Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
His speech ends with an offered hand. I shake, then get pulled in for a hug. I knew a trade was coming. Even though it’s good—hell it’s great—it’s still hard, something that sets in as I say goodbye to my teammates, the team personnel, and the ballpark staff. As I pack up what I’ll need from my apartment and arrange to have the rest of my things shipped. As I get on a chartered flight to Seattle, wondering what’s going to happen.
That’s what’s nagging at me—the Seattle Pilots don’t need two shortstops. Either they’re floating the idea of trading Derek—doubtful, even if he’s had a slightly slow start to the year—or one of us will have to play a different position.
And that’s the other problem. Positions. A slightly hysterical thought. Because I can imagine him in a lot of positions, none of which have to do with baseball. I should let it go. We hooked up and only spoke once on the field. Do guys normally think about their hookups for months after?
I have four hours to think about it on the plane from St. Louis to Seattle, then on the brief drive from the airport to the ballpark. Seattle seems like a cool city, modern and young, though I’ve no idea of where to start apartment hunting. When I scroll through listings, everything already has double-digit offers and bids.
Maybe someone on the team will have suggestions. Too bad there’s no one to turn to and ask a thornier question. Hey, how do I face my spring training hookup again when I see him in the same clubhouse in, oh, say, thirty fucking minutes?
I drop my face in my hands.
I’m good at baseball. But there’s no handbook for awkward post blow job friendships. Guess I’ll just have to figure it out.
The ballpark sits downtown, its roof domed against the slightly gray sky. A peppy handler meets me at the players’ entrance then shepherds me into an office with the team president and Pilots manager.
I do my best to focus, but I’m thinking about what comes next the whole time. That moment when I walk into the clubhouse feeling like the new kid in class. Man, I wish there were dogs here too.
When I make it to the clubhouse, it’s as awkward as I imagined. A few guys murmur greetings. I say hi back. Then my gaze swings to Derek, who’s taking off his shirt.
Because of course I walk in right when he’s getting undressed. Thanks, universe.
And when I scan the stalls, of course, mine is right next to his.
Someone has a funny sense of humor.
I swallow roughly, wondering where to look. Out of the corner of my eye, I take stock of the guy I hooked up with.
I don’t usually do hookups—with men or women.
Derek looks even better—still broad in the shoulders if leaned down from his spring training bulk. I have to admit, I have a thing for tattoos, partly because I don’t have any. His ink looks even better in the daylight. Intriguing. I follow its tracery down his torso and want to follow it with my—
…And he’s looking right at me, with a scrunched expression, like he’s not sure what I’m doing there. Which, same.
For a second, we just look at each other, questions passing between us we can’t ask. Like if he’s cool with my being here. For one thing, neither of us has much say in the matter. For another, the answer is probably no. I also have no idea what I’m supposed to say to any of my new teammates. Psyched to join you? Ugh. That’s trying too hard for the new guy. Happy to be here. Though I’m not sure I am quite yet, even if I’m more likely to get a ring here than in St. Louis.
A question presses against my tongue. Is he thinking about me like I’m thinking about him? Or is he just thinking about which of us is going to play at short.
Finally, so I don’t stand around like a dingus who’s never been in a clubhouse, I step forward, drop my stuff in the stall, and turn to him. Screw the weirdness. I have to deal with my new teammate, whether or not I want to strip off his uniform pants.
“Hey, Derek,” I say.
At least he pulls on a shirt. “Hey, Chason. Guess you won’t be turning two on me any longer,” he says drily, a reference to our last encounter.
Which makes my pulse spike—that he remembers the details.
This is awfully inconvenient. Being attracted to my teammate. “Let’s hope not,” I say.
“You enjoying Seattle so far?”
“Yeah, all two hours of it.”
“I’m guessing you just found out this morning about the trade?” he asks.
“My agent came by to tell me.”
“Gotta love a business where you start work in one town and finish it in another,” he says, kind of easygoing, and I do not know what to make of Derek Miller. I’d expect him to freeze me out. But he’s sort of…inviting.