But I served up two in a row, whiffing at the plate, missing easy grounders, fumbling all over the diamond. My agent flew down from New York, took me to a steak house, lavished praise on me, the kind that warns you that it’s the good news before the bad. I girded my loins, and finally, he stared me right in the eyes and said, “You need to get your shit together right now, D.”
I gulped. “What do you mean?”
Vaughn raised a solitary finger. “You get one rookie season. Count it. One. It started a few weeks ago. The clock is ticking,” he said, pointing to a clock on the wall in the restaurant. I swore I could hear every second, like a bomb counting down. “Whatever is bringing you down, whatever’s getting in the way, you need to get rid of it. Trust me. I know exactly how fleeting this job can be.” He tapped his right knee. A meniscus tear had shortened his career to three mere years in the NFL. “I don’t want to see you miss your chance,” he said, softening.
I broke up with Kyle. Took him a while to get the message, but I stuck to my guns. Didn’t look back. The result? I watched my stats soar, and I chose to live with no regrets.
Baseball is it for me now.
I don’t have a fallback plan. I can’t afford to let the game slide. Back in high school I made some foolish choices, self-destructive ones, during a stretch when things were the most beyond my control. But I came back from it.
Baseball has already given me a second chance, and I don’t take that for granted.
That’s why I gave Grant my warning.
This sport deserves my best years. Deserves his best years too.
I wake early the next morning and tug on gym shorts, so I can log a dawn run. There’s a high school a few blocks away that has a great track. Hardly anyone’s on it at six-thirty, so I can get lost in the rhythm of the laps and the music in my ears. With the Arizona sun opening its eyes above the horizon, I crank up the tunes, blasting a mix of Pearl Jam and Nirvana, Soundgarden and Alice in Chains.
Old habits die hard. I grew up with these bands as a teenager, courtesy of my mom blasting Pearl Jam tunes in the house.
As Black reverberates, I make out another noise coming from behind. The unmistakable sound of sneakers on dirt. One glance and my skin heats in seconds.
It’s not from the sun. It’s from the rookie.
AirPods in, he flashes a grin my way.
On the one hand, I wish he weren’t here.
On the other, I don’t object to the view.
I pull out an AirPod as I keep running. “Didn’t peg you for a stalker,” I tease.
“I didn’t peg you for a Type A, neurotic, early-morning, obsessed-with-performance, extra-exercise runner,” he says.
The plethora of words tumbling from his lips makes me laugh. “Really? That was hard to figure out?”
“Maybe because you make it all look so easy.”
“I do my best to maintain the illusion. But the way I see it, you’ve got to put the extra time in. Stay on top of the game.”
“Only way to do it. I guess you found this spot too,” he says, glancing around.
“Year or two ago. School doesn’t start here till eight, so I get the track all to myself most mornings.”
“Except today,” he says. “Also, for the record, I’d like to say I was here first.”
I arch a brow as we round the top of the track. “And how do you figure, rookie?”
“I’ve been running here the last five mornings. This is the first time I’ve seen you.”
I laugh, tossing my head back. “Because I just showed up at spring training.”
“Even so. I’ve got squatter’s rights.”
“So, you’re claiming the entire field. No one else can use it but you?”
“Just staking my claim, if it comes down to it.”
“Ah.” I stroke my chin as we head along the straightaway, sneakers pounding the track. “You think there might be a scuffle?”
His dark blue eyes twinkle, full of all sorts of mischief. “Maybe. Scuffles can be fun.”
I walked right into that one. Now I’m picturing a hot, sweaty scuffle with him after this run. Oh, yes. I’d scuffle with him. Except that’s a terrible idea.
I’m quiet for a beat.
Grant shifts gears for us. “What’s that you’re listening to?”
Music. Playlists. This is safe to talk about. Much safer than scuffles.
I slide into the new topic like I’m stealing second. “Pearl Jam. Ever heard of them?”
He adopts a confused expression. “Gee. I have no idea who they are.”
I roll my eyes. “Then I won’t tell you Nirvana is on here too.”
“Dude, are you from our generation or are you time traveling from another one?”
I jerk my head back. “Well, someone is a smart aleck when he’s not handing over his phone.”
“Evidently,” he says with a laugh, a warm, bright sound, and I want to make him laugh again. It’s an infectious noise, and I just dig it.
“Funny, how everything changes when you’re not covered in ketchup,” I say.
“But weren’t you wielding the whipped cream, Deck?” he tosses back. “That’s what you were covering me in.”
Those words—covering me in—conjure up entirely different ways I could cover him.
Cover him with my body.
Cover him with my hands.
I look away.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asks.
I can’t let him win this battle of words and wills. I turn my gaze to him as we run. “No. I’m just thinking of . . . other uses for tongues.”
It’s too much fun to watch his reaction. To see his handsome face flush with a hint of embarrassment and a touch of something strangely like innocence in his blue eyes.
At last, Grant answers. “That is a nice thing to think about.”
His voice is raspy, and he stumbles a little on his words.
The stumble is all kinds of sexy on him.
Fifteen minutes into our run, I’m discovering that our rising-star catcher is a delicious mix of smartass and shy, flirty and a bit awkward.
He’s too adorable and too hot for words.
Time, once again, to steer the conversation toward safer shores. “I’m guessing you’re not listening to ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ so what have you got on your playlist?”
He rolls with the rerouted topic. “Britney Spears.”
I arch a brow. “For real?”
“What?” He feigns surprise. “I don’t look like a Britney fan?”
“I’m not going to touch that one.”
“Fine. I was listening to Lady Gaga.”
I call bullshit on that too. “Really?”
“Don’t be a hater. Gaga is awesome. I love her like crazy.”
I groan, rolling my eyes. “Not my favorite, but I’m not a hater. Not of music. Not of anything.”
“That’s a good philosophy.” He looks ahead, rearranges his expression to a more serious one. “And I was listening to Cher, if you must know.”
I crack up, a big belly laugh. “Are you running through a list of gay icons?”
“It’s a test to see if you pass.”
I laugh harder. “Oh man, I don’t think that’s the best test.”