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)
Living with Sullivan in Bakersfield revealed there’s much more to him than meets the eye.
“Actually, slut shaming is criticizing women and girls and often gay men as well for behaviors that might be considered promiscuous,” Sullivan offers clinically, sounding like a Wikipedia entry.
“Did you take a gender studies class or something in college?” Miguel asks.
“My major was psych,” he offers. “Also, straight men are rarely slut shamed for liking sex, or for engaging in behaviors like wearing sexy clothes, so it’s not cool to slut shame women or queer people.”
“I don’t even think he slut shamed, Sully,” I say.
“I know. But now he’ll know what it is,” Sullivan adds in a teacherly tone.
“I love getting more woke,” Miguel says, rapping fists with Sullivan. “So, I am all good with this.”
“Also, I believe everyone should have more sex,” Sullivan says.
“What are you? Like the Santa of sex?” Miguel puts in.
“Maybe I am. Or Oprah. You get sex! You get sex! You get sex! Everybody gets sex!” he says, imitating the TV star handing out cars.
“I will accept that gift,” Miguel adds.
“Also, for the record, I’m not on Grindr so no, I’m not hooking up,” I correct, and it feels good to say that. Sure, I was into quick hookups in college, but right now I’m definitely not.
However, I’m absolutely into whatever is happening tonight with the shortstop.
“So, what are you doing tonight then, G-man? Bubble bath for you and a good book?”
Oh shit.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I go deeper into the lunge, hoping the weights cover up the flare of embarrassment.
“Going to a hockey game,” I say, as evenly as I can. Do I add with Declan?
Would that be weird? Or weirder if I don’t mention him? But what if they see us leave together? Ah, hell, I’ve got to say it, and I’ve got to remember there’s nothing wrong with going to a hockey game with a teammate. “Sweet! I heard New York was in town. I’m jelly. Good seats?” Miguel asks, as he drops down into another squat.
“Definitely. Center ice,” I say, wincing as the half-truths roll off my tongue.
Miguel’s dark eyes twinkle. “Got extra?”
Ah hell.
I can’t hide this.
“Don’t think so. Fitzgerald got them for us. Declan is tight with Fitz’s sister, so I’m going with the two of them.”
Please don’t ask anything more.
“Got it,” Miguel says, then launches into dead lifts. “You and Declan?”
My pulse spikes. Tension tightens my bones.
But Sullivan cuts in with a side-eye at Miguel. “They’re friends. Don’t make assumptions.”
Miguel holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m cool with whatevs.”
I clench my jaw, hating assumptions, hating when other people try to tell your story, hating it even more when they get it right.
“We’re friends,” I say. “Just like I’m friends with you guys.”
That ought to make it clear, even though that’s a bald-faced lie.
One that twists my gut.
When I’m back in my room, I need to find a way to untie the knot in my stomach, or it’ll weigh me down. And I think I know how to do it. I grab my phone, and text Reese.
* * *
Grant: You around for a call?
* * *
Reese: For you? Anytime.
* * *
I ring her in a split second.
“That was fast. Are you okay?” she asks.
I sigh heavily. After lying through my teeth, I’m pretty sure I’m about to vomit up the truth. Like my insides are heaving, and I need to puke out all the words, I hurl them up at my best friend. “I’m having a thing with Declan. He’s incredible, and we’ve been getting together every night, and I’m out of my mind for him.”
Silence comes first, then it’s chased by a long, intrigued ohhh.
“Really?” She sounds excited, and her tone buoys me. “How did this happen?”
“We started working out together and talking.” As I flop onto the couch, I tell her nearly everything.
“Wow. That kind of sounds . . . amazing,” she says, but there’s a hitch in her voice, like she knows this can’t end well.
Dropping my head in my hands, I sink farther into the couch, dread stalking through my veins. “He’s . . . just . . . soooo . . .”
I can barely talk. I can hardly put into words the enormity of what’s happening to me all at once. My career is shooting sky-high, I’m on the cusp of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to catch my first Major League game in less than two weeks, if I make the roster, and I’ve got a massive thing for this guy.
I squeeze my eyes shut as if it’ll make the next sentence easier. But it doesn’t. It’s still hard to say. “I can’t get him out of my head,” I admit. “It’s kind of making me crazy.”
“Oh, sweetie. It sounds amazing and awful at the same time,” she says.
“Exactly.”
“So, what happens next?”