Jen Trujillo Suites.
“Damn, the Cougs do love us,” Crosby says.
“Because they’re paying for our digs this year?” Declan puts in.
“Because this place rocks. Kitchen, bedroom, and master bath. And it’s walking distance to the complex.”
Declan snorts. “What, is this your latest endorsement deal?”
Crosby wiggles a brow. “Good idea. I should get my agent on that, stat.”
“Anyway, the team isn’t paying for it,” Declan adds. “Jen Trujillo is one of the team sponsors, so we’re here courtesy of her company.”
“Well, someone is paying for our digs, you turkey burgers,” Crosby says, “and it’s not me, so I’m calling it a win.” He turns to me as we walk inside. “How do you like this place, G-man? You’ve been here for a week.”
Does Crosby’s experimentation with alternatives to “rookie” mean that I have a license to come up with my own nicknames for him and the other veteran players? I’m gleeful at the thought.
“I’ve spent most of it at the complex,” I say, “but I can’t complain.”
I head to the elevator that’ll take me to my suite on the sixth floor. Crosby peels away with Chance, pointing a thumb down the hall. “I’m in the other tower. Catch you in the a.m.”
“See you then,” I say.
They walk away, and I hit the call button and wait for the elevator, figuring Declan will head in their direction.
A few seconds later, though, the shortstop strides over, and the hair on the back of my neck pricks up.
The effect this man has on me is so goddamn unfair. My future looks full of less hot tub and more ice bath.
“Guess we’re in the same tower, rookie,” he says, and something about the sexy rumble of his voice tells me everything in my life is about to be ten thousand times harder than I’d thought.
And no ice bath will do the trick.
Not when the way he says rookie lights me up all over.
“Welcome to the jungle,” I say as the elevator arrives.
He laughs lightly. “It is a jungle in here, isn’t it?”
I step into the elevator with Declan, and the doors close on us.
7
Declan
Things I’d like to know—why elevators shrink the second you enter them with a guy you’re hot for.
Can someone explain that law of physics?
Is it a variation on Newton’s Laws? The space between two people becomes immeasurably smaller when you want to get your hands on him?
Yeah, I bet that’s a rule of sexual gravity.
Also, Grant smells incredible. All clean and soapy still, even hours later, and that freshly showered smell is my favorite one on a man.
Especially when I can dirty him up.
Damn it.
Isn’t that exactly what I’m not supposed to think about?
I blame the elevator. This one feels like it’s two-feet wide, and all I want to do is push him into the corner, slide my hands down his chest and get my lips on his.
I clench my teeth.
Will the lust to evaporate.
I’ve got this. I know what I’m doing. And I sure as shit am not giving in to temptation. I know how to handle the hard stuff. I’ve been handling it for years, ever since I got my life in order in college. Ever since I decided how I wanted to live—in control, in charge.
This temptation of the rookie is nothing.
But a little help comes in handy now and then.
Drawing a deep breath as the elevator chugs past the first floor, I repeat the words I needed back in college. Words that Emma taught me when I was struggling to have the guts to speak in front of a crowd. Doors she opened for me through stanzas, verses, beats.
I start with Robert Frost.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep . . .
Poems helped me get over some of my fears.
They’ve given me strength. They’ve fed me.
This one gives me the courage to say something I don’t need to say, but I definitely want to say. Grant might admire me for my gameplay, but I admire the hell out of him for what he voiced tonight with one simple pronoun.
Sometimes when I go on a date, he pays for me. But sometimes I pay for him, depending on my mood.
I turn to the man next to me. “That took a lot of guts, what you said in the locker room.”
He meets my gaze, the expression in his dark blue eyes serious. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I’d rather tell my own story.”
There’s more there for sure. A conversation I’d love to have if we were at dinner. A deep dive I’d like to take. But I can’t, and I won’t.
“Couldn’t agree more,” I say, keeping it simple as I offer a fist for knocking in solidarity.
He knocks back.
But I can’t seem to stay away, so I toss out one question. “Spoken from experience?”