I grip his arm, wrapping him closer around me, enjoying having him near. “I feel so much better with you here.”

  “Me too.”

  I let out a long sigh. “I’ve never had a serious boyfriend before.”

  He chuckles softly. “Yes, I’m aware of that. Why are you bringing this up now?”

  “Tonight just made me think about it more. This entire last week has, Deck,” I say, letting him see how I feel, wanting him to know some of the things on my mind.

  “In what way?”

  I take a deep breath, then plunge in. “The whole thing with Troy, when that got all messy—you were the only one I wanted to talk to.”

  Declan sighs softly and presses a kiss to my jawline. “I was glad you talked to me about it.”

  “And then today. It was you. Just you,” I say, my voice trembling.

  He runs his fingers softly along my forearm. “You wanted me? Just me?” he asks with wonder in his voice.

  “Yes, and this is all so new to me—wanting someone this much, needing someone this much,” I say, admitting the parts of our relationship that freak me out the most. Once it’s this serious, the other person can hurt you terribly. “But I don’t want to scare you away.”

  “You couldn’t, Grant,” he says, gripping me tighter, holding me closer. “Because it’s the same for me. As I was flying home, I was scared and amazed all at once—scared that you were hurt and amazed that one person can make me feel everything. I want you so much, and I need you so much. And I just love you so fucking much.”

  My throat squeezes. “I love you, Declan. Stay with me all night.”

  Only, I mean more than tonight. I mean forever. I mean always.

  Even though that’s not a promise I’m ready to ask for just yet.

  “I will,” Declan says, then adds in the softest voice, full of tenderness, “Always.”

  In this moment, staying together feels like the only answer to every question.

  The next morning, I wake feeling mostly good, pretty sure I’m concussion-free. I’m not quite great, but I’m damn close.

  Especially since Declan’s here with me, sound asleep, his arm flung over his eyes, giving me a perfect view of those biceps. With him here in bed, I see a fully formed image of my future. The same one I imagined last night when I asked him to stay.

  Declan Steele is the one I want with me forever.

  I’ve thought it a lot, suspected it to be true. But I didn’t feel it fully in my bones until he curled up with me late last night, becoming my home.

  How can we pull this off with our jobs?

  Getting back together felt so easy when it happened. Now life is happening to us, coming hard and fast. One of us will get hurt, injured, sick. Will we be able to take care of each other?

  In sickness and in health, and all that.

  As long as you both shall live.

  Even though my grandparents looked out for me growing up, having parents who didn’t want me drives me to hold on tight when someone does.

  Not just anyone.

  This man.

  He feels like my family.

  I’m figuring out, too, exactly what family means to me. The conversation with Jason earlier this week turned the key in the door. Declan’s mom showing up for me last night kicked it wide open. Both showed me what I’m pretty sure I want down the road.

  A family with Declan.

  Soon I’m going to need to find a way to ask if he wants the same thing.

  20

  Declan

  I’ve never been more grateful to have a day off. I get to spend it with my favorite person and my second-favorite person too. Grant insists Mom stay for lunch. Since he’s feeling better, we order takeout and eat under the July sun on our deck, overlooking our tiny yard, as Grant peppers her with questions about me growing up.

  “What did he wear for his first Halloween, Cyndi?”

  She snaps her fingers, her brown eyes lighting up. “Oh, I nearly forgot the irony of this.”

  I knit my brow. “Why is my childhood Halloween costume ironic?”

  “Not ironic. Wrong word choice. More like an omen,” she says.

  Grant’s blue eyes lock with hers. “I need to know. What was he?”

  Lifting a finger, she reaches for her phone. “One second.” She clicks on a folder, slides her thumb across the screen a few times, then shows the image to Grant.

  He bursts into laughter, then slugs my shoulder. “You were a dragon. When you were one-year-old, you were a stinking dragon. Omen, indeed.”

  I roll my eyes at the shot of me in a green costume with red spines. “An omen is a bad thing.”

  “Well, if the shoe fits,” Grant says.

  I shoot him a harsh stare. “If you keep up this sass, I will send you back to bed. You are on the injured list. Also, the Dragons have a better record than the Cougars this year, so maybe harbinger is the word you want, since a harbinger brings good things.”

  “Look at you, trotting out your fancy words,” Grant says as he picks up his fork and dives back into the chicken and quinoa bowl I ordered for lunch. “Also, I’m only on the seven-day injured list. And only because they had to. I’m not really injured.”

  “And harbinger is not really a fancy word,” I say, returning to my meal too.

  “It kind of is. Why don’t we put the dragon shot of you up on your Insta and see who knows the meaning of the word?”

  “I am not putting baby pics on my Insta,” I say, but as my gaze shifts from Mom to Grant and back, a better idea pops into my head. “How about one of the three of us having lunch on our deck?”

  Grant beams like I’ve made his month. “Yeah? You’d do that?”

  “Sure,” I say, especially since this seems to make him even happier than going to the club. “The fans will be glad to see you feeling better too.”

  “Let’s do it. You in, Cyndi?” Grant asks Mom.

  “Of course.” She stretches out her arm, and snaps a shot, then shows it to us.

  “First shot, Cyn!” Grant gives a fist pump and Mom blows on her fingers before she sends it to us.

  Later, after we say goodbye to Mom, I shoo my man up the stairs. “Nap time for you, babe.”

  Grant pouts. “Can we watch a movie in bed?”

  I shake my head, holding my ground. “You’re not playing hooky. You’re supposed to be taking it easy but you’re acting like a kid who faked a cough to stay home from school.”

  “Trust me. I was not so skilled in high school that I could fake a cough to spend a day with the school hottie. Also, I was the school hottie.”

  I crack up. “No doubt.”

  “And you’re the school hottie now, so get in bed with me, hot stuff.”

  I huff like I’m annoyed, though I’m not in the least. “I’m only doing it to get you to rest,” I say.

  Grant winks at me. “I approve of your strategy.”

  We fall into bed in the middle of the day, the sun streaming through the window. Grant grabs his phone, asking, “Cool with you if I post the pic now?”

  “We’re posting it on my Insta,” I remind him, giving him my phone. “But can you write it up? You’re better with that.”

  “I got you,” Grant says, dropping his phone and taking mine. He opens my feed, drafts a post, and shows me.

  Rolling my eyes, I crack up. “We are not posting—I have the hottest BF evah.”

  “Fine, fine,” he says, then tries again and shows me. “Lunch with two of my favorite people. Yes, the Cougars’ catcher is feeling better. Thanks for all the well wishes.”

  I smile, feeling a little like he can see inside my soul. “I was thinking that at lunch. You are two of my favorite people. But you’re my favorite,” I say, kissing his forehead, then his hair. I draw a deep lungful of Grant’s shampoo, then his neck, letting him fill my mind, that barbershop scent I crave. “You can post it.”

  Grant hits post, then sets down my phone. “You’re sexy when you let me handle your social media.”

  “I had a feeling you’d be into that,” I murmur.

  “Is that why you said yes?”

  “Maybe. I want to make you happy. Is that such a bad thing?”

  Grant shakes his head. “Nope. It’s a good thing.”

  Speaking of good things . . .

  Running my hand through his soft hair, I tell him I’ve been researching vacation spots for us. “You want to go to someplace else in November other than Miami? Miami feels a little . . .”

  “Jinxed?”

  “You took the word right out of my mouth,” I say, glad he’s on the same page. “It’ll be our first vacation together, so I want to go someplace with no history for us. What do you think of Hawaii?”

  Grant hums his approval. “A vacation with you? I’m a sure thing. You could say you’re taking me to San Jose and I’d say yes.”

  I pull a face. “Please. Give me more credit than that. I have the hottest BF evah. I am not taking him to San Jose for a getaway.”

  Grant wiggles an eyebrow. “Oh, so I’m Hawaii-worthy, am I?”

  “Five-star-resort-in-Kauai-worthy,” I say, grabbing my phone to google one of the hotels I found. “I looked this up when I got on the plane yesterday. Before I got the news of what happened to you. We can go for a week,” I say, showing him the resort with ocean views and private villas and our own pool if we want.

  “Damn, you travel in style,” he says with an approving whistle.

  Honestly, I’m a little giddy that he’s so keen to go. “I’ve been wanting to travel with you for some time,” I tell him, feeling like I’m letting him in on a secret.

  “That so?”

  “I want to get away with you. Chill with you on the beach in the sun, go for a swim, get room service, screw in the morning, screw when the sun sets, screw at night.”

  “Sign me up to be your travel companion. You just named my three favorite things.”

  I laugh, then head down this road a little further. “Maybe over Christmas we can go to Tokyo, with Mom and Tyler. Meet my stepbrother and his wife and daughter. You and I can check out the sights, eat sushi.”

  “I’ve never been there,” Grant says.

  “Let me take you.” Travel feels like something special I can do just for him. Something no one else can—show him the world with me.

  Grant smacks a kiss on my cheek. “You can take me anywhere. I’m easy like that. I just want to be with you,” he says. “Tell me when the flight is, and I’ll be ready for my mixed nuts on the plane.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I grab my laptop and turn on a film.

  We don’t watch the movie for long. We take a nap in our bed in the sun, and that feels just right too.

  I’m much less pleased to wake up to my phone ringing.

  And it’s not one of my favorite people calling.

  21

  Declan

  I haven’t heard from my father in a few weeks and I’ve only seen him once since I returned to San Francisco two months ago. We grabbed a bite at his favorite diner and talked about the towing business for the entirety of a strangely drama-free meal. Grant was out of town, so he hasn’t met my father yet.

  I leave the bedroom, shutting the door quietly as I go so Grant can keep sleeping.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Declan! How the hell are you? But more importantly, how the hell is your boyfriend?”

  “He’s doing fine,” I say, padding down the steps to the first floor.

  “That was a helluva beaning,” my dad says.

  “It sure was.”

  “I saw the replays on the news. Messaged you this morning,” he says. “Hadn’t heard back, though, so I was worried.”

  “I was busy taking care of Grant, so I couldn’t reply right away.” I am not taking the bait of his veiled guilt trip.

  “That’s nice. Always good to have someone to look out for you. Just don’t forget your old man,” he says, a little joking, a lot not.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask, walking into the kitchen to pour a glass of iced tea—a reminder of how different I am than the man who raised me.

  “That was it. Just wanted to check in on your boyfriend. But I also wanted to let you know I took what you said to heart last time we talked.”

  My brow knits as I lift the glass. “When I saw you for breakfast in June?”

  “No. I meant when you said you weren’t going to loan me money,” he says.

  I remember the call perfectly, including my words to him.

  If you’re going to ask me for money to pay off a loan, a gambling debt, or to save your business, the answer is no. If you’re going to ask me to pay for you to go to rehab, the answer is yes.

  “Sure,” I say tentatively, taking a drink.

  “And the good news is that’s why you haven’t seen me much.”

  Could he speak any more in code? “Because you’re in rehab?” I ask, with so much hope it’s embarrassing.

  Dad chuckles. “No. I’m in AA. Like I told you. And dating Tricia. She’s helping me get my act together.” Tricia is a newcomer to the sobriety program. My dad’s been seeing her despite the fact that dating someone else in the program is a no-no. “And I’ve been working my ass off to repay my own loans. So there!”

  He says it a little like a dig but also like he’s proud of himself. I choose to focus on the latter. “Good to hear.”

  “And I wanted you to know that your tough talk inspired me. I’m not going to ask you for a loan again.”

  “That’s great,” I say, but I’ll believe that when it happens. Plus, there are bigger fish to fry. “But are you going to go to rehab?”

  “Nah. I don’t need it.”

  I sigh at the overconfident dismissal. “Is that so?”

  “It is. I’ve been sober for a while now,” he adds.

  “How long?”

  “A while,” he repeats, underlining the words.

  That’s answer enough. He won’t tell me. Therefore, he’s slipped again. “Well, keep up the good work,” I say. This isn’t my circus, these aren’t my monkeys.

  “But that’s not why I’m calling,” he says.

  I brace myself for some brand-new request. For the latest uncomfortable ask. “All right. Why are you calling?”

  “Tricia and I would love to take you and Grant out to dinner.”

  My insides curl up in a ball and cringe. I’d rather have needles poked in my eyes. Yet I know this is better than a lot of alternatives. Dinner is not a loan. Dinner is not a drunken appearance at a game. Dinner is simply . . . a meal.

  But dinner usually comes with liquor. “How about breakfast instead?”

  “Sure,” he says. We set a date and I tell him I’ll check with Grant.

  We hang up, and I feel like I made it out of a cage match unscathed. But I’m unsure if I can pull it off again next time.

  Two weeks later, Grant and I set out on a Friday morning to have breakfast with my father. My nerves are strung tight. Grant must sense it, since he rubs my shoulder as we walk along California Street.

  “You’ve got this, Deck,” he says.

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so,” Grant says, then smacks a kiss on my stubbled cheek.

  He lets go of my shoulder and reaches for my hand. I take it, clasping our fingers together, and we cross Fillmore like that.

  When we arrive at the diner, I look around for my father and a woman, but spot my dad all alone at a table.

  “Tricia couldn’t make it. Late night,” my dad says with a shrug as he stands.

  Grant extends a hand. “But it’s a pleasure to meet you, Jon.”

  We sit, order awkwardly, then Grant slides in with a great opening line: “So, you were a hitting champ in the minors, Jon. Tell me your favorite memories of Triple-A.”

  That’s genius. We spend the next forty-five minutes reminiscing on the one thing the three of us have in common—the greatest sport ever.

  It’s almost enough to fool me into thinking my dad is better.

  22

  Grant

  Clearly, this isn’t the time to toss out the big question that’s been poking at me since the night I was hit. Declan is quiet after breakfast with his dad, and I’m not going to rock his boat by saying, “Hey, something big has been on my mind for the last couple weeks. Want to chat?”

  I don’t fill every second of silence on the way home with my need to talk, talk, talk. That’s something I’ve been learning—when to talk, when to listen. When to give Declan some space to figure out what’s in his head.

  Once we return to our house, he asks if I want to go to the gym. “Like the good old days, when we were just workout buddies,” he says, with a sly grin.

  Ah, he’s back. That’s my guy.

  “But these are the good new days too,” I point out. “And the answer is yes to the gym. Obviously. I’ve always liked checking you out in shorts. Favor though?”

  “Yes?” Declan asks as we head upstairs to change.

  “Can you go shirtless?”

  “Anything for you. Especially since these are definitely the better days.”

  The question will have to wait for another day.

  On Saturday we both have night games, but we spend the day together. First, we head to my sister’s bar in Hayes Valley to grab a bite to eat. When we walk in, Sierra flashes a welcoming grin. “Lucky me. I’ve got a star athlete in the Spotted Zebra . . . as well as my brother,” she says, setting down napkins in front of us at the counter.

  Declan smiles. “Dragons fans are my fave,” he says.

  “What can I get the Dragons shortstop? Anything you want is on the house. But the Cougar will have to pay,” she tells him with a flick of her pink-streaked blonde hair.

  I roll my eyes. “Sheesh. Family.”

  Declan orders a chicken sandwich, I ask for a burger, then Deck raises a finger. “That’s it for food. But what I really want, Sierra, is a fantastic story about Grant as a kid.”