“Just don’t make me look like I stepped out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad.”

  I snap my fingers. “Damn. You figured out my plan. Are you thinking REI outdoor couture is more your speed?”

  He groans. “Please say you’re not going for a lumberjack or sailor look.”

  Despite our banter, I assure him sincerely, “Trust me on this, okay?”

  When Declan answers, his voice goes to that soft and tender tone that melts me completely. “I trust you on everything, Grant.”

  I resume my pace, headed to the locker room at the far end of the concourse. “I’ve got you. And, in case I haven’t said it, thank you for going.”

  He laughs. “It’s adorable how badly you want to do this.”

  “Have you seen a mirror?” I ask. “I scored big time. I landed a babe, and I want all the guys to know you’re with me.”

  “I’m pretty sure your social media feed makes that clear.”

  He’s not wrong. We posted pictures of us at a carnival for LGBTQ teen athletes two months ago. They were my most liked images ever. Last month, I posted a shot of us out for bagels on a Saturday with a bunch of friends, laughing. Second most popular one. Earlier this month, Reese snapped a pic of Declan and me when we were playing pool with the crew. Declan was lining up a shot, and it looks like he’s staring at me at the edge of the pool table.

  He knows I post them. I show them all to him before I put them out there for the world. He’s good with it, but he’s more private than I am. Yes, he likes to hold my hand in public, to kiss me on the cheek when we get coffee, but he’s not as showy. The only pic of us he’s posted on his social media is the carnival one. But that was enough for me. I’ve always been louder than he is, and that’s cool with both of us. I like telling my story. I like that people get to see our love story.

  The walls have come down, the times have changed, and I don’t just want to live in these better times—I want to embrace them. I want to celebrate them. I love living in a world where gay love stories have come out in the open. Hell, you can’t turn on the TV without seeing an LGBTQ Christmas movie or a teen ask-him-or-her-to-the-prom flick, and that is every kind of awesome. I want to be part of that movement. Sometimes I feel like that’s one of the reasons I’m here on Earth.

  To tell our love story.

  But I’ve never said that to Declan. I’ve never said that to anyone. Maybe it’s too big a sentiment. Too crazy a belief to say out loud—that it feels like that’s my calling.

  Besides, I’m not sure how Declan would take it.

  So, I keep it to myself, for now, but open the side door into the conversation. Maybe I can give him a peek at my goals. “Look, I don’t like to hide how I feel for you,” I say, putting that out there, my shoes echoing loudly throughout the hall as I walk.

  “I love that you feel that way, but does that mean you have to dance with me? In public?” Those last two words—in public—come out a little strangled, but maybe it’s the phone connection. I have a feeling he’s underground, too, at the Philly ballpark.

  “I kind of want to stake a claim on you in public. That’s why I want to dance with you in public,” I say, keeping my answer to his dancing question as simple as can be, focusing on the physical, though it’s a step into what I want and why I want it. “Since PDA is kind of a thing of mine,” I say, drawing a deep breath as I put that out there, “I’m a bit of an exhibitionist.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” he says, but there’s a sliver of distance in his voice, and he doesn’t address the PDA reveal.

  I file both those things away. Maybe I do need to tone down my desire to show us off. “Listen, if you’d rather stay home, we can curl up on the couch tomorrow night and watch . . . antiquing shows.”

  A laugh spills across the phone line. “We are not watching antiquing shows. And yes, I get that you’re into PDA. I love that it’s one of your things. You know what else I love?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I love that you’d be willing to not go for me.”

  “You matter more to me than my desire to kiss you in public, okay? Know that. Just know that. I never want to make you uncomfortable.”

  He’s quiet for a few seconds, saying nothing.

  Have I asked for too much? Even though he’s out, he’s never going to be as much of a show-off about our love life as I am. Shoes click against the floor over the phone line as voices grow louder in the background. Sounds like he’s near the locker room.

  “Listen, babe. Do you know what my thing is?” he asks.

  “What’s your thing?”

  “Making you ridiculously happy.” Declan clears his throat. “But I need to take off. Batting practice is starting soon. I’ll be home late.”

  Home.

  My favorite word.

  Declan is my home, and feeling that way is all I’ve ever wanted.

  After we say goodbye, I send a quick text to Reese, asking if she wants to meet up after the game to handle the fashion dilemma, then I put the phone away, glad that Declan and I talked. Glad that our routine includes talking. We weren’t good at that for a long while. We had to learn to open up. But we did, and that’s why these relationship moments matter so much. They say we can do this thing—be together with crazy jobs, be together in the spotlight, live our life the way we want. But more so, these moments say we’ve conquered the demons of the past. They say we’ve got this.

  It took us a long time to get here.

  Five years.

  Heartbreak.

  Pain.

  So much missing. More than I ever thought possible. The years apart were great and awful at the same time. I grew up. I grew into my goals. I became the man I wanted to be. Once I did that, my heart and my mind were ready—so damn ready—to bring love into my life in the biggest way possible.

  With the only man I’ve ever loved.

  Some days I think we have an embarrassment of riches. Some days it feels like we’re the luckiest guys alive. As if all the heartache is behind us and it’s only smooth sailing ahead.

  Yup, I like that life. I like it a lot.

  2

  Declan

  “Is it true?”

  Holden tosses the question my way that night after a long, extra-inning game in Philly.

  “That I’m the best player this team has ever seen?” I ask with a yawn.

  The second baseman for the Dragons scoffs as we grab cushy seats in the third row of the team plane. “You wish. I’ve got that title locked up.”

  Flopping down in the aisle seat, I say, “May I introduce you to my killer stats this season?”

  “Yes, they can meet mine. Equally as good.”

  I shoot him a doubtful look. “Are they, though? If memory serves, a .321 batting average is still higher than .318.”

  He raises two fingers. “Two more homers, man. Two.”

  I wave dismissively. “I’ll catch up by season’s end.”

  “Want to lay a wager on that? A fancy dinner out with our SOs is on the man with less dingers,” he says, and I laugh at his shorthand for significant others. I laugh too, because it never ceases to amuse me that my double-play partner and I are dating a pair of best friends in Reese and Grant, and we all love to go on double dates.

  I stroke my chin. “I hope you can afford my extravagant taste.”

  “I guess we’ll see who’s cracking open the wallet in November. Now, back to my question—is it true? About tomorrow night?”

  My eyebrow lifts in curiosity. “What do you mean?”

  “I hear that Reese and Grant are adding a dance-off contest to the festivities.”

  I shudder. Visibly.

  Holden laughs. “C’mon, man. It won’t be that bad.”

  With a sigh, I close my eyes, rest my head against the back of the seat. The damn club. I’m dreading it more than a grown man who hates dancing should. That’s because it’s not even about dancing. It’s the crowd—places like that remind me of my tougher times when I was younger, moments best left behind. But when I agreed to go, I was high on the thrill of getting back together with Grant, intoxicated by the promise of an us again. Now that the date is marching near, I wish I had the cojones to say, hey babe, can we just grab some sushi at that place around the corner? Or better yet, how about we go to The Lazy Hammock, have a not-drink at a table in the corner, just you and me, then go home alone? But I told Grant those things because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s a social butterfly, and he’s been wanting this for months.

  “Fun? Will it be fun?” I ask, a little heavily.

  Smacking my arm, Holden cracks up. “They’re not really planning a dance-off. I just wanted to fuck with you.” He stops laughing, though, studying my expression intently. “You really don’t like dancing, huh?”

  How do I answer that? Or really, how do I answer that without sounding like a complete asshat who’s afraid to shake his hips in public?

  I’m a goddamn professional athlete.

  I make a living from my body—moving it, using it to its fullest. People watch me run to first, slide into second, dive for scorching line drives. I make statements to the media. I play on national television before millions.

  Yet I don’t want to dance with my boyfriend in front of friends or strangers at a club. The thought of grinding, pressing, swaying under strobe lights makes me want to shut down and climb into a dark box.

  “Dancing has never been my thing. I hated high school dances. I feel like everyone’s laughing at how badly I move,” I say, but quickly tack on, “But I like spending time with Grant and making him happy, so I’ll go. Gotta make your person happy, right?”

  My teammate smiles, bright and warm. “You definitely do. Reese can’t wait, and I have to say, I’m stoked to take her.”

  I wish I felt the same.

  3

  Grant

  This is my favorite part of work—when I look up at the scoreboard, see my name, and it says I’ve gone three for three. Or hit a homer. Or knocked in a couple runs.

  The flip side of that is seeing a giant goose-egg next to my name. That’s what I’m looking at today—a big, fat zero for every freaking at-bat. We lost the last two games of this series against the Coyotes, and I’d like to salvage our final shot.

  It’s the bottom of the ninth, we’re down by two runs, and I step into the box. We have a runner on first, so if I can get the job done, the Cougars have a chance to tie the score.

  I laser in on the pitcher, shoving everything else aside. The pitcher lobs a juicy curveball, and I lunge for it, going deep, I’m sure. It arcs along the first baseline straight out to right field, and I swear on my love for James Bond that it’s going to land in the stands and tie the score for us.

  But it’s a foul ball.

  Thrumming with irritation, I return to the plate, where I take some deep breaths and a few cuts. When I’m focused again, I step into the box and wait for my pitch. The man on the mound serves up another curveball, and I go for it once more. This time, I miss it entirely, swinging through and coming up empty.

  I grit my teeth and dig in again, determined to get out of this hole. But when the pitch comes soaring at me, I’m too late, hitting a lazy fly ball that pops out to second base.

  I don’t send the runner home. Two batters later, the game is over.

  I leave the field, head down and jaw tight as I make for the locker room, ready to wash the game away.

  From his chair in front of his locker, Crosby holds up a pair of red socks with cartoon penguins on them. “Clearly, these are about to become sock puppets since I am never wearing them again on the field.”

  “Yes, please ditch your socks, Crosby. Now that we’ve found the culprit for our shitty series,” I say as I finish getting dressed, stuffing my wallet and phone into the pockets of my jeans.

  “You and me both, bro.” Crosby went hitless too. “This was not the way I wanted to go into the All-Star break—losing three games in a row.”

  “You guys didn’t even give me a chance to get on the mound,” Chance calls from across the locker room.

  Before I can answer him, someone shushes the room and turns up the volume on the TV. A female reporter from the Sports Network speaks from in front of the Chicago ballpark, updating the anchors in the studio.

  “What we know so far is that Manuel Rosa was taken to a hospital in Seattle when he fractured his leg during the Storm Chasers’ game against the Chicago Sharks today.”

  A clip of the Storm Chasers’ game plays as the reporter talks about the team’s centerfielder.

  “Running out a bunt, Rosa landed hard on first base, appearing to dislocate his ankle. But before trainers could even reach the Storm Chasers’ centerfielder, we all saw it was dramatically worse.”

  The team stares, drop-jawed, at the footage of Rosa on the ground. Before the trainers and medics block the view, the camera catches the horrifying angle of the guy’s leg. My stomach flips, and the locker room echoes with oh fuck, that hurts, and holy shit, almost covering the reporter saying “rushed into emergency surgery” and “open compound fracture.”

  The network cuts back to the reporter in front of the stadium, who tells the camera somberly, “Rosa, who was scheduled to start at center field in Monday’s All-Star game, will unquestionably be out for the rest of the season.”

  I shudder, trying to shake the image of that horrible landing. But I can’t, and I’m obviously not the only one.

  “I was supposed to grab a beer with him in Houston,” Crosby says.

  “He was a helluva rookie last year,” Chance remarks.

  Was.

  Chance is already talking about Manuel like his career is over.

  Well, his season is, and that sucks big time.

  I head out of the stadium, and once I’m in my car, I drop my shades over my eyes to protect them against the blaze of the early evening sun before I drive around to the front of the stadium. My best friend, Reese, visited a client nearby, and she’s meeting me here. I spot her easily, her blonde hair blowing in the breeze as she sticks out her thumb, pretending she’s hitching a ride.

  I’m extra grateful for her company. The thing with Rosa is making going hitless harder to shake off, and I don’t do well dwelling alone with negative thoughts, and after a game like that my brain is all kinds of dark.

  I lean over to push open the passenger door, then whistle at her like I’m at a construction site. “Hey, hot, sweet thang. Want a ride?”

  “Oh, you know it, baby.” She dashes inside, pulls the door closed, and clicks on her seatbelt. “How was the game?”

  “Ugh. Bad.”

  “Will dancing tomorrow cheer you up? Or was tonight even worse than the box score?”

  “It was terrible. My game blew out, and did you hear about Rosa on the Storm Chasers?”

  She pats my arm. “I did. So awful. As for you, it’s one game out of one hundred sixty-two.”

  “One is all it takes to lose momentum. We’ve had a great season, and I don’t want to see it all go downhill now. Also, it’s not just one game. We lost three in a row.”

  “You’re seriously adorable. These are your worries? You lose three games in a row, so now you worry that your season is whacked?” She smiles kindly, but her eyes hint that she’s concerned. “Let’s focus on real problems—like what we’re going to get your boyfriend to wear tomorrow night.”

  “Those are dire dilemmas, woman,” I say, quickly shifting gears as I cruise through the city. “So, fashionista, tell me stuff. What are you up to at work?”

  “I started planning a 5K run for some local animal shelters,” she says as we drive toward the shopping location she’s picked. I listen to the details, glad to focus on her now that I’ve voiced my worries.

  In Hayes Valley, I snag a parking spot on a side street, still chatting as we walk to the shop. “The 5K practically markets itself,” Reese adds. “The runners and the dogs are supposed to run in costume.”

  “Seems like if you can’t market a dog dressed as a taco, you ought to get out of the profession,” I quip as we enter Sage, a trendy boutique. The selection is, honestly, a little overwhelming. I like to dress well when I go out with Declan, but that doesn’t mean I know brands, or names, or fashion.

  I let Reese do the work, and she’s a model of decisive efficiency, taking me straight to a display of short-sleeved button-down shirts.

  “Let’s check these out,” she says as a man in skinny jeans, biker boots, and a paisley shirt ambles over. He looks like he sings in a K-pop band.

  The guy flashes a cheery grin, his eyes twinkling behind hipster glasses. “I’m Lane. I run the shop. Can I help you find something?”

  Reese points at me. “My bestie’s looking for something sexy for his boyfriend.”

  “Aren’t we all? And what do you like to see him in?”

  I rub my chin, picturing Declan. “I’m shameless. My boyfriend has big guns.” I tap my own biceps. “Kind of like Hemsworth, so I like to look at his arms.” Then I knock my knuckles against my sternum. “But he also has the perfect amount of chest hair. Not too much, not too little, so I like it when he wears a shirt with a couple buttons open. And I like it tight. I want to just stare at him and be driven mad with the desire to rip it off. That’s what I like him in.”

  Lane pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And your boyfriend is officially the luckiest guy in the world.”

  Chuckling softly, I say, “I think I am.”

  Lane taps his chin, sorting through shirts and picking a forest-green, short-sleeve one that he holds against his chest. “Tell me about your guy. What’s his coloring like?”

  “He has brown hair and dark brown eyes. His skin is just a little bit darker than mine,” I say. “More tan.”

  “He’s going to look really good in this shirt, then,” he says.

  “Sold,” I declare.

  “My turn,” Reese says, and we help her pick a red dress that shows off her curves.