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As I walk through the lot, weaving through my teammates’ McLarens, Ferraris, and Mercedes, I fire off a text to my man.

Grant: All-Star break one stinking day away. Why are we not taking off for Hawaii on Saturday instead of Houston?

Declan: Mmm. Don’t tempt me. You, me, and three days to relax in the sun is my new fantasy.

Grant: By relax, I assume you mean fuck?

Declan: I did say fantasy, Grant. Fucking you is always part of my dream scenario, you know that.

Grant: Since we’re in different leagues and starting against each other in the All-Star game, I have this elaborate fantasy of making sure you strike out in your first plate appearance. Nothing will make me happier than playing a part in taking down my lover.

Declan: Tell me more about this COMPLETELY IMPROBABLE fantasy. (Also, why the fuck do you daydream about me failing?)

Grant: Because it means I can handle playing baseball and being with you. Because it means you don’t distract me. Because calling the right pitches to strike you out means I can fuck you at night and love you at home and compete with you at work.

Declan: Fucking and loving. Count me in. But for the record, I can’t wait to clobber the fuck out of whatever pitch you call at the All-Star game—hit that and knock it out of the ballpark.

Grant: All I read was hit that. Maybe you’d like to hit that when you come home tonight.

Declan: Or maybe you would. Such a big dilemma. I do, however, have another dilemma regarding our plans this weekend.

I tense, almost to the door. Is he going to back out of our plans? Clubbing has never been his thing. But it’s my thing, and I desperately want to go dancing with my boyfriend in public. I can’t wait to take him out tomorrow night.

Grant: Talk to me.

Declan: I still don’t know what the hell to wear to Edge.

I laugh as I push open the big steel doors to the stadium, relieved his big quandary is of the clothing variety. That, I can handle.

Clicking on his name, I call him as I walk along the ballpark’s underground concourse. “Is this a fashion emergency call?” Declan jokes when he answers.

“Evidently,” I say. “But it doesn’t have to be. You know I think you always look good no matter what you wear. Jeans, Henleys, T-shirts, polos, basketball shorts . . .”

“Presuming you don’t want me to wear the latter?”

“Good call. But I’ll help you find just the right thing to wear dancing.” I like to make his life easy. I want Declan to feel at home anywhere we go and whatever we do. “I was worried your dilemma was how to wriggle out of our date.”

“Wait. Was that an option?” he asks, deadpan. “I’ll try wriggling.”

I scoff. “Please. You can wriggle with me on the dance floor. I’m an awesome dancer, and I’ll make sure you look good.”

“Bet I’d look good dancing at home,” he says, in a flirty, teasing tone.

“No doubt, but I want to see you at the club with me, and I’m giving you the Grant Blackwood promise that you’re going to have the best night ever.”

He takes a beat before he answers. “Then, tell me what to wear. That’ll solve my dilemma.”

“I’ll take care of your clothes. You don’t have to worry your pretty head about it.”

“Just don’t make me look like I stepped out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad.”

I snap my fingers. “Damn. You figured out my plan. Are you thinking REI outdoor couture is more your speed?”

He groans. “Please say you’re not going for a lumberjack or sailor look.”

Despite our banter, I assure him sincerely, “Trust me on this, okay?”

When Declan answers, his voice goes to that soft and tender tone that melts me completely. “I trust you on everything, Grant.”

I resume my pace, headed to the locker room at the far end of the concourse. “I’ve got you. And, in case I haven’t said it, thank you for going.”

He laughs. “It’s adorable how badly you want to do this.”

“Have you seen a mirror?” I ask. “I scored big time. I landed a babe, and I want all the guys to know you’re with me.”

“I’m pretty sure your social media feed makes that clear.”

He’s not wrong. We posted pictures of us at a carnival for LGBTQ teen athletes two months ago. They were my most liked images ever. Last month, I posted a shot of us out for bagels on a Saturday with a bunch of friends, laughing. Second most popular one. Earlier this month, Reese snapped a pic of Declan and me when we were playing pool with the crew. Declan was lining up a shot, and it looks like he’s staring at me at the edge of the pool table.

He knows I post them. I show them all to him before I put them out there for the world. He’s good with it, but he’s more private than I am. Yes, he likes to hold my hand in public, to kiss me on the cheek when we get coffee, but he’s not as showy. The only pic of us he’s posted on his social media is the carnival one. But that was enough for me. I’ve always been louder than he is, and that’s cool with both of us. I like telling my story. I like that people get to see our love story.


Tags: Lauren Blakely Men of Summer M-M Romance