Grant’s blue eyes sparkle with wild hope, and his lips hook into a grin. “I’m falling so fucking hard for you,” he says, and that’s it.
I’m just done.
I’m too far gone.
I grab him, kiss him, and give him everything I can.
For now.
Because that’s all we have.
When we break the kiss, he gives a helpless shrug. “Sorry, not sorry.”
“No apologies. I’m in this too. I’m so far in this, and I wish we could last.”
The catcher on my team lets out a sharp breath, his eyes brimming with sadness, resignation. “But we can’t.”
There is no question mark.
Since there’s no question.
We are impossible.
“But at least we have one more day,” I whisper.
Too bad I wish tomorrow wouldn’t come.
33
Grant
Newsflash: I am not sore the next day.
Nope.
I’m not sore as I crouch behind home plate, catching a scrappy inter-squad game before our afternoon one against the Bandits.
I am not sore what-so-fucking ever as one of our starters throws to me and the team goes through a split-squad scrimmage.
Okay, maybe I am sore.
But I don’t care.
I know how to put pain out of my mind to focus on my job.
That’s what I do because as amazing as last night was, I still have a goddamn job to do, and the memory of my shitty game against the Sharks isn’t far from my head.
How could it be?
I’m not stupid. I know why I’m catching this scrimmage.
The same reason we’re having one.
Our last game sucked.
My last game sucked.
This is the hierarchy. This is how it works. Show that you have the mettle for the starting job.
The bullpen catchers aren’t here today behind the plate. It’s me against Rodriquez. Rodriguez against me.
Can you say metaphor for my entire spring training?
Right now, he’s at the plate. He’s on the squad with the stars—Crosby, Declan, Chance.
Which probably means he’s starting today’s game against the Bandits.
That’s not good for me.
But it’s also an opportunity.
If he starts it maybe I can finish it. Maybe I can show the skipper why I deserve the starting catcher slot on Opening Day. Rodriguez is good but I need to be better.
There’s no room for pain.
Plus, I know the man’s weakness. Dude swings at sinkers every time. Misses most of the time. I call for one, and he shifts his hips, then slices the bat through the air as the ball drops.
Yes!
That beautiful white orb finds a home in my glove with a welcome thunk.
A few more like that, and Rodriguez whiffs.
Better luck next time.
Not.
Crosby ambles over to the plate, adjusting his helmet, chewing gum, then blowing a bubble and cracking it so damn loud I swear it splits my eardrums.
“Is that your new distraction strategy?” I ask.
He wiggles a brow. “Yeah. Is it working?”
“Considering I figured it out in a second I’d say no,” I say, then laugh. He snaps his fingers in an aw-shucks gesture as he adjusts his batting glove, hoists the bat, and then gets into the stance, taking a few practice swings.
“Big game today,” he says, since he’s always been a chatty mofo at the plate. He does it to drive catchers crazy. To distract them.
“Why is that? Do you have a tee time that you don’t want to miss?” I tease as I settle into the crouch. If I’m not distracted by the lingering ache of a big cock up my ass last night, I’m not gonna be distracted by Crosby’s yammering.
“Touché.” He laughs, and I’m firing on all cylinders at being a part of the team today. Giving the guys a hard time and talking smack.
I guess sex is good for me.
Maybe I’ll go on a streak thanks to great sex.
Maybe I could convince Declan to keep this up throughout spring training.
But I shake that notion from my head as the pitcher nods at me and I give him a sign. A few pitches later we send Crosby packing to the dugout with a checked strike.
Two outs and it’s Declan’s turn.
Lowering my mask, I crouch back down, wishing this could be our norm. Opposing teams.
That would come with its own set of challenges, but it’d be worlds better than being on the same team.
Opposing teams would be workable, not insurmountable. We’d be competitors, but on a path to more rather than a road to nowhere.
Me behind the plate, him at the plate—we’d be doable.
I let that new fantasy play out for a few seconds as he takes a couple practice swings.
A baseball fantasy.
Striking out my lover.
Oh, fuck yes.
I want to watch him go down swinging, and my gut tells me how to do it. It shows me a flash of the game where he hit the grand slam off the slider last season. As I replay it, the memory sharpens.
Did the pitcher hesitate?
I don’t know, so I shelve it, but leave a mental Post-it to look it up on YouTube later. For now, I stick to a solid plan.