“Enjoy this bird,” he says, flipping me the middle finger.
We keep that up, running and shooting the shit, and before I know it, I’ve peeled off an hour. Grant makes these morning workouts something they’ve never been before—fun.
But are they too fun?
I’m here to work, after all, not to get to know this fascinating man.
Should I end them?
Cut them off?
But they have a natural end every damn day, when we join the team for practice. Once we hit the diamond, we’re catcher and shortstop again, and that’s working out just fine.
That day, the Seattle Storm Chasers arrive for a home game, and we destroy them.
That’s all that matters.
Friendship with Grant isn’t a detrimental distraction.
These morning workouts aren’t hindering my game.
The problem is lying in bed at night, thinking about how badly I want morning to come.
10
Grant
Like that, we’ve become workout partners.
Early birds and all.
It’s not deliberate. It just happens. We run. We lift weights. We spot each other. One morning, I’m on the bench press and he asks where I’m from. Funny that this hasn’t come up in our many conversations.
“I grew up in Petaluma. It’s not too far from San Francisco,” I say, pushing up the weight bar.
He gives a slow and easy smile. “I know where Petaluma is.”
“Didn’t mean to imply you didn’t know your geography as well as your ornithology,” I tease, lowering the bar then pressing it up again. He stares down at me, his eyes roaming over my chest but never straying too far.
“I know my geography just fine. I also live in San Francisco,” he points out.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you venture to Petaluma.”
“I’ve been there on the way to wine country,” he says.
Out of nowhere, envy thrashes in my chest, painful as a cleat in the ribs. This is what happens when you become friends with your crush. I know why he’s been to wine country. He once dated a guy who lives there, a chef. I picture him cruising up the highway, laughing with some other guy in the passenger seat, free and easy. He’s headed for a weekend getaway. A weekend he could spend with that guy because they weren’t teammates.
“Must have been nice. Going to wine country.” I push up the bar, doing my damnedest to shove away this dumb jealousy too. “You from there?”
“No. I grew up in Los Angeles, but we moved to San Francisco when I was in middle school.”
“You and your family?”
His jaw tightens. “My mom and me.”
That’s all he says, and I let it go. There’s more there, but now’s not the time to mine that territory.
Instead, I ask, “You and she are close?”
“Definitely. Me and my stepdad too.” He answers, but his tone is clipped. I should change topics, but he does that himself. “Kind of crazy to wind up being drafted to your hometown team.”
“Maybe it was meant to be,” I say.
“You’re someone who believes that?” Declan sounds doubtful. “That things are meant to be?”
“I believe in hard work. But yeah, I think sometimes things are meant to be. I take it you don’t?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Not one bit.”
The shadows in his eyes go even darker, and if we weren’t treading on dangerous ground, I’d ask what he meant. But I know it’s for the best to nip this convo in the bud.
I set the bar down on the holder then sit up, my chest heaving. I’m about to stand when I catch him staring shamelessly at me. My pecs, my abs, my arms. My piercing . . .
“Like the view?” I ask. I can’t resist danger sometimes.
Without a reply, he tips his forehead to the bench, a sign for me to skedaddle. Hoping I haven’t pissed him off, I stand quickly, making room for him as he settles in. “You know I do,” he mutters, and a bolt of lust slams into me.
We’ve tangoed, and we’ve toyed. But that’s the first admission that he feels these sparks. This heat. This fire that’s blazing between us. It’s the first time we’ve outright fanned the flames.
I throw kerosene on them too. “Look at us . . . switching positions.”
Declan stares up at me, hunger in his eyes. “Is that a metaphor or a challenge?” His voice is husky.
And holy fuck, I am treading on uncertain ground. I’ve got to be careful. But holding back would be like letting a fastball down the middle pass you by. You have to swing.
“Maybe both,” I say as he pushes up the bar.
With a huff, he shakes his head.
Is he annoyed?
Shit. I do need to behave.
“Sorry,” I add hastily. “I’ll rein it in.”
Declan lowers the bar. “Rookie, we are both guilty.”
The way he says that—rookie—sends sparks down my spine.
“Very, very guilty,” I add, and inside, I’m beaming.
I shouldn’t be, but I am.
Another lift, another press, another sexy glance. He doesn’t talk, just grunts as he lifts in the early-morning quiet of the hotel gym.
When he finishes his reps, he racks the bar and wipes a hand across his forehead but doesn’t sit up.
Instead, he picks up the thread of the conversation. “You know how hot you are,” he whispers.
“Why would I know that?” I ask, fishing shamelessly for compliments.
He cranes his neck, taking a backward glance at my body. “You’ve got eyes. You look in the mirror. You know what you see. You know what I see.”
Electricity crackles and pops as I croak out, “What do you see?”
He sits, cocks his head, strokes his jaw. His dark gaze cranks my thermostat to furnace hot. “Danger. I see danger.”
That one word contains multitudes—in it, I hear him saying he wants danger, he craves danger.
But he won’t let himself have it.
I want it too, and I’m pretty sure I’m more reckless than Declan. The man seems so in control, and I feel wildly out of control with him. But it’s a feeling I crave more and more each day, even though I know the stakes. I’m well aware of the risks. We are as taboo as we can be.
I’m not flirting with some guy I won’t have to see at work. He’s someone I have to work closely with every single game, every single day on the field.
But the field is where I need perfect concentration. A millisecond mistake can cost a game. If my mind wanders to the guy manning shortstop, can I call the right pitch at a critical moment in a game?
No idea.
Trouble is, when I’m near Declan, my body lights up. My skin tingles, and everything inside me spins faster and faster. He’s like adrenaline, and I want another hit, then another.
I set a hand on the weight bar, not too far from his. “Our job is dangerous. Standing at the plate every day as someone throws a ninety-five-mile-an-hour ball at you is pretty risky,” I counter.
A sliver of a smile tugs at his lips. “Yep. And so is flirting with you.”
“You could stop,” I offer. I want him to know I’m not going to pressure him. I’m chill with being buds. “Or you could just acknowledge we enjoy some harmless flirting. That’s all it is, right?”