Hell, I refuse to let it get me down that we lost the game when a Scoundrels home run sealed it for the opponent. And that after an endless at-bat when my pitcher and I just couldn’t get in synch. He shook off sign after sign until I called for a curveball, and then the hitter went long.
Did I call the wrong pitch, or was it just one of those games? But close games happen, so I decide to let it go.
I should do the same with Declan and my offer.
Except, am I supposed to text him?
Ugh. I have no idea how this shit works. I made the offer, so am I supposed to make it again? Hey, dude. Called it! I still want to bang you like a screen door in a hurricane.
Time to focus on anything else. Like Reese and her good news. I click on her message.
* * *
Reese: Slam dunk! I nabbed Zayden Wilson, basketball star and NBA rookie, for my podcast!
* * *
Grant: Course you did! You’re a rock star! So proud of you.
* * *
Reese: Thank you! I love that you always support my crazy endeavors.
* * *
Grant: They’re not crazy at all. They’re very you. And you are an awesome podcaster and interviewer. Maybe someday you’ll have me on.
* * *
Reese: Duh. Of course I want you on.
* * *
Reese: Also, any news on the report front? :)
* * *
As I leave the complex, I tap out a reply.
* * *
Grant: We kissed. But I don’t think anything more is going to happen.
* * *
My finger hovers over the send button, but some strange sensation in my chest keeps me from sending it. Is it a weight? Or a worry?
I don’t know, so I don’t hit send.
Trying to figure it out, I read the draft one more time, and my face goes hot. I glance behind me, like someone can see me, read what I’m writing, tell what I’m thinking.
Like it’s written in my eyes and on my features too.
That’s when I know why I don’t hit send.
Reese is my person, and I tell her nearly everything. She was also the first person I came out to. I’m not at all ashamed of who I like or what I want and especially with her. But this situation with Declan feels too new, too uncertain. I don’t even trust what’s happening in my own mind, so I don’t know that I can share it with my best friend. Whatever is or isn’t happening with Declan feels intensely private. Incredibly personal. It’s not for anyone else but the two of us.
And for some uncomfortable reason, I have this sinking feeling that it’s happening only in my head.
That I’m about to be rejected, and I don’t know that I want to serve that intel up even to Reese.
Maybe it’s because tomorrow I’ll need to adjust.
Reroute back to the way things were.
Workout buddies?
Fine. I can do that.
Teammates?
I damn well better buckle back into that role because I suspect that’s where I’m headed. Just a gut feeling.
I hit delete and write a new note.
* * *
Grant: There’s nothing to tell at the moment. I’ll keep you posted, babe.
* * *
Reese: You better!
* * *
I close the thread, a smidgen of guilt wedging itself under my skin for not confessing.
But what would I confess to? That my head is a ball of confusion over what happens next?
Where exactly did we leave off?
Is there a website with a how-to guide for making a deflower-my-dick-and-ass-please offer to your teammate?
Grinding my jaw, I pop in my earbuds, and I get the hell away from the hotel, the complex, and all the confusion.
We have a free afternoon, so I wander in the Arizona heat, sunglasses on, listening to a wild thriller as some swaggery dude named Jack or Stone or Blade tries to evade Interpol and find a stolen cache of radioactive diamonds.
The escape does the trick.
But only in short spurts.
I can’t entirely stop thinking about Declan. I feel stupid for thinking about him so much. Utterly stupid and young.
Like a puppy dog.
I need to shake him off, get him out of my mind.
When I reach a sprawling park, I break into a jog, then pick up the pace and go for an impromptu run in the middle of the day, jogging past cacti and desert flowers, around trees and along red rocks.
The one thing that always works for me is moving my body.
Eventually, a half hour or so later, my thoughts of him settle down. Even out.
Whatever will be will be, and I’m good with it.
I’m not going to text him because I don’t know what to say.
When I finish the run, I return to the complex. I’m near the Helen Williams sign when my phone flashes with a call from my grandpa—as if he can sense from California that I need someone familiar.