He believes me.
I pulled off a clean getaway.
Reaching across the table, I knock fists with him in agreement. This is no ruse—I am determined to follow his advice. Declan’s advice too.
Avoid relationships.
Avoid love.
“I promise, bro. I am not getting involved with a soul,” I say, renewing my vow.
But after I leave, Declan texts me that he has good news and he can’t wait to tell me.
And I can’t wait to hear what it is.
I need some good news.
Need it badly.
34
Declan
A few hours earlier
* * *
After the morning scrimmage, I steal away for thirty minutes to grab an iced tea at Dr. Insomnia’s, a coffee shop around the corner from the complex. Fitz meets me there—he has another game tonight, and he’s coming to mine this afternoon.
He grabs a protein pack with a hard-boiled egg, some carrots, and nuts, waggling it my way. “Want one?”
I shake my head. “I’m all good. I had a big breakfast.”
“And I’m going to have a big lunch. I like to eat.”
I laugh. “No shit. Me too.”
“And I like to eat often. And at your game too. Speaking of, I haven’t been to a baseball game since you lost in the first round of playoffs.”
I stare sharply at him. “Thanks for the reminder, asshole.”
He pays for his food, then smacks my shoulder. “I’m psyched to come today. Glad I could fit it in before I have to get out of town.”
I take the iced tea and we walk out of the shop, heading back toward the complex. “Same here. I vastly prefer friends at games over . . .”
Him.
My father.
“Over . . .?” Fitz prompts.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Dad stuff?” he asks, straightforward as he’s ever been. He knows the basics, but that’s all.
My shoulders tighten into thousands of knots. “He texted me this morning about the picture of me and Grant at your game last night,” I say, gritting my teeth when I’m done.
Fitz whistles. “Jesus. What did he say?”
I adopt an older man’s voice. “‘Is that guy your type? He seems cute. You look good together.’” I cringe. “I’m guessing he knows Grant is gay, but what’s up with the awkward ‘Are you dating, son?’ convo? We’re not buds who talk about that.”
“The picture isn’t even date-ish,” Fitz says with a what gives tone.
“Exactly. The fan is in between us,” I say, taking a drink of my tea as we walk. “But you know how it goes. People see him and me together, and they make assumptions.”
He nods sagely. “I hear ya. Do you think they’ve been making assumptions about you guys all along?”
“I’m sure if people saw us together”—I point to Fitz then me—“they’d make assumptions too.”
Fitz gives me an appraising once-over, humming. “You’re not my type.”
I flip him the bird. “You’re not my type.”
When we reach the park, my father’s name flashes across the screen of my phone, and my stomach corkscrews. I wish I could learn to avoid his calls.
But I don’t know how. Avoiding his calls only makes me feel worse. Makes me worry that I’ll miss something vital. That I’ll be blindsided. That he’ll show up someplace unannounced.
I hate surprises. I hate them so damn much. But I can’t have the specter of my father hanging over me during the game, not knowing if he might be asking for money, asking for help, asking to talk.
Nothing is worse than not knowing.
“I better deal with this.”
Fitz waves and ambles down toward the park as I hang back, pacing the parking lot as I call my dad back. “What’s going on, Dad?”
“Just wanted to know—if I come to a game, can I meet your boyfriend?”
I pull a face. Is he for real? “No. Because he’s not.”
“Are you sure? Seemed like it,” he says in an easygoing tone, like this is a normal question when it’s not at all.
I breathe heavily through my nostrils, like a dragon. “Shockingly, I’m not involved with every gay guy in sports.”
“Of course, I know that,” he says with a buddy-buddy laugh. Right. Like we’re a couple of pals. “But you two just look like you’re together.”
The sun blazes overhead, pelting me with its unforgiving rays. I grab my shades from the neck of my shirt and shove them on as if they can shield me. “It’s not like I’ve gone on a date with every single queer guy in the game. It’s not like we have Zoom meetings every Thursday. That’s not how it works.”
“Fine, fine. I hear ya. I’m just trying to do a better job at being . . . a dad.”
My chest tightens and caves in. It expands and it falls at the same time. “Thanks,” I bite out, since it’s easier than continuing this conversation.
“And I’m happy for you that you’re living your best life.”
A storm brews inside me, picking up speed and strength. “Now? Are we doing this now?”