“Grant, let me work this. Don’t jump to conclusions,” she says.
“Okay. Thanks.” I hang up because there’s nothing else to do.
I head into the hotel so I can call someone to talk, but I quickly veto Pops. I don’t want to stress him. Not while he has to schedule his knee surgery. Maybe I’ll try Reese.
On my way to the elevator, I bump into Sullivan, who’s strutting down the hall in his cool cat mode. “You, me, C and C. They invited us to pool tonight.”
“Who’s that?”
“Crosby and Chance. They look like . . .” He furrows his brow. “Ah hell, I don’t know how to do your celeb comp thing. Two white dudes who look like all-American ballplayers. Maybe you’ve heard of them? Those guys want to go out to play some pool,” he says, miming pulling a pool stick behind him and smacking a ball with it.
Right—C and C. I should have figured that out. But my mind is elsewhere.
“Come with?” he asks, back to his smooth style. Glad to see he’s doing better after those wobbly games.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, answering quickly.
Pool is better than sitting here moping and stressing and not wanting to bother anybody.
“By the way, I’m pretty sure Ryan Reynolds’s second cousin is fifty times hotter than I am, so thanks for the tip,” he says with a wink.
I laugh lightly, but it fades quickly since my mind is elsewhere.
“See you at nine,” Sullivan adds and struts off.
Nine. Fucking nine.
I groan, a huge sigh of disappointment. I can’t tell him I have someplace to be at ten. That’d look suspect. I can’t say I’ll play pool at nine, but I have to be somewhere else less than an hour later.
And I can’t get out of it.
When I reach my room, annoyance is hitting sky-high levels in me.
I’m annoyed at myself.
I’m annoyed at the world.
I’m annoyed at the fucking game.
I sink down in the chair and send a text to Declan.
* * *
Grant: Hey. Can we push tonight back a bit? I’m going to play pool.
* * *
I say going rather than I’ve got to.
I don’t want it to look like my friends are an obligation. I don’t want it to look to him like I would’ve canceled to see him.
But I would have.
He writes back right away.
* * *
Declan: At the Cactus Club. Yeah, I’ll be there too.
* * *
A grin tugs at my lips.
* * *
Grant: Cool.
* * *
Declan: Want to see how good I am at acting like I don’t want to fuck you?
* * *
As I read his text, I smile big and wide and genuinely for the first time in hours.
I write back.
* * *
Grant: Dying to.
* * *
Declan: Considering how much I want you, it’ll be a goddamn master class.
24
Declan
This is great practice.
This is what we’ll have to do in a week.
Then, come April, we’ll be traveling together on the team plane. Going out after games sometimes.
We’ll need to blend in.
So, as I line up the shot at the Cactus Club, I don’t think about who Grant is texting on his phone.
Nope. I don’t care if his attention is elsewhere. Just like I wouldn’t care if Crosby was keeping himself busy.
But Crosby is not.
Crosby is all teammate tonight as he tosses down a fifty-dollar bill. “Fifty bucks says the shortstop and I kick all your sorry asses,” he says to the other rookies.
I glance over at him as I line up the shot. “You’re so damn lucky I let you be my teammate at pool.”
Crosby laughs. “Because there’s no way I’d win without you.” Then he wiggles his fingers at Sullivan. “Come on. Pay up too. Bet’s for everyone.”
Sullivan shoots him a dubious look. “Wait. This is another rookie prank, isn’t it?”
“I bet it is,” Miguel puts in, arching a smart-aleck brow.
I toss a shrug Crosby’s way. “Guess they won’t find out until the end of the night.”
Grant’s hanging out by the end of the table when he looks up from his phone. “Bullshit. This isn’t a prank,” he says, one of the first things he’s said all night.
But I am not paying attention to him.
I am playing a game.
I aim, shoot, and send the ball into the pocket.
“Woohoo! My teammate can handle a stick,” Crosby says, thrusting his arms high in the air.
I bark out a cough then give him a side-eye stare. “Oh no you didn’t.”
Crosby’s face goes slack. “Oh shit, man. I’m sorry.”
I crack up, offering him a hand for high-fiving. “Don’t be sorry. You’re not wrong.”
Crosby rolls his eyes. “Of course you know how to handle a stick, you big stud.”
“And you’re an ace with the . . . glove,” I say, laughing, but I don’t risk a single glance at Grant.
Not one.
I take a few more shots till we miss. I grab my iced tea, and Crosby lifts a beer as Grant strides to the table with Chance, who is a steely-eyed mofo. This will be good practice for me too.