“Yeah, sure,” I say, gulping.
Crosby turns, shoves his hat at Chance. “You in or out?”
Chance grabs a bill from his pocket, tosses it in. “I’ve seen you fail at it. A hundo says you will again.”
“You’re wrong.” Crosby turns around, pats the weight belt on his waist, then sets the hat on the ground.
“You ready?” The question comes my way from Crosby, and it’s time to improvise. I’ve no idea what the triple lift is.
But I won’t let on. “Absolutely.”
“Cool,” he says, then points to the grass. “Get on the ground. Lie down.” I do as I'm told while Crosby calls out to two other rookies, guys I know well from Triple-A. “Sullivan! Miguel! Get over here too. Grant’s in the middle.”
Sullivan trots over, his dark eyes eager as a puppy dog’s, and drops to the ground next to me. Miguel flops on my other side.
“Hook elbows around the other guys,” Crosby says to the three of us. “I’m going to lift you all at once.”
This doesn’t feel like a drill, but I get in position, the sun shining brightly in my eyes. Crosby leans over like he’s about to grab the waistband of my uniform to haul us up over his head.
Instead, Chance sweeps in, squeezing a red bottle at my face.
Before I even blink, I have red goop all over me, my hair, my uniform. I look like a one-man crime scene, and I crinkle my nose at the vinegary smell of ketchup.
Sullivan takes a direct hit of bright yellow mustard next to me, then Crosby is shaking another container on the three of us, dumping an avalanche of baby powder that flies everywhere and coats us in a layer of white talc.
I spit it out, laughing and grossed out at the same time, then Declan gets in on the act, dousing us with a couple of cans of whipped cream, spraying the dessert topping all over us.
My face is covered in condiments. My uniform is toast. But I wipe off the food with a grin.
This is not a drill. It’s a rookie hazing.
And I’m loving it.
Even when the manager walks onto the field. Fisher stops when he spots us, parks his hands on his hips, shakes his head in exasperation . . .
Then laughs his ass off.
I might look like an utter dipshit, but I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
5
Declan
That was necessary.
For the team, of course.
But hey, I don’t mind that our hazing helped squash that inconvenient bout of lust brought on by The Insanely Hot and Adorably Charming Rookie.
The guy is too cute and too damn likable. Grant is like Captain America, but ten times sexier than any movie superhero.
He needed to be covered in ketchup.
Too bad he can’t wear condiments and baby powder for the next five weeks. Maybe that would put a damper on this attraction that sprang out of nowhere.
I’ll be fine.
I repeat the reassurance after the rookies return to the field post shower, then as we finish stretching, and again when we trot onto the field to practice throws.
From home plate to second.
Groan.
That means I’ll be working with our new catcher, whose number I’d definitely have asked for if I’d met him anywhere but work.
But from this distance, and with Grant wearing a mask, I’ll be fine.
And I am for the rest of the morning. Then Coach sends us to run a mile around the field.
I elevate my ‘fine’ to ‘fantastic.’
I’m one of the fastest guys on the team, and catchers are usually slow as molasses from all that bulk. Hell, the backup catcher, Rodriguez, is playing caboose right now, lagging behind everyone.
Grant is going to eat my dust, and I’ll be glad for the distance between us.
But a minute later, he’s gaining on me, picking up speed as I round the right field corner. “You don’t have to race me, rookie,” I call as he comes into my line of sight.
“I’m not racing you. I’m just . . . faster than people expect.”
I lift a brow. “Sometimes fast is good.”
Then I want to clamp my hand over my mouth. Did I not make a decision not to flirt?
One day into spring training—hell, mere hours into spring training—and I’m already flirting with him.
Subtly, the devil on my shoulder says. You’re flirting subtly. He probably doesn’t even notice.
Blatantly, so damn blatantly, the angel on my other shoulder offers, adding, and you should stop.
“Sometimes fast is everything you need,” Grant quips, and I like the devil on his shoulder too.
Too much.
“Truer words,” I say, as we round the corner at a good clip. We’re quiet for another stretch, but no one catches up to us. The rest of the team is hoofing it, but we’re faster, and much farther ahead.
“Fucking sloths,” I say, tipping my head toward the guys.
“Better to be a cheetah.”
“Always be the cheetah.” Then a bird swoops from out of nowhere, landing on the chain-link fence to perch and watch for mice.
“Unless you can be a falcon,” I say, and I sneak a look at Grant. “The fastest animal on earth.”
“Are they though?” He arches a brow. “Aren’t they the fastest . . . in the air?”
“Aren’t you a wiseass,” I say, laughing. “You want to go toe-to-toe with me in bird facts, I will school you, rookie.”
“Bird facts?” he asks. “That’s your throw down?”
“You weren’t so mouthy when you were covered in ketchup.”
“And I’m not covered in ketchup now. Hence the mouthiness.”
I stifle another laugh. He’s a quick talker when he’s not so damn nervous. Though, admittedly, he was adorable back in the corridor with his tongue tied and words twisted. And he’s adorable now.
Great, fucking great.
But I won’t be seduced by his charm. He’s just one of the guys. Just another teammate.
“And yes, bird facts are my throw down,” I say, and there are reasons for that. Reasons that go way back. Reasons that I will never get into with anyone. But they’re real, and a part of me, and they were a shield for a long, long time. “The peregrine falcon is the fastest animal . . . in the world. That better?”
“Much better,” he says, a smile curving the edge of his lips.
“Gotta say, rookie, I’m impressed you’re keeping up. No one keeps up with me.”
“What if I told you I’m taking it easy right now?” Grant asks, deadpan.
I laugh. “Wiseass.”
But he keeps a stony expression. “Seriously. What if I could run even faster?” He picks up the pace a notch or two.
Holy fuck.
Dude is fast.
But I’m a competitive bastard too, so I push myself, going faster, keeping up.
I want to smack his arm, tell him he won’t win a battle of wills, or strength, or fitness.
But he just might.
Grant is as swift on his feet as he is with his arm.
I clear my throat to segue to other topics, but only sports topics. “You did good with the triple lift.”
“So did you. You had me. One hundred percent,” he says.