He arches a brow, gives an appreciative smile. “So, it’s got fire coming off it? Like those car decals with flames? I’ll take that compliment.”
“Yup. It’s exactly like that— nice long tail of fire and all,” I joke as we head off the field.
“Excellent.” He clears his throat when we reach the chain-link fence. “By the way, I’m going to post a shot on Insta from our practice. I’ll tag you in it. Cool?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“Awesome.” He claps my shoulder, his dark eyes intense, his expression serious. “And I saw the flag on your profile. You’re all good here. Be yourself, man.”
I smile, my chest filling with relief and, admittedly, admiration for this guy. “Appreciate that.”
That’s all he says, and it’s all I need.
Though, I know he’s only the start. Can’t assume the other players checked me out online. Somehow, I’ll need to say something to the rest of the team, just like I did in the minors and with my college team.
I’d rather be the one to say it than have it said about me.
As the week draws to a close, the position players stream in, some joining us for early practice.
On the first full workout day, I’m early again, leaving the team hotel before the other guys and making my way to the complex.
Once inside, I say hi to Chet, the groundskeeper, then Hope, who runs the ticket office.
I turn the corner toward the locker room, and I nearly run smack-bang into a wall of man. A two hundred pound, six-foot-three mass of muscle, cut abs, and carved jaw.
A man sporting a grin that makes my skin tingle.
The breath flees my lungs. My pulse spikes. So, this is what it feels like to meet your crush.
It feels like your body is alive. Electric. Made of sparks.
“Hey there.”
That’s it. Two words. They’re all Declan says.
But I already know.
This is going to be a big fucking problem.
The sexiest man I’ve ever seen on TV is worlds hotter in person.
And I was dead wrong when I told Reese this crush would die a swift death in person.
The opposite is true.
The object of my crush stands inches away, with deep brown eyes that travel over me and a body I want to feel under me, on top of me, next to me. I am so fucked.
I haul in a breath.
Time to pretend like I haven’t thought of scoring with him so many damn times.
Or that I’m thinking it again right this very second.
4
Grant
My next thought is, Impress him.
I don’t mean like if we were in a bar and I were trying to pick him up with wit or banter or a 360-degree view of my arms.
I mean, impress the hell out of him as a ballplayer.
Declan Steele is one of the best in the majors. In his first four years, he’s amassed some killer stats, epic plays, and absolutely clutch RBIs, homers, and hits.
He’s exactly the type of guy you want on your team, and I want him to like me as a ballplayer.
I want all the guys on the team to trust me.
I go in nice and easy with Declan, homing in on the thing we have in common.
No, not the gay thing.
But everyone loves a compliment.
“That was a hell of a double play in that game against the Storm Chasers last fall. The one where you leaped ten feet above the runner as you threw to first,” I say, picturing that play perfectly.
Declan raises an eyebrow. His smile spreads slowly, taking its time moving across his handsome face. Then it reaches his eyes. There’s a glint in them, along with a crook in his lips.
“Impressed you saw it, rookie,” he says, emphasis on rookie.
That’s got to be good. If he knows it’s my first year, he knows who I am.
“You are a rookie, aren’t you?” he adds.
Ah. So, it was a lucky guess. The shortstop doesn’t know me. I straighten my shoulders instinctively. “Yes, I am,” I say, tempted to add sir. But this isn’t the military. He’s not my boss. I do, however, need to show respect for him and the time he’s put in. “First time here.”
“First time. Gotta make it good,” he says in a tone that’s a little raspy, a lot sexy. My skin sizzles as I picture other first times.
“So they say,” I say, keeping the banter light.
He takes a beat. “And what’s your story?”
My story? He asks it like Echo at the tattoo shop. What the hell am I supposed to tell him?
Should I give him my dating profile? Psychological flicks and fast-paced books rock my world, Daniel Craig is hands down the best James Bond, the designated hitter rule is the only way to go, and I’d love to take him out to dinner.
But before I can open my mouth to say something else entirely—because I am not saying any of that, especially the last part—he laughs, then adds, “Your baseball story, rookie. That’s all I mean.”