That is all I need.
That is all I want.
Things I’ve learned about good friends: they will always take you out after a breakup.
Things I’ve learned about breakups: pool makes everything better, and it’s a necessity since most dates don’t work out. Most men don’t amount to much. And it’s a good thing too. Balancing a man and this life would be hard.
I circle the table, then line up the shot at The Lucky Spot in Chelsea, where I play the game with my buddy Fitz and his sister.
“Bet you miss,” he rumbles as I pull back the cue, the red ball in my crosshairs.
“Yeah, because my eye-hand coordination is soooo bad,” I drawl as I take aim at the white ball, hit it, then send the red ball into the corner pocket. I gloat at the pro hockey star, squaring my shoulders. “Take that, player of a less popular sport.”
“Ouch,” he says, wiggling his fingers like I’ve scared him. “Also, that was a lucky break.”
Emma laughs, leaning against the corner of the table, nursing the tail end of a margarita. “James, you do realize this is the third game in a row where Declan has destroyed you?” She’s the only person who calls James Fitzgerald by his first name. Everyone else, present company included, shortens his last name.
Fitz scoffs, shrugging off his sister’s most accurate scorekeeping. “I won the first game.”
“The first game last night,” I point out.
Emma holds up a palm to high-five me, and I smack back. I return my laser sights to the table, moving around it to send the purple ball, then the orange one, to their homes before I miss with the green.
“Damn,” I mutter.
“Have you considered that maybe I let you win the other games because I felt sorry for you on account of your douche of an ex?” Fitz asks as he strikes the cue ball square in the center, knocking it against a striped ball that spins straight into a corner pocket.
“You are so damn competitive that even if you felt sorry for me, you don’t have it in you to let someone win,” I say.
He growls. “Dammit. You’re right.”
I pat my chest. “Ergo, I won fair and square.”
Fitz raises his right arm and points to the side of the table. “A hundred bucks says I hit the blue stripes into the center pocket.”
“What are you, Babe Ruth calling your shot? Five hundred bucks says I crush you in this game.”
“How about both of you sit in the corner in time-out for beating your chests like boys?” Emma asks with a laugh. “It’s just a game. Who cares?”
I freeze in horrified disbelief. “Just a game?”
Fitz blinks, staring at her like she’s speaking math. “Who cares?”
I point at her, steel in my gaze. “Nothing is just a game. Games are life. Games are everything.”
Fitz nods solemnly, stabs a finger against his sternum. “And we care. We care completely. Allow me to demonstrate how much.”
But he misses his shot, and I proceed to destroy him, and fifteen minutes later, I collect $500, thank you very much.
I set my cue in the holder on the wall. “Too bad you’re not better, Fitz. I’d have expected you to win a few since you play a game with a stick.” I take a beat. “But then again, I play with sticks and balls.”
Fitz scrubs a hand across his jaw, lifts his beer from the edge of the table, takes a drink, then says drily, “I’m pretty sure I do that too.”
“Guys.” Emma shoulders her purse, shaking her head. “Is it possible to spend one game of pool with you two without some dirty innuendo?”
I look at Fitz, screw up my lips in consideration, then shake my head. “It’s not possible, I’m afraid.”
“Ems, just cover your ears if you don’t like it,” Fitz says.
Truth is, though, she doesn’t care.
She’s used to us—and to me. Back in college, where I met her, I helped her in math, and she helped me in poetry, of all things.
But I needed it. Hell, did I ever.
She’s how I met Fitz, too, when she took me to one of his hockey games shortly after I was drafted. Nothing ever happened between her brother and me, and that’s a good thing. I like having him in my life—friends are constant; men come and go.
“So, did you pretend all night that the eight ball was Nathan? Is that why you were so zoned in?” Emma asks, draping an arm around me as we make our way out of The Lucky Spot.
“I’m over him. He’s yesterday’s news,” I say. “I deleted his number.”
“But has he contacted you?” Fitz asks, pinning me with a stare.
“Nope. Just the way I like it.”
“Nobody does clean breaks like you do,” Emma says.
She’s not wrong. It’s my special skill, and Nathan is the latest red-hot reminder that relationships belong on the back burner.
Now, more than ever—this is a critical time in my career.
I’m twenty-six, entering my fifth year with the San Francisco Cougars. The money is good, the sponsorships are great, the perks are awesome, and I treat my body like a temple, so it treats me the same way.
“Besides,” I add, “I’m not looking for a relationship, let alone a fling or even a hookup. I’m heading into spring training with zero distractions, just like I do every year. This season will be no different.”
Fitz chuckles—a knowing, self-deprecating sort of laugh. He went into training camp a season or so ago with the same mentality. “Famous last words.”
I toss him a smirk. “Famous for you. You broke your pact, but you’re the exception.”
He flashes the platinum band his husband gave him several months ago. “Breaking it did work out pretty well.”
“Ignore my brother. He’s a big love showoff,” Emma chimes in, then links her arm through mine. “But you’re tough as nails, Declan. You’ll go to Arizona with Nathan behind you and the game ahead of you.”
“Exactly,” I say. “I’m not looking to meet anyone, but it doesn’t matter because I won’t do anything. I won’t give in to temptation.”
A few days later, I arrive in Arizona, refreshed, renewed, and determined.
Then I meet Grant Blackwood.
After the one day spent with him, I’m pretty sure he’s about to become the biggest temptation of my life.
2
Grant
A week before spring training
* * *
I’ve wanted this since I turned six. Knew when I would do it too. When I’d walk through the door of this tattoo shop, strip off my shirt, and flop down in the dentist-style chair, skin on display, ready to be marked.
The one thing that has changed over the years is what kind of ink I’d want when this moment arrived.
At six or seven, I imagined a ball or a glove, but later, those seemed too childish.
When I was a teen, I thought I’d get a saying. One of those great baseball adages from Yogi Berra about how it’s not over till it’s over.
Eventually, I realized this ink needed to be something bigger.