“I can get you there in seconds,” I tell him. I steal a glance at my own cock tenting my towel.

  “Get me there,” he begs.

  I rip off the towel, letting him feast his eyes on my erection—throbbing, angry, hungry.

  The second Gunnar lays eyes on me through the screen his groan practically booms across Park Avenue. “Oh fuck, babe. I want to feel you. I want you in my mouth. Want you in my ass. Want you everywhere,” he says, his fist a blur.

  I grope my erection, stroke it a few times. I reach for the lotion on the coffee table and slick myself up quickly.

  “Show me how hard it would be to say no,” I say as I indulge in the filthy sight in front of me. Gunnar standing against the window, skyscrapers watching him, offices across the way able to see him. Anyone walking by who happened to look up could see the back of the man, his hips jerking hard and fast.

  If they only knew what got him off so savagely.

  Me.

  Just me. Sitting here like a king in my penthouse in San Francisco telling him what I want.

  “Show me,” I tell him. “Show me right now.”

  I grip my cock harder, stroke it faster as I record in my mind every second of his beautiful body fucking his fist. His hips pumping and snapping. His fist racing. His lips parted.

  “Fuck,” he grunts. “Babe, I’m going to come so fucking hard.”

  On an upstroke he squeezes the head and angles his cock so his come spurts all over his stomach and onto his hand.

  I am nothing but heat and desire as I thrust into my palm. “Now watch me.”

  His eyes snap open and, like he can’t quite believe he got to both feel that and see this, he gazes longingly at me as I take myself over the edge. Pleasure whips through me as my climax unloads all over my stomach too.

  I say his name, a low, guttural Gunnar as the final drops spill all over my chest. Then I spread my release all over my abs and tell him, “I might let you do that to me next time.”

  “You better,” he says.

  I shudder, basking in the shock waves. Then I tell him to go clean up and call me back.

  I’m cleaned up, too, when the phone rings a few minutes later, his face on the screen again. He’s sprawled out on his bed, exhausted.

  “I’m still not saying yes,” he says.

  “I know. But I wanted you to know what I could give you.”

  “Message received. But do you understand where I’m coming from?” His voice is gentle, a little imploring. It works its way into my cold heart.

  “I do. And I respect the way you’re thinking. I still want you to say yes, Gunnar. But right now, I’m going to let you go so you have the space to think for yourself.”

  He chuckles. “You made me come hard so I could think for myself?”

  “I made you come hard because that’s what you want from me. And you can have all of that. I won’t distract you from baseball or your family.”

  “I know you think you won’t . . .” He shuts his mouth and says nothing more. But I know he’s thinking what I am. It’s already too late for that.

  Perhaps it’s good that we have some time apart. “Gunnar, I’m not going to call you again while you’re in New York. And you won’t call me either. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes. You do, Rafe.”

  He loves following orders and I know he will follow this one. I say goodbye and I tell myself I won’t think of him.

  But I know it’s a lie as I get to work the next day on a new business deal.

  28

  DO I STAY OR GO?

  Gunnar

  Today I’m going to leave it all on the field.

  After the national anthem, I knock fists with Zane as we trot to the dugout to get ready for our at-bats. “Let’s do this,” I say.

  “No, let’s sweep this,” he corrects.

  Well, yeah. “Obviously.”

  Our left fielder bats first and strikes out. Zane ekes out a single, then steals second. When it’s my turn, the announcer warbles, “And now, batting third for the San Francisco Dragons . . . Gunnar Ford.”

  I come to the plate, and two pitches later, I send Zane home on an RBI single in the first inning.

  He gives an extra jump as he crosses home plate, and like that, we fall into the rhythm for the game.

  For the next few innings we play tight, tense ball, padding our lead little by little. There are no distractions in my head today or my heart. My focus is solely on the game. That’s not hard because this sport lights me up. Always has, from the first time my dad and I played in a local park.

  As I jog to third base at the bottom of the fifth to man the hot corner, I think of the promise I made Dad when he was sick. I was just a kid, barely in middle school, but I told him I’d look out for Mom, for Jamie, and for Charlie, my little brother.

  This is how I keep my promise.

  When the Comets slugger, Tanner Sloan, comes to the plate and sends a scorching line drive my way, I dive for it, slamming into the dirt, my glove stretched out and my leather victorious.

  Yup.

  Leave it all on the field.

  When it’s my turn at the plate at the top of the seventh, I foul off fastball after curveball. Tire out the reliever. I work the count full, and still I keep fighting. I give this at-bat everything until I launch a hard double that caroms in the left-field corner.

  Yes!

  I pull up on second, where I’m a friendly fucker. Tanner’s wandered over from short, so I slap him on the arm. “Nice game, isn’t it?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Would be nicer if I saw you less,” he says drolly.

  “Aww, you’d miss me if I didn’t get on base so often.”

  The Comets infielder snorts. “I wouldn’t exactly call it missing,” he says as the next batter comes to the box, and he returns to short.

  When I slide home a few pitches later, we’re ahead by three runs. All we have to do is hold on to that lead, and it shouldn’t be too hard. We have one of the best closers in the league in Shane Walker.

  One, two, three, and Shane closes down the New York Comets, sealing a sweet victory for us.

  “Shakespeare,” I shout to the badass blond British relief pitcher as I run off the field. I clap him on the back in congratulations. “You are the be-all and end-all.”

  He tosses his head back, laughing. “Are you quoting MacBeth to me?”

  “Brains and firepower. You’ve got it all,” I say with a grin.

  “And you, sir, have a very nice bat. That was pure Shane Walker, by the way. No Bard there.”

  “I bet the Bard would have liked my bat.” I waggle my eyebrows as Zane jogs over and joins us.

  “You showboating again, Gun?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “And I am impressed,” Shane says.

  The three of us shoot the shit as we head to the dugout. It feels like proof that Rafe won’t distract me from doing my job.

  Well, not any more than he did last night.

  That was some top-notch distraction, what he did to me on the phone. But still, I haven’t said yes to his thirty-day proposal. I held my own when that man worked his dark and sexy magic on me, demanding I pleasure myself in front of the window. I gave New York quite a show.

  And it thrilled me. Rafe was right when he said I was an exhibitionist. Maybe Owen was right, too, when he warned me to be careful.

  I am. I’m being cautious. I’m taking my time. And no one could tell it was me last night unless all of New York can identify the shape of my ass.

  If they can, I hope they enjoyed themselves too.

  But today, baseball is the only stage for me.

  A little later, I zip back into Manhattan in a Lyft with Zane, and we stop at our favorite late-night diner, where I order a chicken sandwich and a kale salad, and he opts for egg whites, no butter, no oil, and spinach. Dude is a health nut of the highest order.

  As we wait for the food, Zane smirks. “So?”

  I frown. “So what?”

  “What’s the deal with you and Rafe?”

  Shit. Am I going to tell him? “Dude, you fucking love gossip,” I taunt.

  Zane shakes his head. “Nah, I just want to know what’s going on with my bud. So . . . Mister Tall, Sexy, and Hot—tell me everything.”

  What is the deal with me and Rafe?

  I’m torn. The more time I spend with him, the more I want to see him, talk to him, touch him. Maybe the distance of this away series will get him out of my system.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I say, as casually as possible.

  Zane rolls his eyes.

  “I mean it. Nothing is going on,” I insist.

  “Come on. You were in Marlow’s suite with him the other night. I’m not stupid. There’s not nothing going on.”

  I heave a sigh. I love Zane. He’s a good bud. But we have a bet going, and the more I talk about Rafe, the more likely it is I’ll admit I don’t have my act together with Mister Tall, Sexy, and Hot. “He’s not interested in relationships, and I’m not either.”

  “Because of what I told you?” Zane asks.

  Sure, the story of Rafe’s past wasn’t pretty, but he basically just said the guy’s been hurt, which explains why Rafe doesn’t want anything more than a casual arrangement.

  “Because my focus is on the game, not a man,” I say with exaggerated patience.

  Zane studies me a moment longer and then says, “Fair enough.”

  But when I pick up my phone while we’re waiting for our food, Zane points at me and laughs. “Caught you looking.”

  I groan. Am I that obvious? “You just love busting my chops, don’t you?”

  “I really fucking do,” Zane says gleefully.

  “And you’re really fucking good at it,” I grumble.

  He nudges my foot under the table. “Why don’t you just admit you want him?”

  I sigh. “I do want him. But that doesn’t mean anything more is going to happen.”

  “Something might,” Zane needles.

  I lean back in the booth, spreading my arms wide over the back of the seat. “You must really want to win the bet.”

  But his expression is unusually serious. “Fuck the bet. I give you hell because you think you’re so cool and calm.” He leans forward, seeming intent on his message. “But you’re only fooling yourself if you believe there’s nothing there but fun and games.”

  “Yeah?” An ominous prickle runs down my spine. “Why’s that?”

  Zane shrugs knowingly. “This man makes you do things you’ve never done. Blow a kiss to the camera, disappear into a suite, send a thirst trap, and then go all quiet on a plane—this guy is under your skin, no mistake.”

  I gulp. “You . . . noticed?” I didn’t realize my introspective mood on the plane yesterday was so apparent.

  He smiles. “I’m your friend. Of course, I noticed.”

  I have no comeback for that.

  “You were quiet, dude,” Zane continues, speaking with genuine concern. “You’re never quiet. You love to shoot the shit or watch TV or hang out. But yesterday, you were all up in your head.”

  I sigh and drop my forehead into my hand. My body is full of tension and my mind is full of questions.

  “I don’t know,” I mutter, then look up with a grimace. “I think I’m a little obsessed with him.” It’s a relief to say it. Like I’ve been carrying around this secret. “Listen, can I tell you something?”

  “Of course you can.”

  I’m not embarrassed about my lack of experience, per se. Still, only Rafe knows what I’m about to say, and I need to talk to a friend right now more than I need to talk to a lover. “I’ve never been with a guy. I’ve just made out. And with Rafe, I kind of want to do everything.”

  Zane’s smile is electric. “You picked The Underwear King for your first ride on the Dude Merry-Go-Round? That’s going to be hard to resist.”

  “Trust me, I know. He’s hard to walk away from.”

  “Then why walk away?” Zane asks.

  I swallow and bite off the next bit of truth. “The more I have of him, the more I want.”

  The server arrives with our food, and I thank her.

  “Enjoy,” she replies.

  Before we tuck in, Zane says in a serious tone, “Dude, no shade from me. I’m a lover. You know I didn’t expect to fall hard and fast for my agent. But I did, and now I can’t imagine a life without Maddox. So, I get that you’re falling for Rafe whether you want to or not.”

  But I can’t let that happen. I just can’t.

  As we eat and talk, the conversation swings back to sports.

  And I welcome the break. He tells me he and his dude are going to hang out with Tanner when the Comets come to town next month.

  “Does Maddox rep Tanner now?”

  Zane squares his shoulders. “He reps all the best players. And all the best queer players.”

  I snort. “You wish.”

  When I duck into my room after we return to the hotel, I feel a little lighter. Maybe I can handle this storm of new sensations. Maybe I am only obsessed with the physical and the way Rafe makes me want to do things I haven’t done before.

  I can stave off those deeper feelings. Hell, I have to.

  But when I get into bed and check my phone, I feel a bit empty because there’s no note from Rafe. If I say no, there won’t be any ever again.

  29

  THE TWIST

  Gunnar

  I have two special guests at the ballpark on Sunday. My mom flew up from Virginia and my little brother, Charlie, took the train from Connecticut, where he goes to college.

  Owen meets my family and me by the first-base line and gives them a tour of the Comets ballpark, along with the Comets PR guy.

  “Don’t even think about changing allegiances and becoming a Comets fan,” I tell my mom when we return to her section of the stands.

  She gives me a sneaky grin, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “But this is such a nice ballpark.”

  Charlie adopts a serious expression. “Much nicer than yours, Gun,” he says.

  Owen clears his throat. “I’m so sorry I arranged for that tour,” he deadpans.

  Mom smiles and then brings Owen in for a hug. “That was lovely. Thank you.”

  Once he takes off to do PR things, I sit with Mom and Charlie for a few minutes, catching up. Mom shows me pics of the new screened-in pool she enjoys in the summers.

  “You’re living the life, Mom,” I say, proud that I could do this for her. She still lives modestly in a standard three-bedroom house. But she owns it outright and doesn’t have to worry about bills. That’s all that matters.

  “And loving it, sweetheart,” she says, patting my thigh, currently covered by my baseball pants.

  I give her a hug, then turn to Charlie. “I’ll hit you a homer, kid.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, right.”

  “You doubt me?”

  “Um, yeah. Just a little bit,” he says, the way little brothers do. I jump up, ruffle his hair, and head to the steps to get ready for the game. “Just watch me.”

  In the seventh inning, I make good on my promise to Charlie, going deep and sending two runners home. When I hit home plate, I turn toward the first-base line and blow a kiss to my family.

  After the game, when a local sports reporter pulls me aside by the dugout and asks who the kiss was for, I answer, “Mom and my little bro. Love them to the ends of the earth and back.”

  We finish her questions, and I leave the field. But I do a double take when I spot Finn Michaels. The sharp-dressed sports journalist rarely hits the field. He’s not a beat reporter. He’s basically . . . the most powerful reporter in sports. He knows about every trade, deal, and contract before it happens. He’s uncovered cheating scandals, steroid use, gambling rings, and probably who killed JFK. He’s revered and feared.

  Decked out in tailored slacks and a crisp salmon shirt, the good-looking man makes his way to the Comets dugout, then disappears in it.

  Interesting. I tuck the oddity away in my brain. I’ll have to ask Tanner what that’s about.

  In the morning, I take my family out for breakfast, then we go full tourist and visit Central Park and The Met.

  The latter was Mom’s idea. “I always wanted to study art,” she says as we wander past the Impressionists.

  “Then you should take a class.”

  She laughs. “Or maybe I’ll just get a book.”

  I buy her one in the gift shop, then we take Charlie to Grand Central Terminal and put him on a train back to school.

  That night, Mom comes to my game, and once more, we win.

  “Sweep, sweep, sweep!” I chant in the locker room to Shane, Zane, and the rest of the team. The guys get in on the chant too.

  Mom and I grab a late dinner, and in the morning, I take her to the airport. It was a good weekend. I spent time with my family, I spent time with my sport, and I racked up some of my best stats so far this season.

  Thoughts of Rafe didn’t distract me a bit, and I think that maybe, just maybe, I can have it all—the man for thirty days and the life I want.

  Mom boards her flight and I head to the team plane, still buoyed by the wins.

  I drop into a seat next to Zane and slap his thigh. “We are the champions. I can fucking smell the postseason. Can you?”

  He lifts his nose and inhales deep. “Oh, yeah! And it smells like recirculated air and victory.”

  I crack up.

  During the flight home, I chat with the guys, catch up with them on their families and friends, and then Zane and I watch a British comedy we love. Shane joins us for a critique of the accents. In my head, though, I hear my favorite British voice.

  The flight home is a stark contrast to my flight there. I didn’t do it intentionally, but I proved I can balance the intensity of Rafe with my devotion to baseball and my family.

  Somewhere over Utah, most of the guys have fallen asleep and the plane is quiet. But Zane’s up, so I turn to him and say quietly, “I think I’m going to see Rafe again.”