I shoot her a knowing glance. “You want the uncensored report on the men?”
She sticks out her tongue. “Yes. Duh.”
I pat her head like she’s a little duckling. “It’s a good thing I love you so much. I must, to tolerate this kind of relentless questioning.”
“Oh, please. I’m only looking out for your . . . libido.”
Laughing, I answer her. “I already told you. I’m not going to do a thing. I am the king of restraint. My libido will be resting in my duffel bag. Side pocket, in fact. Like hibernation.”
“Fine, fine, you’re a bear.”
I crack up. “You saw my chest at the tattoo shop. Definitely not a bear.”
Reese rolls her eyes. “Yes, you are not a bear, my friend. But,” she says, tap dancing her finger on my shoulder, “what is your libido going to do with that big old crush you have on the Cougars shortstop? Is that just going to go into hibernation too?”
I tilt my head back and forth like I’m weighing my options. “It was either that or my powerful mind vise. I opted for the mind vise, and I smashed the crush out of its existence,” I say, grinding my right fist into my left palm to demonstrate, and kind of wishing mind vises did exist.
She arches a questioning brow. “Did you now?”
“I did indeed. And seriously, who cares? Crushes are harmless. They don’t matter.” It’s just stupid affection from afar. “Besides, I refuse to crush on another ballplayer on my team—or any other team. I admire his gameplay, but that’s all. That’s all it can ever be. I am not, not, not going to do a single thing with a ballplayer.”
Reese’s blue eyes are brimming with intensity. “Goals, focus, forward momentum,” she says, repeating what I told Echo when I got my new ink the other week.
“You know it. Crushing on a teammate is like arguing with an umpire and thinking it’ll work out. You just don’t do it,” I say.
But honestly, crushing on someone I work with is worse. It can have lasting consequences. It can wreak havoc with how we have to work together on the field, with the focus I need to have behind the plate. With, well, everything that matters when it comes to playing the game I love for a living.
“Besides,” I add, “if I wanted to hook up with someone, and I do not, there’s a whole town of men who are not ballplayers.” I flap a hand to indicate the landscape of the city in Arizona. “Bartenders, store owners, bankers, mailmen, painters, construction workers, hell, even Echo’s brother if I’m truly looking to get laid. What they all have in common is they aren’t on the twenty-five-man roster for the San Francisco Cougars.” I stab my forefinger against my chest. “I need to be on the roster and stay on the roster. I do not need to fuck the roster.”
She holds up her hands in surrender. “I wasn’t saying that. As someone who’s had her share of crushes too, I was just asking. And don’t worry, Grant. You’ll be on the roster. I have zero doubts, only faith in you.”
But this isn’t about faith.
This isn’t some breakup I need to get over.
Declan is just . . . some dude I admired.
Nothing more.
I flash her a smile, my best everything is good here grin. “I bet I won’t even be attracted to him in person,” I say, lifting my chin high.
“Exactly! Tons of crushes die a quick death when you meet the crushee. So, there’s that.”
“Yup. I mean, he’s probably a cool guy, but chances are we won’t have an ounce of spark.”
“It’ll evaporate the second you meet him.” She throws her arms around me. “I’ll miss you.”
“Same. But you have college to keep you busy.”
“And we all still miss seeing your face around campus, but I’ll see you in San Francisco this summer when you’re playing for the home team in the best sport there is.”
“I. Can’t. Wait.” I hug her hard, grateful to have her, glad there’s someone who knows about crushes I’ve entertained from afar. Crushes that’ll burn to ash any day now, I’m sure.
“Enjoy your spring training with no spring flings, Grant ‘Lock It Up’ Blackwood,” she says.
I let go, return to my grandparents to hug them too, barely giving a second thought to where my own parents are—they’re never around—then my sister.
“Good luck in school,” I tell her, then turn to Pops. “And I’m expecting another top-ten finish for you in the Napa Valley Marathon.”
“As am I,” my grandma chimes in, patting his chest. “I want to say I’m married to a top-ten finisher.”
Pops drops a kiss to her forehead. “Anything for you.” Then to me, he says, “See you soon, son.”
My throat tightens with emotions, then I swallow them down and wave goodbye.
I head through security, taking the next step toward the dream I’ve chased my entire life.
I settle into my seat, loving the cushy comfort of the first-class chair. It’s my first time in the second row.
“I could get used to this,” I say to myself as the flight attendant meanders by. He stops in his tracks, then tosses me an inviting smile that’s pretty much the equivalent of a full-body eye fucking. Someone is bold, and I like bold.
“Well, I sure hope you get used to it. Would love to see you on another flight,” the man says, with a lift of his brow, a quirk of his lips. “Or . . .”
Clever. Way to make the meaning clear without crossing a line.
I scan his name tag. Dylan. Then I let my eyes take a one-second tour of his face.
Square jaw, high cheekbones—he’s attractive. But do I feel a spark?
My body’s not flashing hot. My skin isn’t tingling. Which raises the question—is this guy my type? Or not?
Hell if I know. I’m not even sure if I have a type. Except I’m pretty certain I’m not a guy who’s into one-night stands or banging somebody in the mile-high club if that’s what Dylan is proposing.
But is that what he’s hinting at? Pickup lingo is still new to me—I spent ninety-nine percent of college either studying or playing ball.
Nah, Dylan’s just feeling me out.
And I’d probably need a few dates to see if we sparked. That won’t happen, so I find the gentleman’s way out. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” I say with a grin, and he continues on his way.
This is my MO: flash a smile. Say some friendly words. Be on good terms with everyone.
That’s what’s gotten me through ups and downs, good times and bad times, hard times and absolutely fucking hard times. When the people who were supposed to stand behind you let you down.
In the worst ways possible.
But that’s okay.
I have everything I need now that I’m twenty-two. And this arrow? It’s not only about goals and milestones. It’s protection.
Sure, things have changed in pro sports over the last several years. Some players in the NBA, NHL, NFL, and MLB are out now. The closet isn’t what it used to be in pro ball—the only place for a gay athlete. Leagues, owners, and marketers have embraced the LGBTQ sports nation.
Plus, I’m not even the only queer dude on the team.