Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
A moment later my elbow accidentally brushed Maclain’s, and my stomach dipped, but he totally freaked and stepped away. Christ, definitely never gonna happen with him.
We stood outside to wait at the next shop, which was booming with loud music.
“Hey, we should look up the nearest gay bar and go dancing,” Kellan said, swaying to the music.
“Not sure I have it in me tonight,” Donovan replied around a yawn.
“Oh, c’mon.” Kellan bumped his hip playfully against Donovan’s. “You guys could totally join us.”
I felt Maclain stiffen and knew that was a bridge too far. But damn, I wished it weren’t. That didn’t mean I couldn’t still see for myself, so I said, “I’d go just to see Donovan dance.”
“Right?” Maclain said, and I blew out a breath that he could at least joke about it.
“Hey, I’m not so bad,” Donovan said with a pout, then kissed the top of Kellan’s head. “But maybe another night.”
We decided to trek back the few blocks to the hotel, then practically fell into bed when we got back to our rooms. Thankfully, we had the wherewithal to change first.
“Night, Maclain,” I said after I hit the lights, my limbs already feeling heavy.
There was a beat of silence, and I thought maybe he’d already fallen asleep, but then he said, “You can call me by my first name, you know. Like, when we’re alone.”
“You’d like that?”
“Yeah, sure. I…don’t hear it a lot.”
Ugh, this guy.
“Well, in that case…night, Mason.”
“Night, Dominic.”
I smiled into the darkness, then promptly fell asleep.
17
Maclain
Thankfully, Girard wasn’t a big talker in the mornings either. We moved easily around each other to get ready for the team meeting and today’s game. When Girard provided a caffeine fix with the fancy coffee maker that rivaled the ones at other hotels we’d stayed in, it felt almost domestic. He’d even remembered how I liked it. Or I just wasn’t used to this—this feeling of rightness with someone I was trying very hard not to be attracted to.
Yesterday’s tour of the city had been fun, and there were certain moments where I’d had to catch myself so the others wouldn’t discover that Girard and I were not only more friendly, but we’d fooled around. And just thinking about anything happening between us again made my pulse quicken, while at the same time, it made me nervous as hell. I wasn’t ready for anything more, and yet I longed for it like nothing else before.
Getting off with Girard felt different from other hookups, beyond the fact that we were teammates and he was a guy. My attraction to him scared the heck out of me. I’d never been this hung up on someone and doing anything more physical was likely to have one of two outcomes: it would satisfy this hunger I had inside me or it would create a deeper ache I might never recover from.
And I’d admitted as much before we boarded the plane.
I also admitted some other things in the process, but strangely enough, I trusted Girard. I didn’t think he’d intentionally tell any of my secrets. But he seemed less worried about discovery than me, and that felt concerning. Him buying me candy gifts and throwing smiles my way seemed like a dead giveaway.
Or maybe that’s what friends do, idiot.
We made our way down to the lobby together, met the coaches, and boarded the team bus, heading to the field.
Vickers would be the opening pitcher today—the coaches played us in rotation during this week to give us all the opportunity—and I could immediately tell from the way he was pacing at the mound that he was nervous.
“Girard, have Maclain and Vickers team up to throw some pitches.”
Coach Crawford was known for setting up mentors for the younger guys, so maybe he’d also noticed that our newb pitcher was anxious. I wasn’t sure I was the right guy to help direct or distract him, but here I was.
“What are you struggling with?” I asked him when I stepped to the mound, and he seemed surprised I’d initiated the conversation.
“The curveball again,” he replied glumly. I’d helped him run some drills during practices, so I thought he’d gotten more confident about his abilities. “The first batter on deck always gets a hit off the fastball.”
“Which is your strongest pitch.”
His cheeks dotted pink at the compliment. “Yeah.”
Retrieving the ball from the dirt, I placed my fingers on the strings with a firm grip. “See how my wrist rotates so my thumb’s upward?” Getting in my pitching stance, I placed the ball behind my back and studied home plate, trying not to get distracted by the cute catcher squatting behind it.
Once Vickers made a noise of approval, I wound up and let the ball sail into Girard’s glove.
“Right on the mark,” Girard said, throwing the ball back to me.