And I hate doubt.

  But in the meantime, I can let him know I’m thinking about him. That’s our routine when we’re apart—to chat before our games.

  As I unlock the car and slide in, I grab my phone to send him a message. But once I open his name, a notification pops up from Owen, asking me to give him a quick call.

  Before I turn the engine, I dial the PR guy’s number.

  “What’s up?” I ask, cutting to the chase.

  “Hey! So, I’m calling you in a work capacity and a friend capacity,” he says, direct and upbeat, since that’s his style.

  “Got it. Hit me,” I say, bracing myself for whatever media issue has reared its head.

  “Troy ran another piece this afternoon about you and Grant. It’s more of the same blah-blah-blah bullshit as last time,” he adds.

  “Thanks for the heads up. But I don’t read that crap.”

  Owen sighs happily. “And that is one of my favorite things about you. It could not make my PR heart happier to know that my players can ignore the stupid stuff out there. But,” he says, slowing down, a note of concern in his voice, “the piece mentions Grant, and tries to claim that because your performance against pitchers in Grant’s league has improved this year, that supports his claim that Grant is giving you tips on all the pitchers in his league . . .”

  Ah, yes. I get it now. I understand Owen’s concern. It’s for Grant, and that’s sweet. “I’ll call him right now. Make sure he’s okay. Thanks for reaching out as a friend.”

  “No problem. I know he worries about this more than you.”

  “He does. You’re a good one, Owen,” I say, then hang up and dial my guy.

  Grant answers right away. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a phone call? Wait. Let me guess. You’re horny and need me to tell you exactly how I plan to ravage your sexy-ass body when I get home this weekend? Okay, fine. I was just putting on chest pads, but I can take a break to tell you all about it.”

  Cracking up, I shake my head. This guy. He kills me. “Yes, I want all your sex plans, but I wanted to make sure you were doing okay. Troy wrote another piece.”

  “He sure did,” Grant says, and he’s all sunshine and good spirits. He’s not bent out of shape.

  Interesting. “And you’re good with it?”

  “I am. Want to know why?”

  “I do.”

  “Someone told me to tune it out. And I listened to that someone,” Grant says, sounding pleased as punch with himself.

  “Well, look at you,” I say with a low whistle.

  “I don’t give a fuck what he says about me. You did that for me. So . . . thank you.”

  A grin spreads across my face. “You did it, Grant. But I’m happy I could help.”

  “Me too. But I do have to hit the field in a minute. Good luck with Stockman today.”

  “You’re not going to give me any hitting tips, are you?”

  “You wish. If you wind up in the World Series playing against Stockman, that’s when I’ll give you tips. Not now. Not while we’re both in contention for the playoffs. Want to know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I give you a tip and you win, that means I might have to face you in the World Series, and can you imagine how devastated you’ll be when I beat you? I don’t know how I’d console you.”

  “Stab a knife in my chest, why don’t you? You’re the cruelest.”

  “And you wouldn’t have it any other way. When it comes to baseball, you want to beat me, and I want to beat you. And that’s the way it should be.”

  I do love his competitive fire. It matches mine. “We are birds of a feather. Like herons.”

  Grant snort-laughs. “Bang me like a heron, Declan.”

  “I will go horny heron on you this weekend.”

  “Mmm. You almost make me want to tell you how to hit Stockman with that sweet nothing. Love you.”

  “Love you. Also,” I say, slowing down, taking a breath. “Grant?”

  “Yes, Deck?”

  “Thanks again. For being patient. For waiting for me.” I hope he knows what I mean.

  Grant’s quiet at first. “You were always worth waiting for, Declan,” he says, in a tender voice that makes it clear he knows what I’m saying.

  And that’s another reason I want to find my answer soon.

  So I don’t make him wait any longer for me.

  Right now, though, I need to find the answer to an immediate dilemma. I drive to the ballpark, formulating a plan for Stockman.

  One that doesn’t rely on my boyfriend’s hitting tips, or my dad’s, or anyone else’s.

  One that relies on me.

  After I arrive, I march straight to the locker room to find Gunnar. My teammate has a crummy batting average against Stockman this year too. “I know what to do,” I announce to the third baseman, then we gather by our lockers, search past video for our at-bats against the leftie, and nod sagely at the same time once we spot the issue. “Stockman started jamming us this year. He’s all up and in,” I say, tapping the screen like I’ve found the buried treasure.

  Gunnar’s eyes spark with a plan. “We need to crowd the plate. He won’t be able to jam us so much.”

  “We’ll jam him instead,” I say, and we smack palms. Then he tells me something very interesting indeed about the night we were at the dance club earlier in the season. That night, we both homer off Stockman and win the game.

  We win the Saturday game too, pulling us even closer to a playoff spot. I meet Mom outside the ballpark, then we head to the noodle shop in the marina, and I wish the answer to wanting kids was as easy as researching at-bats.

  I wish I had an answer for Grant, since he deserves to know where I stand. But I wish I had it for me too. I desperately want the answer and I want to know how to find it.

  As we head to the restaurant, a bird squawks overhead. Looks like a falcon. If memory serves, I spotted a falcon the first time I went for a run with Grant in spring training way back when.

  Mom cranes her neck to the darkening sky. “Remember when you used to go bird watching as a young teen?”

  “I do remember. I wanted to be a bird and fly away,” I say, drily. She knows about my bird fascination, where and what it came from.

  She squeezes my shoulder. “Well, I’m sure glad you stayed, sweetie.”

  Laughing I say, “Yeah, me too.”

  Once inside the noodle shop, we grab a table and order, and then Mom gives me that it’s time to talk face.

  I hold my hands out wide. “What do I do?”

  She smiles gently. “I can’t make that decision for you. But I want to help you figure out how to make the decision that works for you.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I scrub a palm across the nape of my neck, my brain still a mess, like it’s been for the last two months. I don’t know how to find clarity. “How do I do that? I’ve been weighing it, and I’m lost. I know so little about kids. No brother or sister, as you know. I didn’t grow up with cousins. I’ve been a solo ranger, Mom.”

  “That’s true. You have. I have to imagine that makes it harder for you. Makes it all seem more mysterious.”

  That’s exactly the issue. “How do I know if I’m ready to make that choice someday?”

  She lifts her glass, takes a drink of bubbly water. “Do you remember when you first wanted to play baseball?”

  “When I was six?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sort of. I remember wanting to go to the park and hit balls.”

  “That was part of it. But even though your father was a minor leaguer, you didn’t want to sign up for a team before you had a go on your own. You would go to our backyard and take practice swings all day. You’d throw balls to your father and me. You wanted to put baseball through its paces before you joined a team. That’s how you are.”

  “Are you saying I should carry a doll or whatever they do these days so I get used to kids?”

  “No. You don’t need to get a doll. But you do like to know what you’re getting into. You do that when you’re taking something seriously.”

  She’s onto something. That’s how I approach the unknown—but the unknown that I’m considering. Funny, it’s how I approached Grant too, in Arizona. When he propositioned me about sleeping together years ago, I weighed his request, turning it over and checking out all the angles. “That sounds like me. But you can’t test out kids.”

  “Exactly. That’s probably why you’re so conflicted. You want to be sure of things before you do them, sweetie,” she says, understanding me completely.

  “Guess it’s a good thing we won’t accidentally have them,” I deadpan.

  She laughs. “That’s definitely a good thing.”

  I mull over her advice about practice. “But does that mean I need to go find a friend with kids and babysit? That doesn’t feel quite right either,” I say, frowning, since kids aren’t baseball. And I certainly didn’t test out sex with Grant before I agreed to take him around the bases. So I’m not sure I need practice with kids per se. “I’m not sure that would give me the answer I’m looking for.”

  “That’s true. Whether you enjoy watching someone else’s kids doesn’t always tell you if you’ll want your own. And we can’t magically give you a brother or sister, so I don’t know that you’ll ever have the certainty of experience that you might have if you were an older brother.”

  I sigh heavily. “So where does that leave me?”

  She gives a soft smile. “I can’t tell you if you’re ever going to be ready, and I don’t know that you ever will feel ready like you did about baseball. This is different. But I can say with absolute certainty that I think you’d be amazing at parenting.”

  Warmth spreads through me, but so does more doubt. “You really think so? Or are you just saying that because you’re my mom?”

  “My job as your mother is to think you’ll be amazing. But I also truly think you will be.” She takes a pause. “Do you want to know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re determined to learn from the past. Because you have learned from the past. But I also think you’ll be a good father because you have a great partner. That guy loves you soooooo much,” she says, her voice breaking. Her hand flies to her mouth, and her eyes fill with tears.

  “Mom,” I say, switching to her side of the table, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “I am,” she chokes out, her voice filled with potholes as tears stream down her face.

  “Why are you crying?”

  She hides her face against my chest, hiccups and lets out another loud sob. “Because you found someone you love. Someone who loves you back. The night he got hurt? All he wanted was to see you.” Mom lifts her face, meets my eyes. “When I was driving him to your house, he asked if I’d heard from you, and then he said . . .” She stops, takes a moment to catch her breath. “‘I really want to see your son.’ You were all he wanted. Declan, he just loves you with everything he has.”

  Grant told me as much that night, but hearing it from another person makes my heart swell for him even more. “I feel the same for him,” I say.

  “I know you do. You found the thing that makes you happy in baseball, and the person who makes your life complete in Grant,” she says, in a wobbly voice thick with emotion. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted for my child.”

  “Stop. You’re gonna make me cry too,” I whisper.

  But I suspect she’s onto something. Finding your passion and finding your person—

  Maybe the answer is just that simple.

  26

  Declan

  I’m only doing this for Holden.

  My teammate is checking out rings, and I’m tagging along to be a good sport—and because he hates driving. After our Sunday game, we pile into my car, and we head to the East Bay. We’re not unknown on this side of the bridge, but there’s less chance we’ll be spotted, especially since he made an appointment at a jewelry shop known for discretion.

  The store owner meets us at the back entrance. She’s a petite blonde with a teacup chihuahua tucked under her arm—also a blonde.

  “This is Gigi,” the woman says, petting the dog as we follow her to a private office. “And I’m Pepper. We’re looking forward to helping you find the perfect ring, Holden.”

  “Thanks, Pepper,” Holden says, and Gigi lifts her chin, shooting him a haughty stare.

  “And Gigi,” I add with due deference to the pup.

  “Smart man,” Pepper says with a laugh.

  A few minutes later, after she brings out an assortment of engagement rings for Holden to peruse, the woman then turns to me. “Anyone special in your life?” she asks.

  Holden chuckles without looking away from the rings. “Just a little bit.”

  “Oh?” The woman and her dog tilt their heads in identical expressions of curiosity. “Do tell.”

  I glance at the sparkly diamonds Holden is checking out, then swing my gaze back to Pepper. Seems silly not to at least look at options. Since we’re here, and all.

  Taking a deep breath, I tell her, “I would actually love to see some platinum bands for my boyfriend.”

  “Wonderful. I have lots of those. It’s a new specialty for the store. My father just married his partner. It was such a lovely ceremony. Even my mother thought so.”

  I love these stories, no matter when they happen in someone’s life. “Good for him, for figuring out what he wanted.”

  She brings her free hand to her heart. “After all these years.” She sighs happily. “Let me gather some options.”

  When Pepper disappears to the storefront, Holden turns to me, a Cheshire cat grin on his face. “I knew you weren’t here just for moral support.”

  “Is it so inconceivable I was just coming along as your trusted friend and teammate?”

  “Yes,” Holden says. “And I was right. You had ulterior motives.”

  I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Fine. Maybe I did.”

  He wiggles his brows. “So, when are you going to ask him?”

  That is a good question.

  I’m not at all afraid to marry Grant, but can I buy him a ring if I don’t know if I want to have kids someday?

  That’s another excellent, but more complicated, question.

  That night, after I whip up an omelet for dinner, I check my phone to see if Grant’s landed yet. There’s no text from him, though he should be here soon. I sink onto the sex couch, turn to the new memoir I picked up, and dive into a story about a journalist who battled a stutter his whole life.

  I’m lost in this tale of perseverance when my phone pings with a new text.

  * * *

  Grant: Did you feel the gravitational force of me landing in San Francisco?

  * * *

  Declan: Like my dick’s a magnet for you?

  * * *

  Grant: Yes. Mine is hard just being in the same city as you. See you in thirty, hottie.

  * * *

  I’m about to reply when another message falls on top of Grant’s. I wince, wishing I didn’t feel compelled to open it. But the preview is like a five-car pile-up on the side of the road, and I have to look.

  * * *

  Dad: Guess what???

  * * *

  I hate clicking on it, but I have to peek.

  * * *

  Dad: I was going to call you but figured it was only fair to give you a heads-up first, since I know you hate surprises . . .

  * * *

  So why surprise me, Dad? I ask myself, but he keeps typing, saving me from having to reply.

  * * *

  Dad: But . . . here goes . . .

  * * *

  Dad: I think I’m going to ask Tricia to marry me!

  * * *

  What the hell? I hold the phone at arm’s length, hoping a different angle will change the note. It still says the same thing, but this can’t be happening.

  His texts come thick and fast like smoke from a steam train—the one I worry might be about to mow me down.

  * * *

  Dad: We broke up a while back but got back together last week, and it felt so right. Want to be my best man?

  * * *

  I shake my head, over and over. No. For so many reasons, no. But can I tell him that?

  * * *

  Declan: You haven’t even asked her yet. Shouldn’t you do that first before lining up the wedding party?

  * * *

  Dad: Don’t be such a negative Nellie. Say you will. That’s sort of poetic, isn’t it? You being your old man’s best man. This one is gonna last, I know it.

  * * *

  Declan: When will you ask her?

  * * *

  Dad: I’m thinking this weekend. Maybe get married over Christmas.

  * * *

  Declan: Good luck. I’m going to Tokyo with Grant over Christmas.

  * * *

  I know what will come next, and I don’t want to deal with his guilt-trip replies. Before I go into Do Not Disturb mode, I click over to Grant’s message thread and type:

  * * *

  Declan: Hey. My dad is texting, and I need a break from him, so I’m turning my phone off. I will see you in thirty minutes though. Like a magnet.

  * * *

  Grant: You’re so hot when you tell me what’s going on. Love you so fucking much.