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)
“It’s no big deal,” Emma says in a reassuring voice.
I cast my eyes to the screen. It’s nothing. It’s just two ballplayers. That is all.
But my heart is beating faster, and my mind is swirling.
What if she’d just taken a picture of me and Grant. Would everyone know? Would everyone be able to tell?
I grit my teeth.
“Hey! Idea. Instead of dropping me off first, do you want me to go in with you? To your hotel?” Emma asks. “So, we can hang out for a little bit before . . . you know.”
“Yes,” Grant jumps in, sounding relieved. I reach a hand to the backseat, set it on his knee. He covers my hand with his, and for that split second, everything feels right in the world.
“I’ll wait for you in the room,” he says in a quiet voice that’s just for me, even though she can hear our private plans.
But that’s okay. She’s helping with them.
That’s both a good thing and a bad thing. Because it’s part of the problem. The big problem.
I’m silent the rest of the ride.
I’m not even sure what to say. Maybe I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll say too much.
To Grant.
To Emma.
Most of all, to myself.
At the hotel, Grant takes off for his room, giving a quick goodbye, then bumping into Crosby and Chance as he heads to the elevator.
Relief floods me when they say hi to him, then swing their gaze to us. Waving hellos.
She’s the perfect cover.
Emma and I go to the lobby bar, where I order an iced tea and we make a show of being seen for twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes that last forever.
“You doing okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“How long will you keep doing this?”
“We set a time limit.”
“And what is that time limit?”
I wince, not wanting to think about it. It’s not even really a time. It’s an action. It’s the end-of-our-sex plans, even though we still have another week or so of spring training. But we agreed to finish this fling well before then. The longer we hold on, the harder it’ll be to keep to the ground rules anyway, so it’s best that we stick to Grant’s dirty list. And we’ll have worked our way through it in twenty-four more hours. “Tomorrow night,” I say heavily.
She gives me a sympathetic smile, pats me on the knee, and then gestures to the door. “I really should go then. I’ll grab a Lyft.”
My stomach dips and plummets at the same time.
This thing with Grant is ending.
But not tonight.
“Thank you. For everything,” I say.
“Don’t mention it,” she says with a smile, and soon she gets into her car.
I shut the door, wave her off, and head straight for the stairwell.
Blinders on, I hope and I pray I run into no one.
Up the stairs I go.
One floor, two, three.
I’m all alone.
Until footsteps echo in the stairwell, heading down.
Someone’s singing a tune in another language. Portuguese, I think.
It’s Miguel. Seconds later, I come face-to-face with the other rookie on the landing.
“Hey man, what’s up?” he asks with a bright smile.
“Not much,” I say, cursing privately, smiling publicly.
“Saw New York killed Phoenix on the ice,” he says.
My brow furrows. Did he see the picture? Does he know we’re . . . together?
“Yeah, good game,” I remark, tension winding through my veins.
He lifts his chin, shooting me a reassuring grin. “G-man told us he was going with you.”
“Right. Sure,” I say, keeping my tone even.
“And your friend,” he adds, eyes locked on mine.
“Yeah.” I don’t say anything more. I don’t have anything else to say.
“All right. I’m gonna hit the pool. Want to join?”
I shake my head. I don’t even bother to fake a yawn. I don’t want to sell it to the jury. I just want to go. “Nah, I’m going to hit the hay.”
“Catch ya tomorrow.”
I dart out on the fourth floor, drag both hands through my hair, and breathe deeply.
I consider finding a fire escape or climbing a drainpipe up to Grant’s room. All this sneaking around is driving me insane.
But I won’t let him be the one caught.
Grant’s too young. Too new. Don’t want my guy to be running into teammates. Better for me to handle the run-ins.
I wait in the hallway, listening to the stairwell, texting Grant that I’m on my way. When it’s quiet again, I duck back into the stairwell, race up the steps to his floor, scan left, right, then just go.
I march down the hall, imagining a scorched earth of nerves behind me.
With every step, I burn off the worries.
I shed them.
I leave them behind.
* * *
And would it have been worth it, after all . . .
* * *
Yes, T.S. Eliot. The Rembrandt is worth it.
When I reach my guy’s room, I almost stop in my tracks as the realization hits me hard.
After only a few nights, I think of him as my guy.