I freeze in horrified disbelief. “Just a game?”
Fitz blinks, staring at her like she’s speaking math. “Who cares?”
I point at her, steel in my gaze. “Nothing is just a game. Games are life. Games are everything.”
Fitz nods solemnly, stabs a finger against his sternum. “And we care. We care completely. Allow me to demonstrate how much.”
But he misses his shot, and I proceed to destroy him, and fifteen minutes later, I collect $500, thank you very much.
I set my cue in the holder on the wall. “Too bad you’re not better, Fitz. I’d have expected you to win a few since you play a game with a stick.” I take a beat. “But then again, I play with sticks and balls.”
Fitz scrubs a hand across his jaw, lifts his beer from the edge of the table, takes a drink, then says drily, “I’m pretty sure I do that too.”
“Guys.” Emma shoulders her purse, shaking her head. “Is it possible to spend one game of pool with you two without some dirty innuendo?”
I look at Fitz, screw up my lips in consideration, then shake my head. “It’s not possible, I’m afraid.”
“Ems, just cover your ears if you don’t like it,” Fitz says.
Truth is, though, she doesn’t care.
She’s used to us—and to me. Back in college, where I met her, I helped her in math, and she helped me in poetry, of all things.
But I needed it. Hell, did I ever.
She’s how I met Fitz, too, when she took me to one of his hockey games shortly after I was drafted. Nothing ever happened between her brother and me, and that’s a good thing. I like having him in my life—friends are constant; men come and go.
“So, did you pretend all night that the eight ball was Nathan? Is that why you were so zoned in?” Emma asks, draping an arm around me as we make our way out of The Lucky Spot.
“I’m over him. He’s yesterday’s news,” I say. “I deleted his number.”
“But has he contacted you?” Fitz asks, pinning me with a stare.
“Nope. Just the way I like it.”
“Nobody does clean breaks like you do,” Emma says.
She’s not wrong. It’s my special skill, and Nathan is the latest red-hot reminder that relationships belong on the back burner.
Now, more than ever—this is a critical time in my career.
I’m twenty-six, entering my fifth year with the San Francisco Cougars. The money is good, the sponsorships are great, the perks are awesome, and I treat my body like a temple, so it treats me the same way.
“Besides,” I add, “I’m not looking for a relationship, let alone a fling or even a hookup. I’m heading into spring training with zero distractions, just like I do every year. This season will be no different.”
Fitz chuckles—a knowing, self-deprecating sort of laugh. He went into training camp a season or so ago with the same mentality. “Famous last words.”
I toss him a smirk. “Famous for you. You broke your pact, but you’re the exception.”
He flashes the platinum band his husband gave him several months ago. “Breaking it did work out pretty well.”
“Ignore my brother. He’s a big love showoff,” Emma chimes in, then links her arm through mine. “But you’re tough as nails, Declan. You’ll go to Arizona with Nathan behind you and the game ahead of you.”
“Exactly,” I say. “I’m not looking to meet anyone, but it doesn’t matter because I won’t do anything. I won’t give in to temptation.”
A few days later, I arrive in Arizona, refreshed, renewed, and determined.
Then I meet Grant Blackwood.
After the one day spent with him, I’m pretty sure he’s about to become the biggest temptation of my life.
2
Grant
A week before spring training
* * *
I’ve wanted this since I turned six. Knew when I would do it too. When I’d walk through the door of this tattoo shop, strip off my shirt, and flop down in the dentist-style chair, skin on display, ready to be marked.
The one thing that has changed over the years is what kind of ink I’d want when this moment arrived.
At six or seven, I imagined a ball or a glove, but later, those seemed too childish.
When I was a teen, I thought I’d get a saying. One of those great baseball adages from Yogi Berra about how it’s not over till it’s over.
Eventually, I realized this ink needed to be something bigger.
A tattoo to mark the dream I’ve been chasing since I was a kid, and what I hope is the start of the rest of my life.
I’m even at a shop in the town where I grew up. Seems fitting.
The electric-blue-haired, lip-ringed tattoo artist tugs on latex gloves, snaps them, and shoots me a now-or-never look. “Ready?” Echo asks.
“I’m always ready,” I say.
That’s how I’ve learned to live my life. Lord knows I was blindsided too many times when I was younger. I learned too many things I didn’t want to know about people I loved. People I trusted.