Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say.
I wiggle the controller, asking if they want one more round. We go at it, and this time, I win. On that high note, I yawn and tell the guys I’m hitting the sack.
“Catch you in the a.m.,” I say on my way out.
I make my way to the elevator. With another yawn, I push the call button, and when the doors open, I startle briefly. The skipper’s in the lift, holding a carton of what looks like Thai food. He gives me a crisp nod. “Hey there, Blackwood.”
“Hello, sir.”
“How are you enjoying spring training?” he asks as I step inside.
“It’s great, sir,” I say.
“You’re playing well,” he says.
I have no choice but to smile. “Thank you. And is that mango in there?”
“Mango sticky rice. The Thai place down the street has it. I get it every night. Reminds me of this spot I used to go to when I played in the farm leagues.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “That was probably before you were born.”
I laugh—he’s not wrong. Our manager played in the majors for fifteen years as a hard-hitting outfielder before becoming one of the best damn coaches ever, with a killer post-season record. He reminds me of Dusty Baker, in looks and in attitude, and he’s the calm rudder we need and want.
“I imagine it was,” I say.
“And now this mango sticky rice is my spring training vice. I suppose I’m allowed that at my age,” he says drily.
“I’d say you’ve earned it, sir.”
“Mrs. Fisher would have me cut back, but that’s why I indulge when I’m away.” He brings his finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell her.”
“Your secret is safe with me, sir,” I say as the elevator reaches the sixth floor and I step out.
I take a deep breath as soon as the door to my room shuts behind me.
That was fun with the guys.
I needed it too. It took my mind off other matters, and now sleep will do the rest.
I hit the shower, which always helps me crash. I crank the temperature to high, and it heats me everywhere.
Or maybe my thoughts do that—they return to Declan in a heartbeat. All that time with my buds did nothing to squash this desire.
Not a damn thing.
A few days later, Declan and I are running along the golf course again, debating a vital topic.
“Pierce Brosnan is underrated,” Declan insists.
I scoff. “You’re seriously telling me he was the best Bond?”
“I’m saying he doesn’t get his due.”
“Two words. Daniel Craig.”
“I’m not denying that Daniel Craig does a fine job.”
I snort. “A fine job? Daniel Craig is Bond. There is no question about it.”
Declan shrugs easily. “The best Bond debate is not a one or the other for me. You’re a one-Bond man? Only loyal to Craig?”
“I’m saying that once you’ve seen Daniel Craig, you can’t go back.”
“Nah. I’m all for Brosnan. That’s my vote.”
“I would say you’ve got a thing for Brits, but they’re all Brit,” I say with a laugh.
“I don’t have a thing for Brits. Do you?” He sounds more serious than I did, like he truly wants to know my preferences.
I wiggle a brow, fucking with him. “I don’t mind the blokes,” I say in a terrible British accent.
He cracks up. “That was awful.”
“Rubbish. It was rubbish.”
“That too, mate,” he says in a decent Aussie accent.
“Down under, are you there?” I ask, sliding into an Australian voice and botching it terrifically.
“Wow. You really suck at accents,” Declan says.
My big mouth gets the better of me. I don’t even think twice.
“I do, but there are lots of other things I don’t suck at.”
With a slow turn of his head, he locks eyes with me, his deep voice all kinds of raspy. “Such as?”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “Sucking.”
On that note, I do my best to leave him in the dust. But he catches up with me. “I thought we weren’t going to flirt,” he says.
“Is it flirting if you’re telling the truth?”
“You are too dangerous, rookie. Far too dangerous.”
Maybe I want danger.
“You like danger,” I counter, feeling bold.
Declan laughs once, his lips curving up in a grin. “Seems I do.”
The next day, I level-up the Bond conversation. I want to see what will happen if we get personal about our preferences. So, I pull out that reliable but inappropriate icebreaker, “Which out celebrities would you sleep with?”
In the gym at the complex, we name them as we lift. It’s a roster of a lot of the usual suspects. For athletes, there’s former soccer star Robbie Rogers and retired hockey player Brock McGillis, and circling around to actors, we agree on Cheyenne Jackson for sure, and call Matt Bomer at the same time.
We knock fists between reps.
“I would not kick him out of bed for eating crackers,” I say. “I’d also kiss him in the morning, and I hate morning breath.”