Emma gasps.
Fitz freezes.
And all I can do is gulp, shrug, and take another bite of my taco, like the food will cover up the enormity of the bomb I dropped in the middle of the table.
Complete with a countdown clock that’s ticking fast to the end of this fling.
After several seconds of stunned silence, Fitz goes first. “For real?”
I give a what-can-you-do shrug. “For real.”
“Wow.” He drags a hand through his hair, processing the grenade.
“Is it serious?” Emma asks in a gentle voice with no judgment.
I scratch my jaw before I answer, my throat tightening. We aren’t serious, Grant and me, so the answer should tumble from my lips.
A quick, fast no.
But no is wrong.
These nighttime trysts have all the ingredients of something serious. They’re the recipe for an off-season affair. Only I’m having it now.
“Not really,” I say hoarsely, but that sounds like a vicious lie. So, I follow it up with something true. “But it feels like it could be.”
Fitz sighs sympathetically. “What are you going to do?”
The next word that comes out tastes like sand. “Nothing.”
That’s the only answer in the whole universe.
There’s nothing I can do about the way I feel for Grant.
And the way my feelings grow stronger every day.
28
Grant
Today is the day, and I am fired all the way up.
Since Declan spent the night—he took off at five—we agreed to skip our morning workout.
Instead, I catch up with the other rookies in the gym for weights and nautilus machines. As I head into the workout facility, I’m already pumped. I’m a Labrador who’s downed two espressos. I’m wired like it’s the playoffs.
I sneak a glance at the clock. Eight-thirty. If the hockey game starts at seven, lasts about two and a half hours, we should be back by ten and in my bed by ten-thirty, so in a little more than twelve hours the rest of the world will disappear.
“Leg day!” Sullivan shouts like a frat guy at spring break, his exuberance palpable.
He breaks me out of my dirty daydream.
“Let’s see who can squat the most,” Miguel challenges as the two strut over to the weight bench. “You in, G-man?”
Is he for real? I tap my chest. “You guys want to take me on in squats?”
The rangy Miguel parks his hands on his hips. “Why not?”
I chuckle, shaking my head as I glance at the outfielder who easily weighs forty pounds less than I do, then the relief pitcher who’s tall and long. “Have at it, bros.”
“No, seriously, I want to know why I can’t take you on in squats,” Miguel pushes.
Sullivan lifts his chin defiantly, but the spark in his eyes says he’s playing dumb. “Yeah, are you a squat guru, G?”
“Allow me to show you,” I say, and I proceed to school the fuck out of my teammates, squatting more weights, more reps, more times.
When I’m done, I rub my thumb and forefinger together. “Do not bet against a catcher when it comes to squats. My entire life is squats,” I say to them, though I’m sure Sullivan was putting on his naïve act.
“Dammit,” Sullivan mutters, smacking the outfielder. “Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Maybe because we’re dipshits sometimes?” Miguel answers.
Sullivan cracks up, big and loud, pointing at Miguel. “Or maybe you are. How the hell did you think you could beat G-man in squats?”
Miguel grumbles. “Maybe because I’m a competitive bastard.”
“Keep that up, especially on the field. And feel free to lay a wager down next time you want to compete with me in the weight room. You might not have noticed, but I’m kind of one of the biggest guys on the team. Catcher and all,” I say as I move on to lunges.
“Yup. And we want a brick wall at the plate,” Sullivan says, switching to deadlifts, then shifting conversational gears too. “Off day. Know what I have going on tonight?”
“A date with your Xbox?”
“A nice, hot bubble bath?” Miguel puts in, and I shoot him a well-played smile.
“Nope,” Sullivan says with a wicked grin. “I’ve got a date with a . . . wait for it . . . thirty-year-old research scientist at the local university.”
“Well done,” I say, since Sullivan loves the brainy ladies. “But how did she find you?”
He clucks his tongue. “Smart women are on Tinder, and they like hookups too.” Then he whispers, “And let me tell you, it has been too long without any action, know what I mean?”
“Do I fucking ever,” Miguel seconds, then tips his chin at me. “But not you, I bet. You’re probably getting it every night on Grindr.”
I scoff. “You think because I’m gay I get laid all the time?”
“Dude, don’t slut shame. That’s not cool,” Sullivan chides.
Miguel cringes. “Is that slut shaming?” The outfielder sounds devastated, and it’s hilarious to watch since I know what’s coming next from my former roomie.