“How long were you apart?”
“A year or so.”
“Why didn’t you ever mention this?”
“I suppose there was no need. We found our happy ending. But I’m telling you now.”
“What changed that brought you back to her?”
“Eventually, I realized I’d regret not giving us a chance.”
“I’m glad you gave it a chance,” I say.
“Me too, kid. For all the reasons,” he says. “So just keep an open mind.”
“I will,” I say, but the memory of the day I got that text from Declan rears up, lashing claws at me, scratching my chest. I flash back to my hotel room in Phoenix, to how I felt when I threw the phone, to how much I hurt when Declan ghosted me.
It was such a gut punch, and I swear I can feel the residual pain the more I dwell on it.
My grandpa and I hang out on the porch for a while longer, the swing creaking in the warm November night air as we meander down various conversational paths, chatting about his PT, about my grandma’s upcoming Scrabble competition with Reese’s grandmother, then baseball again.
Always back to the game.
This time, though, he shoots me a curious look. “So, Declan Steele, huh?”
I just smile and shrug. “Yeah, he’s kind of . . .”
“Amazing?” He supplies with a knowing grin. “I believe that’s what you said back in spring training.”
I swallow past a knot of emotions. That is indeed what I said to my grandfather one of the times I called him back then, when I told him I was both messing up in baseball, and I was messed up over a guy too.
That was the day before Declan left.
At the time, he was amazing.
Is he still?
I don’t know.
That day feels like a million years ago.
And like yesterday at the same damn time.
At the event at the Luxe Hotel, I catch a glimpse of Declan in the crowd. Some things do stay the same—like the way my skin heats when I see him. Because damn, does he wear the hell out of a suit.
It’s midnight blue and fits him like a dream.
But I blink away those thoughts as Haven joins me in the reception area with a handsome photographer by her side. Empirically handsome, that is, with his California surfer looks—shaggy dark blond hair and hazel eyes that made men and women alike swoon when he was on the field.
And off, I imagine.
He’s Asher St. James, the former American soccer star and one of the best-known out players, who’s now the it photographer.
“Smile for the camera, Mr. Hotshot,” he says, snapping a shot of Haven and me.
“We should grab one of the two of you for the Alliance since you’re both doing such great work for it,” Haven points out. “Want me to take one?”
Asher flashes one of those megawatt smiles in her direction. “As if I’d let anyone touch this baby,” he says, stroking his camera possessively. “But don’t worry, Grant. I can take fantastic selfies. You’ll look as gorgeous as you always do.”
I laugh. “Thanks. I’m sure you will as well,” I say, returning the compliment. Asher is one of those guys who doles out flattery like party favors. He snaps a selfie of the two of us, then says he’ll text it to me later.
I give him my number, put my phone away, and head into the spacious hall where the awards take place.
As I make my way toward the second row, I spot Declan seated in the middle by the aisle. Just a quick glance at the cut of his shoulders and the swoop of his hair makes my breath catch.
Just like it did last time I saw him.
Will it always be like this?
For the rest of my damn life?
As if he senses me, his head turns. His eyes sail up to meet mine. His lips curve into that sexy grin.
And he mouths Hey, there as I walk past him.
Yeah, it might be like this for the rest of my life, and I don’t know how to deal with the overdose of emotions—desire, want, hurt, longing, regret—I feel when I’m near him.
But I don’t have time to deal with that now.
And an hour later, I win Rookie of the Year.
It’s more thrilling than I expected, but the best part is the way the news spreads online when the event ends.
My social media feed goes wild with young athletes thanking me for being out and congratulating me on being the first openly gay baseball player to win the award.
It’s humbling and amazing.
It’s more than I ever expected to happen—both the award and the way others are reaching out to me. I don’t know any of them, of course. But I also feel like I know them all. I know their struggles and their joys too.
As I walk up Park Avenue, phone in hand, I reply to as many as I can, thanking them for their support.