This is easy to share, part of the open book of me. Because nothing is hidden with baseball; everything is on the field.
“I promised myself this ink back when I was six.”
I’m stoked to be getting this milestone marker. I got the news from my agent the other day that the San Francisco Cougars were calling me up from Triple-A and sending me to spring training with the chance of making the majors.
“I haven’t met a lot of clients who planned to be tattooed when they were six,” Echo says.
“The first time I hit a homer in Little League when I was seven, I told my whole family I was going to get a tat when I had an opportunity to land a slot in the majors,” I say, shifting my gaze to Reese.
My best friend lifts her phone, angles it toward me, and snaps a picture. “And look at you now.”
Echo smiles, bright and wide. “Nice! When do you start?”
“Next week. Pitchers and catchers report first, and I’m a catcher. I’m heading to Phoenix. First time at spring training.”
“Then this arrow is even more perfect. Goals, focus, forward momentum. What’s your name so I can watch you become famous?”
Reese answers like a ballpark announcer, warbling the lineup. “And now, batting fourth, and hailing from the great state of California, with a .327 batting average in Triple-A, is Grant ‘Knows He’s Hot Shit’ Blackwood.”
I crack up. “Tell us what you really think, Reese.”
Reese shrugs. “Actually, I think you’re hot shit too. So, I suppose it works.”
Echo laughs as she finishes, putting down the needle on her work stand. “I will look out for that and maybe tell my brother to watch.” She gives me the instructions for tattoo aftercare, then sets her hand on my arm. “River lives in the Phoenix area if you’re looking for a friend during spring training. He runs a bar—The Lazy Hammock in Scottsdale. Don’t worry—it’s not a baseball bar.”
She whips out her phone and shows me a picture of a guy standing at the sign for a trailhead. He has a full sleeve of ink, a trim beard, and kind eyes. He’s white, like her, but his skin is more tanned, closer to mine. Bet he enjoys the outdoors like I do.
“Cool shot,” I say.
She’s not showing me his picture for feedback on the framing of the pic. She wants to know if I want to meet him, and sure, he’s good-looking, objectively.
Would I feel a spark in person?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But I won’t know because that’s not what spring training is about.
I’m hunting for a diplomatic answer when Reese slides over, peering at the pic then chiming in with a laugh. “I swear, Grant. You can pick up cute men anywhere. You don’t even have to be in the same state.”
The tattoo artist simply shrugs and locks eyes with Reese. “Right? It’s just kind of how it goes with the hotties, right? All you want to do is set them up.”
“And they don’t need it,” Reese says, shaking her head. “Hot queer guys need no help finding other hot queer guys.”
I’d beg to differ, but I’m not going to let on in front of Echo.
Besides, Reese knows the truth. And I should keep up appearances—that I put my money where my rainbow mouth is.
I grab my shirt, pull it on, then say, “Thanks, Echo. I appreciate the offer, and I’m sure your brother is a cool dude. But I think I’m going to lock it up during spring training.”
“His loss,” she says with a smile.
I pay for the tattoo, head out of Ink Lore, and wander down the street with my best friend.
She arches an eyebrow, giving me a questioning stare. “Lock it up? Are you really?”
“I am, indeed. Is that a surprise? Lock it up is my middle name.”
She taps her chest. “Yeah, I have the same one.”
I drape an arm around Reese, squeeze her shoulder. “You and me. We’re cut from the same cloth. Besides, I’m pretty damn sure spring training isn’t the place.”
She frowns. “The men of Phoenix will be so sad. Especially River. He looked cute from the pic.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, even though there is one man in Phoenix who intrigues me.
But his name isn’t River.
3
Grant
I slide my duffel bag onto the luggage belt, take the baggage check from the attendant, and give her a grin.
“Appreciate you doing that,” I say, nodding toward the bag as it disappears below the airport.
She flashes a quick smile that’s gone in a second. “Of course.”
It’s all in a day’s work for her, loading bags, handing out stubs for them. But hell, for me? I’m buzzed, and I haven’t had a single drop of coffee. Nor do I want one. I want to remember everything about this moment.
The noise and hubbub of the airport here in San Francisco.
The drone of the announcements overhead.
The click of shoes.
The laughter.
And my four favorite people here with me, seeing me off.
With my grandparents, my sister, and Reese, I walk to security, backpack on one shoulder, then draw a deep breath as I cast my gaze to the checkpoint and the planes beyond, including the one that’ll take me to Arizona.
“I want reports,” Grandpa says as he claps me on the shoulder.
I give him a c’mon look. “When have I not given you full reports on every single game?”
“More than games, kid.” His blue eyes hold mine with that intense look in them that he’s shone my way for as long as I can remember. “I want reports on batting practice, on drills, on the coaches, and on the games.”
My grandma tuts. “Trevor, when has Grant ever deprived us of baseball reports?”
“Kids change when they go away,” he says, all gruff. Sometimes he pretends he’s a toughie but—newsflash—the dude is a total softie, and I love him for it. His heart is a big old marshmallow.
My sister barks out a laugh. “Hate to break it to you, Pops, but Grant’s been away three years for college and a year in the minors. He’s been gone for a while.”
He snaps his gaze to Sierra, having none of her logic. “And he’s still a kid going away. And you’re even younger, so you’re a kid too.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Pops.” But she loves how he looks out for us. How both of them have looked out for us for ages, giving us the only place we could ever truly call home. “Grant’s still a kid at the ripe old age of twenty-two,” my sister adds with a scoff.
“So young,” Grandma says, ruffling my hair.
I am young, but not for long. In the majors, your age flies past you in dog years, and before you know it, you’re middle-aged at twenty-nine.
You need to work hard and fast to leave a mark.
Even though I knew I’d be eligible for the college draft after three years, I still wanted to get my degree, so I busted my ass to finish school and still enter the draft when I was twenty-one. I went in the first round, spent a short season in the Cougars’ farm league, and now I have the chance to play in the majors.
Reese wraps an arm around me and pulls me a few feet away, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Now listen, I want reports too. But not on the batting practice or games.”