Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
I breathe a sigh of relief. “I was in Triple-A last season,” I say, and I make a mental note that he’s not one of those guys who follows the minors. That’s what I would do if I were him. But, hey, maybe I’d be so absorbed in my own game that I wouldn’t have time to worry about who was coming up. That’s probably why he doesn’t know who I am.
The man has more forward momentum than anyone. He’s in a league of his own and doesn’t have to peer in the rearview mirror to see who’s chasing him.
He scrubs a hand across his chin, studying me. It’s not a sexual look. He’s not shamelessly eating me up with his eyes. It’s more like he’s trying to read me, figure out if I have an ego the size of an SUV, if I’m just one of the guys, or a pushover, or somewhere in between. “So, you’re a hotshot, then?” Declan asks.
Fuck.
I am doing this all wrong.
I don’t want him to think I have a big head since I raced through the minors faster than most guys.
“No. I don’t think I am. And I’m also not a shortstop,” I say quickly, lest he think I’m gunning for his position.
Then he cracks up, sets a hand on my shoulder, and I go still so I don’t give away how much I like that big hand on me. The way he curls it over my muscle. How his palm fits on my body. That’s just a friendly hand, nothing more.
Too bad my body doesn’t feel friendly with him.
It feels hot.
Hotter still when he says, “Rookie, I’m just fucking with you.”
Does he know how much innuendo I can hear laced in his words?
Or is it just me, craving innuendo with him?
Note to self: you seem to have forgotten that your teammate is off-limits.
He drops his hand, then holds it out to shake. “Declan Steele,” he says, and I want to tell him, Dude, I know who you are. I’ve watched your games, seen your interviews, admired your career. And your deep brown eyes, perfectly messy hair, and chiseled jaw with just the right amount of scruff that blends together into the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.
By the way, you might not post shots online of your dates, but I’ve come across the pics of you having dinner with Nathan Sparks, and all I have to say is this—that guy’s a jackass and you can do better.
“Grant Blackwood,” I say. “I’m looking forward to playing with you.”
And I cringe.
Did that just come out of my mouth? That sounds so filthy. So deliciously, dangerously filthy.
And so wildly inappropriate.
The corner of his lips quirks up. The man exudes confidence. He gives off heady doses of charisma. He’s unflappable even as I step in it. “I’m definitely looking forward to playing with you too, Grant,” he says, then shakes his head, clearly amused by me.
Which is not the first impression I wanted to make on a teammate.
I have bungled this so badly.
I groan privately, then drag a hand down the back of my neck. I came on to the dude, and I didn’t mean to come on to him, and he’s going to think I meant something, and I didn’t mean anything. Even though some part of my lizard brain means everything because I would love to play with him in the bedroom.
But that is not happening.
That is not what spring training is about.
This is about me meeting a teammate, not some guy I’m hot for.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m here to say this—it is seriously hard sometimes being a queer dude on a sports team, even if everyone’s cool with queer dudes in pro sports.
Even if I already have sponsors lined up for endorsement deals.
Even if pro sports is no longer a bastion of homophobia, but instead a beacon of rainbow pride, embracing LGBTQ athletes.
I don’t want my teammates to think what small-minded people think about gay guys in a locker room—that we’re checking out all the men.
I vow to never look at Declan in the locker room.
Right now, I do my best to course correct. “All I mean is I’m a big fan of yours,” I say, and yeah, now I sound like a complete tool.
This is awesome.
I love meeting a player I look up to and making a complete fool of myself.
“Big fan,” I repeat, owning my tool-ery. “I sound like I’m calling into a sports talk show.”
“Long-time listener, first-time caller,” Declan quips, then adds, like he’s the radio host Jim Rome, “‘Welcome to the Jungle.’”
And I relax as he takes the conversational plane in for a smooth landing on the runway, making me feel like it’s okay that I put my foot in my mouth.
Like he gets my energy.
He spins around, then he turns back, urgency in his eyes. “Wait a second. You missed the drills, didn’t you?”