’ll have to get along. So, I have to be careful with him.
When we finish our workout and return to the complex, he catches my eye again and lowers his voice. “Your room tonight? Ten?”
I grin. I can’t help it. I really want to see him again.
But before I can tell him so, he wiggles a brow, licks his lips and says, “You’re looking forward to that too?”
It’s the too that makes me shiver. Before I even have to say yes, that’s an admission that he’s on the same page as me.
“Yep,” I say.
“Catch you later,” he says, and relief flows through me.
We can do this.
We can be friends in the day. We can be lovers at night. And when it ends, we can be friends and ballplayers.
Nothing will go wrong.
Except baseball.
We lose the game against the Chicago Sharks that afternoon, and by an embarrassing amount.
It’s not just a rout, it’s a clubbing. I whiff at the plate every time. My pitchers roll over too, throwing softballs down the middle that the Sharks clobber over the fences.
Maybe I called for the wrong pitches. Did I set the target too low?
But it’s spring training, and I’ve played well until now, so I hope no one’s too worried.
We return from the Sharks spring training home, pile off the bus, drop our bags on the field, and run a mile.
“Burn off the loss, men. Burn it off,” Fisher says.
I run.
We all run. Heads down.
No one pairs up.
One by one, we trudge through the dugout and into the locker room. I’ve just grabbed my bag when Fisher calls my name.
“Blackwood. A word.”
Tension slides down my spine. A word is never a good word.
I wheel around, following the manager back out to the field, joining him at home plate. The hitting coach is there too.
I drop my bag by my feet. “Yes, sir?”
His gray eyes remain locked on the rest of the team headed inside. Once it’s just the hitting coach and me, Fisher says, “How are you doing?”
Is this a test? I’ve never liked pop quizzes.
“I’m well, thanks.”
I’m also tense in every single muscle in my body.
“Everything is good?” he asks next.
Why is he asking me if I’m good? Why are we having a random conversation after a shit-tastic game?
“Everything is great.”
“You fitting in?”
Ohhhh.
Is that why we’re talking?
“Yes, sir,” I say, my stomach curling. I hope this isn’t the be nice to the new queer player moment.
But I know I should be grateful I’m playing now rather than five or ten years ago.
The skipper scrubs a hand over his chin. “Good. Is everyone . . .?”
Oh man, he can’t even finish the sentence. I wince but try to fight it off. I hate this shit. It’s so awkward for everyone, but for me, it dredges up all the crap I thought I was past. The moments I had no control over, the times when others took ownership of my identity. My skin crawls with uncomfortable memories, but I remind myself this doesn’t have to become another one.