All In With Him (Men of Summer 3)

I can’t help it—I shoot Grant a better luck next time look.

He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and snorts like he can’t believe it.

In my next at-bat, I knock in a runner with a sharp line drive.

At the end of the night, I win the game’s MVP award. Vaughn will be happy.

It’s a helluva night.

I chat with Erin once more as I leave the field, giving her a comment on the win, then I spy Troy Evans, a reporter for It Ain't Over Till It’s Over, a sports blog that has blown up in popularity over the last five years.

Troy calls out to me with a scratchy smoker’s voice as I head to the dugout. “Declan, a word on winning MVP. Did that surprise you or were you expecting it?”

Did that guy with the ponytail really just ask that ridiculous question? “How can someone expect it?” I say with a smile. “I’m just glad it happened. Have a great night.”

I take off, wishing I could say goodbye to Grant properly.

I’ll have to be content with watching his post-game interview on TV.

11

Grant

Losing sucks. But losing and then having to deal with the press afterward sucks more. That especially includes talking to Troy Evans, who looks like he could play the douchey, grizzled white reporter in every sports movie ever. Type cast, actually, since he was the blogger who fanned the flames of rumors that I was being sent down at the end of spring training five years ago.

Dude is a shit-stirrer.

He’s one of a handful of reporters in the press room after I’m showered and dressed. The team’s publicist, Nikki, is here too, acting like a badass Zoe Saldana.

“How did it feel to play your third All-Star game?” Troy asks with his phone camera in my face. Other players are here too, but he’s locked in on me.

“Great,” I say.

“Even though you went hitless in this game, as well as your last regular season game?”

I try not to grind my teeth loud enough for the audio to pick up. “Yes, hits do make me feel better.”

He clears his throat, shoves his phone even closer, and asks, “Why’d you call such an easy pitch for Declan Steele in his first at-bat?”

My blood goes cold. I try to make my tone frosty too. “Excuse me?”

“Was that a hanging curveball? He’s quite adept at hitting those.”

“No, he’s not—”

“Oh, so you know what he’s good at hitting?”

Is he for real? “I know what everyone’s good at hitting,” I say, crossing my arms, pushing out a laugh so I don’t spit vitriol at him. “That’s my job, Troy.”

“But Declan hit the second pitch you called out of the park. And the second one for a straight-up single and RBI.”

Nikki steps in with a don’t-mess-with-my-players voice. “Is there a question for Grant in there, Troy?”

I appreciate the assist, but it is futile. Troy smiles smugly. “My question is this: are you sharing signs with Declan Steele?”

I burn.

Red billows across my vision as I clench my fists.

But I will not let this prick get the better of me. I’ve had media training. I’ve dealt with bigger assholes than this guy.

Nikki raises a finger. “That’s not a question we’re going to entertain.”

From his spot leaning against a wall in the briefing room, Crosby swings his gaze over to me. On the other side, Chance takes a step closer. My bros have my back, God love them.

Crosby closes the distance, raising a hand like he’s in class. “Oh hey, Troy. I’m friends with Declan. Want to ask me if I share signs with him?”

Chance clears his throat, his big, deep voice booming. “I’m a pitcher. I know all the signs. Want to ask me if I pass them on to Declan or Holden or Gunnar or any other Dragons? Go right ahead.”

Troy squares his shoulders. He’s not a tough-as-nails blogger for nothing. “Did you share the signs?”

“No,” Chance says with a get-the-fuck-out-of-here smile.

Troy turns to Crosby. “And you?”

Crosby shakes his head exaggeratedly.

Troy lifts his chin, unperturbed, then shifts his gaze to me. “Grant, you haven’t answered the question.”

I burn inside, but clamp my lips shut.

Crosby scoffs. “He’s not answering that bullshit question.”

Nikki steps in literally this time. “That’s enough questions, Troy.” She sets a hand on his arm and turns him toward the door. “Kindly exit the room now.”

Once he’s gone, I press my fingers against the bridge of my nose, tempted for the first time since Declan dumped me five years ago to throw something. Instead, I exhale hard and swallow the words I want to spit out.

I take one deep breath.

Then another.

Then I spin to face the other reporters waiting to talk to me. I hold up a hand, put on my game face, saying, “Excuse me for a moment.”

With that, I exit the press room and walk into the adjacent locker room, free of reporters, where I find my way to a private section and slump into a chair. Crosby and Chance follow, taking seats across from me.