I hope he’s lying, like I am.
When we’ve finished our workout, he drops a hand on my shoulder like he did the first day we met. No one is around. He curls it tighter, clasping me. I nearly die of pleasure—his touch drives me insane with longing. I want those hands on me, grabbing me everywhere, reckless and crazed.
He squeezes, and that’s it. I am gone.
“Tomorrow, I won’t flirt with you,” he says as we leave the gym, and it sounds like a solemn swear.
One I hope he’ll break.
That night, I call Reese. She answers on the third ring. “I’m studying for a Spanish test, so this better be good,” she says.
I play my ace. “It’s the report you want. And my report is . . . you were dead wrong.”
She’s silent for a few seconds. “About what?”
“You said that my crush would go away when I met him in person.”
She laughs. “I am pretty sure you said that, not me.”
“Whoever said it was a dipshit,” I say, pacing my room. “Everything about him is intense. He’s also sarcastic, and interesting, and smart. And he notices things. And he’s the biggest flirt I’ve ever met.”
“So, this is a two-way street.”
I drag a hand down my face, nodding even though she can’t see me. I’m not the most experienced guy. I don’t have gobs of sex intel to draw on. But I know a hell of a lot about one thing—trusting your instinct. Everything is instinct with Declan.
“It’s not a one-way street at all, Reese. It’s like an electrical charge runs between us, and it’s frying my circuits.”
“But, Grant, are you going to do something about it?” Her question is an icy-cold shower. It’s bracing, and it knocks me out of the haze I’m in.
Ice—we need to keep this thing on ice.
I sink down on the couch, push my head back against the cushion, and heave a long sigh. “I’m not going to do anything. That’d just be dumb. So, I’ll do nothing.”
It’s gut-wrenchingly painful to say.
“But do you want to do nothing?” she asks tentatively.
“Girl, I want to do everything with him. Everything I’ve never done.”
She hums thoughtfully. “You need to be careful.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” I snap, and it sounds like I’m lashing out at her. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” She takes a beat. “You really like him?”
I shake my head adamantly. “It’s fine. I can handle it. Because I’m Grant ‘Lock It Up’ Blackwood.”
She laughs softly. “Are you, though?”
“Fuck, yeah. I’ve got this. I’ve done it for years. No one is better at this than I am,” I say, full of a bravado I don’t entirely feel.
But maybe I need to fake it.
We end the call, and I catch up with some of the other rookies. We hang in Sullivan’s room on the second floor, chowing on pizza in between Xbox sessions. Like we did in the minors when Sullivan and I were roomies and Miguel would hang at our place.
Sullivan bests Miguel and me in a ruthless game on the virtual court, brutal enough to take my mind entirely off that other guy.
After another thrashing, Sullivan sets down the controller. Hip hop blasts from his phone. “Dude, how much better is this suite than our shitty little apartment in Bakersfield?” He’s always had a kind of casual cool that makes him easy to hang with. “We’ve got our Xbox, and pizza and our music . . .”
“The only thing that would make this better would be a couple of babes,” Miguel says. “And you can wingman us like you did in Triple A.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say.
“With your face and my charm, it’s a one-two punch reeling them in,” Sullivan says.
I crack up. “You wish you reeled ’em in.”
“I do have a good face, though. Admit it. Spitting image of Ryan Reynolds,” Sullivan says, setting a hand on his cheek and batting his eyelashes.
I snort. “Hate to break it to you . . . you’re more like Ryan Reynolds in your dreams. IRL, maybe his second cousin or something.”
Miguel guffaws. “So, if he’s Deadpool, can I be Michael Peña?”
I shake my head. “Go for Rafael Silva as a comp. He’s much hotter. And if you don’t believe me, check out 9-1-1: Lone Star.”
Grabbing his phone, Miguel googles the actor then nods approvingly. “Yes! I will take that comp, thank you very much. I will add it to my Tinder profile. How about you, Grant? You cruising for a spring-training hookup?”
Yes, with our shortstop.
“Nah. No time for that. Baseball is what I’m all about,” I say, underlining that in my head, putting it on a Post-it, and sticking it on my mental fridge.
“True. That’s why hookups—and only hookups—are the way to go,” Sullivan says. “We need to be all about baseball.”