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)
“And now the whole damn league thinks you’re Hank Aaron at the plate and you eat sliders for breakfast.”
I blow on my fingernails. “Yeah, they do. But guess what?” I say, leaning closer to him, lowering my voice.
“Tell me,” he says, curiosity dripping in his tone.
“I will but you can’t tell a soul.”
“Oh. Do you want me to sign an NDA?”
“You are my NDA.”
Grant wiggles his finger for me to serve up the goods. “What’s the deal?”
“I mean it. Don’t share this, okay?”
He rolls his eyes. “Who the hell am I going to share it with?”
I give him a look like the answer is obvious. “Your team.”
Grant raises a palm like he’s taking an oath. “I won’t tell anybody.”
“They’re my weakness,” I whisper. “Can’t hit ’em for shit.”
He whistles in appreciation. “What do you know? The great Declan Steele has a weakness.”
I level him with a stare, then speak from the bottom of my heart. “You’re my weakness, rookie.”
A tingle rushes down my chest as I say those words, then along my whole body when he whispers back, “You’re mine.”
I take his hand again, rubbing the pad of my thumb over his knuckles. “It’s going to be hard waiting till November.”
“I know,” Grant says heavily, then perks himself up. “But hey, I have a long list of things I want to do with you in bed. We only got through four. Four. I want so much more than four.”
A zip of pleasure slides down my spine. “Tell me.”
“Well, rim jobs. Giving and getting. As you know,” he adds.
“And I can’t wait.”
“Sixty-nine. I definitely want to do that. Because what’s better than one blow job? Simultaneous blow jobs.”
“I’m down for it.”
“And,” he says, taking a beat, letting a rumble slide past his lips, “I really want to flip fuck. I’m kind of obsessed with it. Always have been.”
Images flicker past my eyes, him and me, taking turns. I have him first, he takes me next. We trade off in the same night. After I linger on those pictures, I tell him something I think he’s really going to like. “I’ve never flip-fucked with anyone.”
His eyes widen. “Yeah? You’re serious?”
“Never have.”
Grant’s tone borders on desperate. He stretches his hand across the table and holds my face. His thumb strokes my jaw. “Save it for me.”
“I will. I want to with you,” I say, then I let out a heavy breath as he lowers his hand. “Grant, it’s going to be hard not talking to you. Not seeing you.”
“But we need to,” he says, eyes locked with mine, gaze serious.
He’s right. I know he’s right. But still. I want what I want. “Do we, though?”
He crooks his lips at the question. “Do we what?”
“Do we really have to go cold turkey?” I ask, reaching for something, anything. My desperate heart doesn’t want to go without him. “What if we talked? What if we FaceTimed? What if we Skyped? Maybe not during spring training. Maybe you need to figure out what’s going on over the next few days. But I don’t know that I can go six months without you. Why can’t we Skype and FaceTime?”
Grant doesn’t answer because River arrives with the food. “Bon appétit,” he says.
“Thanks, River,” I say, but I don’t pick up my fork. Neither does Grant.
“You really want to do that?” the man across from me asks. “Long distance?”
“Better than nothing.” But I don’t want to make things worse. I don’t want to get in his head. I wave my hand, like I can lighten the mood. “Think about it. I don’t want to put any pressure on you. But the truth is, I’m going to miss you so fucking much. And a little bit of Grant is better than none.”
“Deck, you know I’ve never been able to say no to you. You know I’ve never been able to resist you,” he says, laying out his truth.
“I’m glad, because you’re irresistible,” I say, then I pick up my fork and we eat.
When we’re done, I pay the bill, and then we tell River goodbye and return to the room to spend our last night together for six long months.
He rises at four in the morning, kisses me hard, then says he’s catching a Lyft. “I should get back to the team hotel.”
I drag him close—one more kiss for the road—then I gird myself to say something I’d rather not say. But I know my dad’s right. And it’d be wrong not to tell Grant.
“In the last couple games,” I say, “your weight was too far back on your knees. Shift forward maybe a millimeter. Like you usually do.”
Grant’s smile is easy and carefree as a bird soaring across the bright blue sky. “You’re right. I’ll do that today.”
He leaves.
A little later, I head to the airport, but I stop in my tracks when I spot a TV playing a report on the Cougars on The Sports Network. Grant’s passed ball yesterday blazes across the screen.