“You joke, but you are a sunshine guy. That’s what I mean. You have this whole aura about you. Openness, positivity, good vibes. You’re not used to people saying bad things because you’ve been the golden guy.” He seems thoughtful, like he’s been wanting to share his wisdom for a while.
I settle into the pillow and hum, considering. “Have you had the media drag up shit about you before?”
“Sure. Do you remember when I was traded to the Comets?”
“Obviously,” I say, stretching out on the bed.
“I was supposed to be the savior. They traded pitchers away for me. They wanted to make a World Series run,” he says, his voice wistful. “I was going to be the missing piece. The firepower in the lineup. Do you see where I’m going?”
“I think so,” I say heavily.
“I didn’t get the team there,” Declan continues. “The Comets screwed up by trading away pitchers, and that mistake—the mistake of me—was a constant drumbeat in the media for a year or more. Our pitching didn’t hold up, so it didn’t matter what kind of numbers I put on the scoreboard. We made it to the postseason only once when I was there, and we didn’t get past the divisionals. It sucked, Grant.”
“I had no idea they covered the trade that much after the fact.” I hate that he went through that.
“You had no idea because we’d broken up. But yes, it was endless. It was the soundtrack to my first year there, and even into the second. I had to tune it out.”
“Your blinders,” I say with a smile. “One-Track Steele.”
“My alter ego came in handy then.”
I mull over Declan’s story, looking for the nugget of wisdom in it. “Are you saying I need to tune this out?”
“You do, babe. You won’t get everyone’s support. We won’t. I doubt we’re universally loved anywhere, even in the queer community. I’m sure there are people there who don’t like us for whatever reason.”
“Because you’re a catch, and I caught you,” I say, putting the swagger and charm back in my voice.
“You did. So, try to put Troy behind you,” Declan suggests.
That I can do. Because I have a better idea. “I want you behind me,” I say in my best flirty, dirty voice.
“Mmm. I will get behind you when I’m home this weekend. I will bend you over the bed and make you forget this entire week. I will make you feel so fucking good, you won’t be able to say anything but more, gimme more, baby, give me fucking more.”
My skin tingles. “Don’t get me hard, baby. I’m too tired to beat off right now.”
“Mmm. Yup. Like that. If I were there, I might not be able to resist kissing your neck, your jaw, your ear,” he says in a low and sexy voice.
“Deck . . .” I warn.
“Yes, rookie?”
“I want you.”
“I know you do. And I want you. So fucking much.”
Those words mean more than sex. They’re a code for all my deepest needs, ones he alone is privy to. Like how much I crave being wanted. How I long for a big, voracious love from him. Guess that makes me a greedy bastard.
“Now, I am turned all the way on,” I rasp out.
“Then you better switch to video so I can see you and help you.”
A minute later we’re both naked and taking matters into our own hands, and I feel so much better already—mentally and physically.
All thanks to my guy.
15
Grant
If I had known that negative media coverage would drive me at the plate, maybe I’d have sought it out sooner. Courted the press and taunted them with bad-boy escapades, encouraged scathing write-ups.
After Troy’s withering post, I followed my guy’s advice and tuned it out. I went on a tear during our series against the Coyotes, whacking in a home run in game one, hitting two RBI singles in the next.
My pitch calling is on fire. My pitchers move quickly through the batters, hitting their marks, clocking strikes. Declan notices too, and tells me as much in a text the morning before the third Coyotes game.
Declan: Told you to tune it out, and look at you. You motherfucking did.
Grant: Thanks to you, One-Track Steele.
Declan: I’ll be calling you One-Track Blackwood any day now.
Grant: I’ll take it.
Declan: And when I get home in the middle of the night, I’ll give you a reward. Because you deserve one.
Grant: One? One stinking reward? I want many. So many rewards.
Declan: A man after my own heart.
Grant: I was not thinking about your heart just now. Sorry, not sorry.
Declan: Don’t ever apologize for thinking about my dick. P.S. Gotta go. At the Minotaurs stadium now for BP, then I’ll be catching a flight home after the game. To see your dick.
Declan: And also you. Sorry, not sorry for wanting to see you as well as your dick.