Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
And five and a half months since he called it off.
Do I miss him?
Not every second. Not every hour. But probably at some point each day.
Do I imagine Miami?
Every so often my mind wanders to what might have been—blue skies and sand, the ocean and sun-kissed skin. Days with no schedule and nights that don’t end.
My heart lurches, scrambling toward the city in Florida, wanting to throw itself on the beach next to the shortstop.
But I need to stop imagining what might have been. Declan is in the past, and every day, the memory hurts less.
Besides, I have new plans.
“My grandfather had knee surgery this summer, so I’ll be up in Petaluma, spending some time with him and my grandmother.”
And when I’m not with them, maybe I’ll take River up on his offer to cruise the bars. Or maybe I’ll get on Grindr. It’s been a while. I’d really like to get laid again.
That, I don’t need to share with the guys.
“I’ll be around, though,” I add. “Got something in mind?”
Chance peers over the headrest. “We do some volunteer work with local underprivileged kids—coach and play ball. Want to join us?”
My smile spreads from the warm, welcomed feeling in the center of my chest all the way across my face. These guys have made me feel like a part of the team since I arrived at spring training—even more so once I made the roster. We’ve gone out, played pool, eaten our meals. But them asking me to participate in something that matters to them this way?
Hell, yeah.
“I’m all in,” I say. Maybe if we become closer friends, I can ask them to do something with the organizations that matter to me, like the San Francisco-based LGBTQ Youth Sports Alliance. I just started doing some volunteer work and advocacy, and since my Instagram profile has taken off this year, I boost their signal on my social media.
But now’s not the time to bring it up with the guys. Not when I’m a rookie. Also, I don’t yet know how far they’d go as straight dudes to stand up for queer kids.
I suspect Chance will say yes, though. At the start of the season, he told me his twin brother, TJ, is gay.
“Cool. I’ll get you all the dates,” Crosby tells me, then points at Sullivan. “And you’re joining us too, Sully.”
Sullivan smiles. “Count me in.”
A voice rumbles from a row away. It’s Rodriguez, the backup catcher. “And don’t forget, while we’re talking about good causes, we have the foster kids coming to visit next week. You’re all going to be there to show them around and take batting practice with them.”
“Absolutely,” I say as the other guys chime in too.
I’d been worried Rodriguez wouldn’t like me after I won the starting job over him. But after the roster was announced, he pulled me aside and wished me luck, said he’d be my backup for whatever I needed.
Now, Crosby returns to his seat, but before he can settle in, he swivels around to say, “I forgot the most important thing about our trip to New York.”
“Winning?” Chance quips in a duh, that’s obvious tone.
“Okay, that. But this is a close second.” Cupping his hands into a megaphone, he declares loudly, “Declan Steele is having an excellent season.”
My head goes hazy and conflicted at the mention of his name, just as it has every time he comes up in conversation. Images rise to the surface, and I smack them down like in a Whac-A-Mole game, only for them to return.
That’s Declan for you. He’s my Whac-A-Mole.
Crosby continues, “I don’t want to see his ass on base. I want our pitchers to strike him out in every single at-bat. I want to destroy him.”
Chance whistles appreciatively. “Hell to the yes, but why so vicious? He’s a friend still, right? Or did he steal your socks?”
“Yes, he’s a bud,” Crosby assures him. “But fuck friendship. This is baseball. Former teammate or not, we must annihilate him.”
“We do that to everyone,” I say. Declan is no different than any other player we want to retire at the plate.
He’s no one special.
“That is true,” Crosby says. “But I want to gloat when we play pool with him tomorrow night. Because that’s what we’re going to do. You’re all joining me after the game. Also I have a bet with the motherfucker that he won’t get on base, and I want to win, so help me out.”
As the guys join in on the bet, I’m not thinking about money. I’m not even thinking about how our pitchers can strike out Declan.
I’m thinking that we’re all playing pool with my ex-lover tomorrow night.
The first and only man I’ve ever slept with.
The guy who still makes my skin flash hot.
12
Grant
Baseball is mental.
Once you have the skills, the game is instinct, reaction, practice.