They’re all courting me, and it’s kind of crazy.
When we leave the fanciest breakfast joint I’ve ever seen—the forks looked like they were made of gold—Haven and I wander through the West Village for a post-mortem.
“What did you think? Did you ever expect you’d have the pick of the litter?” she asks as we pass cafés, T-shirt shops, nail salons, and furniture stores, all with rainbow flags in the windows.
“No. Never.” My head is still swimming with my post-award life, and my heart still sinking from leaving Declan. But I try to focus on business—that was the point of saying no to him. “Who do you think I should partner with?”
We trade ideas as we walk along Christopher Street, but my mind derails completely when the Stonewall National Monument comes into view. My breath catches, and the hair on the back of my neck tingles as I stare at the park across from Stonewall Inn.
I had no idea we were near it.
I stop and stare, and Haven does too. The history major in me records details, places it in a timeline and contemplates what it says about how the world changes when groups of people push for change.
The man in me, though? I’m just grateful to be living now.
My agent squeezes my arm. “You want a picture in front of it?”
It’s a good question, but the answer comes easily. “Nah, some pictures are better without people in them.” I snag my phone from my pocket and snap a shot, then take a look. Yeah, it’s better like this—just the monument and what it means.
Haven is quiet, letting me have space for my thoughts, perhaps, but once we pass the park, we return to business.
And I suppose business and life, sports and activism, are all the same, now.
That night, I post the picture of the Stonewall Monument on my social media.
The next morning, I’m alone in New York for the first time, with time to kill until my flight leaves tonight. But my feet know where they want to go—right back to Park Avenue.
I stand across the street from Declan’s building, counting to eleven. I reach his floor, then slide my gaze to the left, hunting for the corner apartment with the view of the East River.
There it is.
At least, I think so.
From down here, I can’t tell much. I can’t even be sure it’s his. But I decide it is, and I stay there like a creeper, or maybe just a sad sack.
My hand slides into my pocket. My thumb rubs absently over my phone’s screen. My heart throws itself against my rib cage.
Taking out the cell, I tap in my passcode.
I go to my contacts.
When I see Declan’s name, my fingertips tingle, aching to call, talk, text. One more glance up, I decide, and if I see him, if I spot a silhouette in the window, I’ll . . .
I close my eyes, my shoulders sagging. I have to let him go.
I log into my airline app and change my flight to the next one out of JFK. Need to get out of here, stat, before I change my mind.
Two hours later, I’m in the air, flying away from New York City—and Declan. The flight attendant swings by, asking if I want a drink, and I blink in recognition. It’s Dylan, the same guy who was on my flight to Arizona for spring training several months ago.
“Hey! I know you,” he says.
“Yeah, from the flight to spring training,” I say with a smile. “Good to see you, Dylan.”
He laughs. “No! From this.” He grabs his phone and shows me a picture from the awards. “It’s my boyfriend’s Insta. I started seeing him last month. He’s an amateur cyclist and he loves you.”
“That’s awesome,” I say, humbled. “Tell him I hope he crushes it in his next century.”
“I will.”
Six hours later, I’m back in California, and I head straight for my grandparents’ home. It’s always been my safe harbor when I need to escape.
I spend the next month helping them out around the place, going for light jogs with my grandfather. When the winter break rolls around, Reese comes home from college, and we watch movies, play video games and go to the gym.
She becomes my new morning workout partner. It’s a relief to know she’s not temporary. I don’t have to worry about her leaving my life.
Before the next spring training, I get another tattoo. And when the season starts, I play even better than last year.
I see Declan once—for our series in San Francisco.
Please don’t give me the cold shoulder for turning you down.
When he comes to the plate in the second inning, his expression is impossible to read.
I call a fastball for the first pitch, and he homers off it.
At least it wasn’t a slider.
He rounds the bases, and when his cleat touches home plate, he gives a quick nod then a tiny smile.