Maybe they are, but he gave me no say in the decision, left me no options. He shut me down and iced me out.
“I did, and I’m sorry,” he says.
He goes quiet again, and in his silence, I hear a warning bell. I hear Coach telling me I made the roster. I hear the crack of the bat, the snap of the glove.
I hear what’s on the other side of the choice.
Baseball.
“Listen, Deck,” I begin, needing to stop him, to end this call before all my progress on the diamond slips through my fingers.
“Rookie,” he says, all soft and impossibly sexy, and a tingle shoots through my stomach and wraps around my heart. Just like that, I can see him and me together again.
The walls tumble completely. I ache to feel him against me. His voice says he feels the same.
And that’s too damn dangerous.
“Please don’t call me rookie,” I whisper, almost begging him to stop.
“Why?”
“You know why,” I say.
“Okay, Grant. I just wanted to say I was sorry.”
That sorry is another nick with the knife, another slice of my soul. If I stay like this with him, if I let him talk, he’ll cut me to pieces.
And for what?
For an apology?
He said he was sorry. That’s why he called. Mission fucking accomplished.
“It’s Opening Day tomorrow,” I say, grasping for any bit of willpower. “Don’t do this to me right now. Please don’t get in my head. I accept your apology. Let’s just move on.”
“I don’t want to get in the way. I never wanted to get in the way,” he says gently, but like this is hurting him too.
Even so, this is barely the beginning of an explanation.
This is Declan not letting me in again.
This is a man who isn’t ready.
And, I know now, neither am I.
“Good luck tomorrow, man,” I tell him, meaning it. “I wish you the best.”
“Same to you.”
Then I do the hard thing.
I hang up.
Declan turns out to be some kind of oracle.
Well, not completely—I don’t hit a home run. But I snag a single in my first Major League at-bat, knocking in two runs.
We go on to win the game, and it is utterly exhilarating, more so than I ever imagined.
Even when I have to see my mom and my dad afterward, going through the motions. I take pictures with them, I hug them and say hello and make small talk and ask how they’re doing. Even when Frank brings me in for a hug too, it doesn’t dull the shine on my day.
All of this stuff? My parents? My mom’s boyfriend?
I’ve got it.
I’m good with it.
The past isn’t my albatross—the present is.
That’s why I grab a minute alone with my grandfather after the game—to focus on someone besides me. We go to a coffee shop near the ballpark. “What’s the story with your knee, Pops?”
“I’m going to have the surgery in a few months.” His sigh turns into a what-can-you-do shrug. “But it’ll be fine.”
“Can you wait till the end of the season so I can help out?”
He shakes his head, laughing lightly. “I can’t. But can you trust me that I’ve got this covered?”
“I want to help,” I say.
“You offering is all the help I need.”
“What about a physical therapist? Can I get you one? Regular PT would be good for you.”
My pops smiles, lifting his coffee cup. “It’s nice of you to offer again. Sure.”
I grin too. “Thank you for not protesting.”
“I can tell it’s important to you. And you’re important to me.” His rolled sleeves show the detailed ink on his arms, and he runs his hand over the bands that look like water. I have matching waves on my arm, something that connects us.
I meet his gaze. His eyes are lighter blue than mine. People always used to say I have my mother’s eyes, but I knew I had his. “You know you’re like my dad, right? That you’re the real father to me?” I say, choking up.
His lip quivers for a moment, but he nods, resolute. “I know. And you’re a son to me,” he says, and then he wraps his arm around me and squeezes, and I know my life is going to be as great as I let it be.
I’ll get over Declan. I’ll get over the heartache and move on. But I have family, and that’s what matters the most.
After Pops drains his cup of coffee, he sets down the mug, takes a breath, then turns to me again. “What happened to the guy you met in spring training?”
I offer up a sad smile. “It didn’t work out.”
He pats my hand. “You okay with that? Or do you miss him?”
The question is an excellent one. Maybe I’m lucky here too, because I can answer with the truth. “A little of both, Pops.”
Over the next five months I play like a fiend, determined to have the best rookie season anyone has ever had.