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)
From the sneaking around.
And the chance that we could get caught.
I suppose we could book a room at another hotel, but we’d still have to slip out and sneak back in. So even if we were elsewhere, it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.
I act like I’m doing nothing wrong as I stroll down the hall and head for his room, taking one long glance behind me, making sure no one is around when I reach his door.
I push it open.
Once inside, I slide it shut, lock it, exhale.
Do my best to leave the tension behind me. I made it here, safe and sound, unscathed. To my secret hideaway where no one can find us.
Grant’s waiting for me on the edge of the bed.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
He shudders a sigh. “I’m a fucking mess.”
My heart thumps with worry, as I head to the bed and sit next to him. “I noticed.”
“You did?” His voice is stretched thin with worry.
I run a hand down his thigh. “I kind of notice you,” I say, softly, repeating his words back to him. Speaking my truth.
“You do?” He can’t seem to mask the smile.
“Yeah, I notice you, Grant Blackwood.” I squeeze his thigh. “What’s on your mind?”
I hope to hell it isn’t anything involving us.
Because right now, right here, all that pretending, all that practicing, and all that rapid heart-beating disappears.
This is where I want to be.
25
Declan
Grant drops his forehead into his palm. “Skipper called me aside after the game,” he says.
“What’d he say?”
Grant adopts an older voice. “How’s it going? Is everyone nice to you?” He lifts his face, rolls his eyes. “Like he has to make sure no one’s going to beat me up for sucking cock.”
I sigh sympathetically. “Some of these older guys . . . it’s hard for them, so they think they have to be extra nice. We have to remember it wasn’t always this way. Hell, it wasn’t this way for a long time.” I tilt my head to the side, studying his face, the way his brow creases with worry, how his eyes are etched with concern. “But is that what's bugging you? Because honestly, you seem pretty tough. I don’t buy that one awkward exchange with the coach is turning you into a ‘fucking mess.’” I sketch air quotes. “Your words.”
Grant shakes his head. “He had me stay for an hour of extra batting practice with Tanaka. Said he wanted to work on things with me. I keep thinking it's a sign, right? I’m the rookie they bet on. The horse they can’t make run, and I’m not performing so they're giving me extra laps, extra runs, before they decide if they’re going to let me go or not.”
Oh, man. This guy.
My chest squeezes for him. “Is that what you think?”
The catcher shrugs, a little helpless. “Well, yeah. I’ve been playing well during spring training, and then I had one bad game, and all of a sudden, they’re all over me saying you’ve got to work on things. So, I bet not only am I not winning the starting job, I’m getting sent down. I called my agent, and she called the GM, and he said everything is fine. But that feels like the kiss of death. It’s like when a boss says he has my full support and the next day, they fire you.”
I set a hand on his back, run it up and down for reassurance. I’m about to tell him what it means when he builds up a new head of steam.
“I don’t want to get sent down, Deck. I really don’t. I want to prove to everyone that I can do this,” he says, a pained expression in his eyes. “You get it, man, right? I mean, we have to work that much harder than the others. Just to prove we belong.”
A fist grips my heart, clutching it. “I get it. One hundred percent.”
“I want to just fit in. Feel at home. Not feel like I have to work ten times harder. But I will work ten times harder. I have worked ten times harder. Know what I mean?”
I squeeze his shoulder. “You know I do.”
The rookie drags a hand roughly through his hair. “This is what I worked my ass off for, all those years. To build a new life,” he says, his voice strung tight with desperation. The sound of it makes it clear baseball is way more than a career for him—it’s a reinvention of his soul. I understand that deeply.
Innately.
I understand too, that I alone can put him out of his misery.
In a soft but clear voice, I cut in. “If I could get a word in edgewise, I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“If it’s the answer to this, I would love that,” he says, sounding thoroughly miserable.