Tingles race down my spine.
The missing piece.
I’ve had a good run in San Francisco over four years. A great run. But this is . . . next level.
This is the most storied franchise of all time, with more World Series crowns than any other team by a mile.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, a million thoughts tearing through my head. I’ve always known this could happen. Trades are de rigueur in baseball. Especially at my level. With four years’ service, I don’t have a no-trade clause.
For a fraction of a second, a dark fear wedges under my skin. “Is San Francisco trying to get rid of me?”
Vaughn scoffs. “Dude. Nooooo. Don’t think that. Not for a second. New York came calling and San Francisco would be stupid not to trade you with what New York offered. Cougars need pitchers, and New York has them. New York is ten-feet deep in firepower on the mound thanks to its farm system—but they desperately need an anchor for the lineup. They’re picking up your contract extension, and wait till you hear the amount they’re offering.”
He dives into specifics about the extension and the dollars, and I swear my jaw comes unhinged. I’m already making good money—Vaughn scored me a hell of a deal in arbitration. But the money New York is dangling is insane.
Plus, it’s New York.
It has one fantastic priceless feature that San Francisco doesn’t: It’s far, far away from my father.
Then again, it’s not as if I have a choice—I’ve been traded. All I have to do is pack my bags. “So, when am I leaving?”
“You can either take the red-eye tonight, or you can get on a flight at six a.m. tomorrow morning.”
Grant. One more night with Grant.
My answer is instant. “Put me on the six a.m. flight.”
We talk about details for a few more minutes. My uniform will be waiting in my locker, the guys usually stay in rental homes, designated hitter, Brady, has an extra room, and will be happy to put me up for the final week.
When the call ends, I just sit there, alone in the weight room, absolutely floored. I stare at the mirror, processing the fact that I’ve been traded away. I’m no longer on the same team as the man I’m falling in love with.
And that is the best damn part of this news.
It’s so fucking good I want to kiss the sky.
I open my texts and send him a message, then count the seconds.
C’mon. Write back.
Like he can read my mind, he replies in just ten Mississippis.
I tell him to wait in his room and I go straight there, not giving a flying fuck if I run into anyone on the way.
But I don’t see a soul, and that’s fine too.
Grant opens the door, and once it falls closed behind us, I park my hands on his shoulders, look into his eyes, and smile like crazy. “Guess who’s not your teammate anymore?”
35
Declan
Here’s the thing about getting traded.
Your bros want to send you off in style.
You can’t really say sorry, I need to go hole up in a hotel room and spend the night with the hot-as-sin catcher.
So, I can’t say no to this last night with the guys. I still don’t want them to know what we’ve been up to. Protecting Grant doesn’t end when I get to the other side of the country and put on the other team’s uniform.
Our spring fling is our secret, and always will be.
When Crosby and Chance hustle me to the Cactus Club, I go along with it. Grant and I have a plan, after all.
We shoot pool, toast with iced tea for me, Diet Coke for him, and beer for some of the others.
“Man, I cannot wait to pitch against you when we go to New York,” Chance says as he leans against the pool table. “I am going to strike you out so damn hard, and I’m going to love every second of it.” He hisses like he’s on the mound—because I’m sure this dude does hiss on the mound.
“We’re going to demolish you,” Crosby says, then swings his gaze to Chance. “But no sliders, K? Don’t forget that hanging slider this guy hit against the Aces. That grand slam was insane.”
I laugh privately. If they only knew the truth about that hanging slider. “Guess word got out around the league,” I say, keeping my response light. I don’t mind at all that I’m the Loch Ness Monster with sliders. No one’s seen me hit one well, but my reputation for going long with them precedes me.
“Guess I know what pitch not to call when Declan is at the plate,” Grant drawls as he sets down his Diet Coke, then lifts his cue and takes aim at the red-striped ball on the table.
After Grant misses and loses the game, he makes a show of checking out his phone, arching a brow, then licking his lips. “I’m outta here, guys,” he says.