Grant’s lips twist in a scowl. “You didn’t listen to him, did you?”
“I thought about it for a little bit,” I admit. “He talked about how the minors were for him playing ball. He talked about sports being the last place for a queer guy. That I was better off being”—I stop to sketch air quotes as the bitter memory rears its head—“discreet. Like it was better for me to live a lie.”
Grant huffs, grinding his teeth. “I hate lies.”
“Me too. So much.”
“What happened?”
“I thought about it, but I didn’t spend my teenage years trying to escape his lies to go live another one.” I tap my chest. “I said, ‘This is who I am. This is me. Take it or leave it.’”
“What did he say?”
I shake my head, not wanting to dwell on the man who twists my insides every time he calls or texts. “Doesn’t matter. He disagreed. Vehemently. Then he apologized the next day. Vehemently too. But he still said it. I still remember. He wanted me to hide.”
Grant grabs my face in his right hand, holds my jaw tight. “I’m glad you didn’t. When I met you and I said I was a big fan, it wasn’t just because I had a crush on you. You were kinda my hero. You have to know what it meant to guys like me in college to see a guy like you playing in the majors.”
I dip my face, not sure what to say.
“Sorry. I don’t want to ruin tonight,” Grant says, backpedaling. Dropping his hand.
I jerk my face up. Does he not get it? He can’t ruin anything.
“Don’t apologize. I like getting to know you. So much more than I should,” I say, putting that much on the line, telling him what’s fast becoming the truth of my heart, even though I won’t be able to have what I want so badly.
Him.
“Me too, Deck,” he whispers. “Me too.”
A quick scan of the lot tells me we’re still alone.
The sky is dark.
The sun is down.
It’s only us.
After I remove his ball cap, I rope a hand through his hair, tug on it, then look around the empty lot once more. “This is what I want to do at the game tonight,” I say.
I kiss Grant Blackwood with everything I have, and it still doesn’t feel like it’ll ever be enough.
30
Declan
Emma is the loudest.
“I nearly forgot what it’s like to go to a game with you,” I say to her above the noise and the shouting in the arena as New York evens the score against Phoenix.
My friend shoots me a saucy look, her blonde ponytail whipping as she turns to me. “You forgot that I’m the biggest fan on the planet?”
“It seems I did. Maybe sometime around when you burst my eardrums,” I tease.
Grant laughs, rubs his knuckle against the side of his head. “You and me both.”
“You guys can handle it,” she says, then swings her gaze back to the ice as Phoenix moves the puck toward the goal.
Emma claps several times. “Come on, James. Stop that puck.”
I toss a glance at Grant, a seat away since Emma is in the middle.
“She’s a little passionate about hockey,” I deadpan.
“Welcome to the club,” Grant says.
“I’m especially passionate when my brother is playing,” Emma chimes in, and when Fitz blocks a Phoenix goal, she loses her mind, jumping up and down, thrusting her arms in the air. “Yes, yes, yes!”
“You’re going to lose your voice,” I warn.
“I already am losing it,” she jokes, her pitch a little rumbly.
“Were you a cheerleader in high school, woman?” Grant asks.
She flashes a bright smile. “Don’t let my cheerleader looks fool you. I was full-on nerd.”
“Nerds can be cheerleaders too,” I add.
“I know. But I was only a nerd,” she says, then shouts once more at the players.
A frizzy-haired woman a few rows ahead cranes her neck around, looks up at Emma, smiles. Next, she makes eye contact with me. Recognition flashes in her features. “Go Cougars,” she says with a big, bright smile.
I tip my chin toward her and grin back. “Go Cougars.”
“Spotted in the wild,” Emma whispers.
“So famous,” Grant teases.
I roll my eyes. “You’ll be next, rookie.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” he says, and we return our attention to the ice.
A minute later when New York scores, Emma unleashes the most crushing cheer I’ve ever heard.
It’s contagious.
I’m so glad I’m not sitting next to Grant or I’d kiss him right now. Kiss him hard and celebrate. Clenching my fists, I draw a tight breath.
Resist him.
I keep my hands to myself, but it’s a tough battle. I don’t know what’s happening to my vaunted self-control, but it leaves the building when he’s around.
Must refocus.
As game play resumes, I cast about for a random question, the pool table chatter we engage in when we’re out with the guys. Something, anything so Grant feels like one of the guys, and not the man I desperately want to spend the night with.