Once I’m inside, my grandpa turns to me. “So, tonight’s guest list . . .” He trails off like he’s leading the witness.
“Yes?”
He wiggles a silver brow. “I heard it might include a certain someone.”
I roll my eyes.
He laughs. “It’s no use. I see your dreamy, faraway look.”
“I don’t have a dreamy, faraway look,” I insist.
Pops turns serious when I expect more banter. “Actually, that’s true.”
I tilt my head, wondering what’s up. “Did you just agree with me?”
“I did. You used to get that look. Now? Not so much,” he says with a sigh. “I think maybe you’ve gotten good at keeping people out, son.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve noticed some changes in the last five years. You used to trust easily, let people in easily. You don’t do that as much.”
“You’re already in, Pops,” I say, flashing a smile. “No worries.”
“That’s what I mean. You’ve got such a great happy face,” he says as the limo rolls along Fillmore.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. But sometimes I think it’s a mask. I know you made some tough choices way back when, but you’ve done great things—for yourself, for the sport, for others. Maybe it’s time to start letting people in again.” He shrugs, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Or maybe one person.”
I lean my head back against the leather, close my eyes, sigh. “A certain person texted me this morning.”
“Is that so?” He sounds delighted.
When I open my eyes, the man who’s practically my father is grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“Don’t look so pleased,” I say sarcastically.
He pats my thigh. “Sort of like how you look right now?”
“Is it that obvious?” I ask, worried I’ll give too much away.
Pops smiles. “It’s a good obvious.”
We cruise the last few blocks in silence, maybe because some things are a good obvious. Like how natural it felt to text Declan this morning. How easy it was to talk to him last fall, and again on Christmas. How much I want to see him tonight.
Maybe I want to see him because what’s truly obvious is how right my grandfather is. I haven’t let anyone else in. I haven’t wanted to, haven’t been ready.
I needed to make room for myself first—figure out who I wanted to be.
Now, five years later, I know who I am.
I know what I want.
An hour later, I spot Declan in the ballroom, and I’m not in love with the shortstop anymore.
But I could be.
I absolutely could be.
23
Declan
I’m bringing a date to the awards tonight—someone nearly twice my age, half a foot shorter, and wearing the hell out of a blue dress on a cold San Francisco night.
Arm in arm, my mother and I walk into the event hotel on Union Street.
“I would say you’ll have to introduce me to everyone,” she says as we wait in line for the event photographer to snap our shots, “but this old gal knows the rosters of all the major sports.”
“You might as well run a fantasy baseball league,” I tease.
“Who says I don’t?”
When it’s our turn for a pic on the red carpet, I greet the guy behind the camera.
“San Francisco hasn’t been the same without you, Steele,” he quips. “Oh wait, it has. The team finally won a World Series.”
My mom hoots. “Go Cougars!”
“Really, Mom?” I ask, outraged, as the photographer cracks up.
“Really, Declan,” she says, gleeful as a naughty kid.
I usher her away from the photo wall. “Seriously, woman. I’ll have to leave you at home. You can’t root for the other team in public.”
She covers her lips with her hand in an apologetic oops! But I’m not buying it.
Shaking my head, I place a hand on her back to guide her into the ballroom. We make our way through the crowd, catching up with old friends like Crosby and Chance, reconnecting with newer ones like Holden Kingsley, who just joined the city’s other baseball team—the San Francisco Dragons.
I say hello, too, to Nadia Harlowe, the young owner of the city’s football team. I met her a couple years ago in New York and we’ve been friendly ever since—so much so, that we make plans to share omelets tomorrow morning for a post-event debrief.
But the whole time, my heart is skittering, and I’m all kinds of distracted, watching for a glimpse of Grant.
Everyone here is sporting a tux, so I’m hunting through a sea of black, then hoping my eagerness isn’t too obvious.
My mom and I are standing at a high table, chatting with Holden, when I spot him.
Dark blond hair that looks like he just swept his fingers through it, strong shoulders, and a broad chest that I know sports a mountain tattoo, an arrow, and a nipple barbell.
My senses toss me back in time to how it felt to touch his skin.
Does he have more ink?
Will I ever find out?