A few seconds later, he ambles out, and I forget my momentary irritation. I let go of my dread. Instead, I close the distance in a hot second, sliding my hands down Grant’s strong arms then roaming them up his chest. When I reach his nipple piercing, I flick it through the fabric.

  His breath hitches. His palms curl over my hips. “You like?”

  “I love,” I whisper. He’s wearing the same black shirt he had on the night we got back together—the night after the Sports Network Awards when I met him at a tapas bar and he wore this for me because it was tight, because it revealed the outline of his piercing, because he wanted to turn me on.

  I bury my face in his neck, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. “Don’t know if I can tear myself away from you.”

  Hell, maybe I can convince him to stay home with the promise of electric, indulgent sex.

  “Mmm. Guess I’ll have to be strong for both of us,” he says.

  I’ll have to try harder. As I skim my lips across his neck, under his jaw, and along his chin, I squeeze and knead his pecs, playing with his nipples through the fabric until he’s gasping and panting. I draw a sharp breath. “Maybe we should just stay in and finish what I’m starting,” I suggest. “I could throw you on the bed, taste you everywhere, suck you off till you’re about to come, then stop.” I dip my voice to a low and smoky tone. “We could watch that video we made last night. Tease the fuck out of each other. I could edge you all night instead of going to Edge.”

  Please say yes.

  He hums, a dirty sound, like he’s considering my alternative, then he seems to snap out of it. He leans back from me, his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you sure you want to go?”

  This is my chance to say it.

  But I’m wearing a shirt he bought me. He’s been planning this with Reese for two months. All our friends are going. Most of all, Grant wants this.

  I reach into my bag of mental tricks, fishing around for a few handy lines from Walt Whitman’s anthemic poem.

  O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells.

  “Yes. Let’s do it.”

  Grant shoots me a big grin. “We’re going to have a great time.”

  I adopt a cocky expression and smack his ass. “Can’t wait to get out on the floor and dance with you,” I say, the words tasting like a lie.

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  Electronic music pulses through the club. It rattles my bones. It’s so goddamn loud we’re all shouting at each other and still can’t hear.

  But thankfully we aren’t dancing yet.

  I hold on to the hope that maybe we’ll skip that part and just hang. Sure, someone might recognize us, or stop and stare, but that’s fine. At least I won’t be making a fool of myself.

  The entire crew is here at the bar—Grant’s sister, Sierra; Crosby, Chance, and Sullivan from the Cougars; Holden and Gunnar from my team; River, who’s Grant’s business partner in a chain of gay bars; along with Reese, her friends Layla and Tia, and Crosby’s girlfriend, Nadia.

  Grant rests his elbow on my shoulder as Crosby asks me about a pitcher on the Philly team. “How nasty is his stuff?”

  At least, I think that’s what Crosby said, but I can barely hear him. “Later, man. We’ll talk later,” I shout.

  He nods a yes and lifts his beer, knocks some back, then swings Nadia into his arms for a risqué kiss.

  Chance is hitting it with River and Sierra, the three of them busting a move in the middle of everyone. Gotta love that about Chance—a straight man with zero issues dancing with a queer dude. His twin brother is gay, so maybe that helps. Though, judging from the way Chance is staring at Sierra, he may not realize there’s anyone else on the dance floor.

  Gunnar hits the dance floor, and seconds later he’s flanked by men and women. He casts his gaze at a busty brunette, then at a fit, hipster dude, taking turns bumping hips with both.

  Looking like he’s enjoying both.

  Interesting.

  Holden and Reese peel away, and then the rest of them, joining the crowds with wild glee. The club is packed, hundreds of people like sardines in a strobing tin. This should be fine—I’ll blend in. No one will notice me.

  Grant slides his arm around my shoulder and brings his mouth against my ear. “Dance with me, baby,” he whispers, so close I can hear him even with the music. This is the first time he’s given me an affectionate nickname other than Deck. The way he purrs it sends a shiver down my spine. I need to focus on this tonight—his sweet nothings are my everything.

  I set down my iced tea—party animal, that’s me—take his hand, and push through the crowds. We bump and jostle our way onto the dance floor.

  Hey that corner far away looks nice, I want to say. But Grant is hellbent on the center.

  Pushing past sweaty couples, men and men, women and women, women and men, we make it to the middle.

  O Captain, my Captain!

  I’ve got this.

  I can handle crowds. My job involves getting up in front of forty thousand people in the ballpark and millions on TV.

  This ought to be a piece of cake.

  “Hey,” he mouths. “Let’s show them what we’ve got.”

  “Okay,” I say, but I’m not sure if he can hear me. It doesn’t matter since we’re doing this no matter what.

  Yup. I’m doing the awkward shuffle like Kevin James in Hitch, and Grant . . .

  Grant is Channing Tatum.

  The music slows to a painful thumping pulse, and I have no clue how to dance. It feels as unnatural to me as kissing a woman.

  Maybe sensing my discomfort, Grant takes the lead, roping his arms around my neck, lining up my thigh between his. “You look so good,” he mouths.

  “Thanks,” I shout back, my voice robotic.

  For a moment, in Grant’s arms, dancing is easy enough. After only a minute, though, the music shifts again to a faster beat, and before I know what’s happening, Grant’s behind me, bumping up against my ass.

  Okay, that I can handle.

  I know how that works.

  But what the hell do I do with my hands?

  Grant knows exactly what to do with his. They slide down my sides, hitting my hips, and he holds on tight as he grinds against me.

  It feels good. Mostly. But it should feel better. The man I love is rocking against me, grinding, swaying, and this is a familiar pose. But I can feel the eyes on us.

  It’s not because we’re two guys. Hell, this place is an everything-goes zone. I glimpse Reese dirty dancing with Layla and Tia. Holden joins in with the River, Chance, and Sierra crew. Beyond them, a pair of women I don’t know are wrapped up in each other, arms high in the air. Over there is a group of shirtless guys, tangled together.

  So, it’s not the gay thing.

  It’s the me thing.

  I’m not into the scene, and there’s a reason, as with most things I do. I don’t drink because my father drinks too much. I don’t like being the center of attention for a reason because I know how shitty it feels when you’re singled out for the worst reason, like your dad stumbling onto a field while reeking of tequila.

  Not just once.

  Not just twice.

  But many times.

  That’s why I hate dancing in public.

  It reminds me of all my shame as a teenager. Tonight stirs up all the stuff I’ve worked through in therapy. All the issues I’ve dug into, pushed past, crossed over to be where I am today.

  Ah hell.

  I should tell Grant.

  I should stop being a chickenshit and say it.

  But look at my guy. Grant is grooving and moving, and this is what he wanted—to show me what he’s got, to dirty dance for me and with me. I’m not going to stomp on his good time. He already doesn’t drink for me. I can’t ask him to not dance for me.

  I swivel around, and he wiggles his brow, his smile lighting up. He mouths, “You’ve got this.”

  He has no idea how I really, really don’t.

  No clue I’m faking it.

  I need him as a buffer to hide my discomfort, which gives me an idea. I shift positions to behind him, my hands on his arms, his hips, his waist. There. Now I know what to do with my body.

  Hide it behind his.

  With my jaw tight, and tension lining my spine, I dance with my boyfriend for the next endless, awkward, absolutely uncomfortable songs.

  6

  Grant

  I’ve been weighing options for the last two songs, considering variables and solutions, and I’m damn close to figuring out the answer to the math problem of tonight.

  As I bump and grind against Declan, though, it seems the only answer is that I’m an asshole.

  To say Declan isn’t into this is an understatement. Not only is he not into this, he’s having a terrible time, and he’s faking fine for me.

  That could be a good thing in some cases, but it’s a big fucking problem here.

  As the purple and electric blue lights swivel across the floor, I spin around, catching my boyfriend off-guard. His eyes flicker with questions. “C’mere,” I mouth, then tug his hand. I lead him off the dance floor, past the lounge area with its chaises and divans, and the bottle-service servers in slinky clothes, all the way to the hallway near the restrooms.

  The music fades to less eardrum-splitting levels, and I pull him into a quieter corner. “You okay?”

  “Sure,” he says with a light shrug, like ‘why wouldn’t I be?’” Like it would be impossible for him to be anything other than okay.

  I arch a dubious brow. “Seriously?”

  Declan swallows, eyes shifting for a second, then moving back to me. “Yes. Why are you asking?”

  My heart squeezes—it’s a pang I’ve never felt with Declan before.

  He’s lying to me.

  I stare at him like I can coax the truth out of him with my gaze. Time to be direct. “You don’t seem happy.”

  Dragging a hand through his thick hair, Declan flashes a smile that feels plastic. “It’s just hot,” he says. But his hair isn’t even damp with sweat, and he still smells like the shower he took thirty minutes ago. We’ve only been here for twenty minutes since the club is close to our house.

  My chest twinges. Why the hell won’t he tell me what’s wrong? “You want to get some air?” I ask.

  “Do you?” His voice pitches up with hope.

  I wince. He’s not going to admit he’s unhappy. I’ll have to take the lead and get us out of here. “Actually, I do.” Now we’re both lying because I don’t give a fuck about getting air. But he does, and I don’t know why he won’t just be honest with me.

  “Okay then,” he says, with a sliver of a smile that reads like relief. Reads like a neon billboard on the highway at night, beckoning the driver to take the exit.

  I metaphorically flick on the turn signal and cruise off the highway because Declan needs that but for some reason won’t ask for it.

  I lace my fingers through his. He threads his through mine and squeezes back. It seems he’s thanking me without words, like his touch is telling me what his lips won’t.

  I lead us along the hall, back through the club, weaving through the crowd. Spotting Reese at the bar, I make a beeline for her. She’s laughing with Holden, then looping her hands around his waist.

  Nodding to the exit, I cup a hand over her ear. “Need to get some air. We’re gonna step outside.”

  She flashes a smile, then winks. “Right.”

  I wish we were leaving to bang. I wish Declan and I were on the same wavelength.

  We make our way to the heavy gray double doors and finally spill out into the San Francisco night. The doors close with a thunk, sealing the pulse of music behind us. Only faint traces of bass seep under the door, through the seams.

  The street teems with groups of friends dressed for clubbing and click-clacking down the sidewalk. Declan takes a deep breath, drags his hands through his hair again, then blows out a long stream of air. “You feel better?” he asks, as if I were the one freaking out inside.

  My jaw ticks. “I’d feel better if you’d tell me what’s wrong,” I say as I grab my phone from my back pocket, open my Lyft app, and order a ride.

  His brow knits. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re going home, and you know why.”

  “I do?” he counters. His voice isn’t cool and calm, like usual. There’s worry in it.

  The scene is full of too many people.

  Too many faces.

  Too many cameras.

  I’m not going to argue with my boyfriend in public. No way will I give any passersby, potential paps, or too-curious onlookers the satisfaction of capturing the city’s All-Star Cougars catcher having words with the city’s All-Star Dragons shortstop.

  Lovers Spat!

  That’s what the captions would say.

  Or, more likely, Gay Lovers Spat!

  I’m not going to give anyone the satisfaction of telling our story. Not when we aren’t seeing eye-to-eye.

  Instead, I tug on his hand, testing to see if he’ll step closer to me. He does, closing the distance and moving into my space. He studies me curiously, trying to figure me out. But he says nothing.

  I try to speak with my eyes, to let him know I won’t say anything more now, out on the street. He gives the subtlest nod, then presses his lips to my cheek in the softest kiss.

  It reassures me for a few seconds, the way he knows that’s what I need. Tonight is rattling my too-good-to-be-true world, knocking it out of its honeymoon orbit.

  “Let’s talk in the car,” he says.

  A minute later, the Lyft arrives, and we get in the backseat.

  “How you guys doing?” the bearded driver asks, then his eyes light up in the rearview mirror. “Number Eighteen! I’m a huge fan of the Dragons. The biggest!”

  Declan turns on his media charm as the guy jerks the car into traffic. “That’s awesome, man. Happy to hear that.”

  He shakes his head, bemused. “Can’t believe you’re in my car. Declan Steele. Star shortstop with the .321 batting average. My kid plays Little League. He looks up to you. Wants to be just like you.”

  “That’s great,” Declan says warmly. “What position does your son play?”

  “Shortstop, like you,” the man says. Then he tosses a glance my way in the mirror. “Sorry. But I’m a diehard Dragons fan all the way.”

  “No worries. It’s all good,” I say, in my best chatting-with-the-fans voice.

  I let Declan and the driver gab the whole way home as I slump against the back seat, wishing traffic would disappear and we could teleport to my house.

  Whoa.

  What the hell did my brain just say?

  My house?

  No, idiot. It’s our house.

  I haven’t thought of it as only mine in months. Not since I asked him to move in. Not since he said yes to living together.

  But the thought—my house—is like a vise, clutching me too tightly.

  Nothing feels worse than that.

  7

  Declan

  The second the door shuts, Grant spins around, fear in his eyes, grit in his voice. “What’s wrong? Just tell me. I can’t take it anymore. I know you didn’t want to be there. That you were having a shitty time. And that you were faking it for me,” he says, the words spilling out like a five-car pileup.

  “Fuck,” I mutter as I stalk away from him. I head to the living room, sinking on the couch with my head in my hands.

  “That’s not helping,” Grant says, following me.

  But he doesn’t sit. He stands.

  I raise my face, looking at Grant. His arms are crossed. His eyes are hurt. “I’m sorry, babe.”

  A spark of relief flashes in his blue eyes but then vanishes. “Why are you sorry? What’s going on, Deck?”

  I try to sort through the mess I’ve made of tonight. “It’s not you. I swear.”

  A shaky breath passes his lips. “It’s not you, it’s me?” he repeats, incredulous. “Is that where we’re at? Is that how this works? You feeding me a breakup line? Are you breaking up with me?”

  I gape at him. That’s the other side of the planet from what I’m thinking. “No. God, no. I didn’t mean it that way. Jesus . . . I’m just . . . I’m trying to figure out what to say.”

  “Try harder,” he bites off. “Because you’re freaking me out.”

  I can’t tiptoe around this anymore. I just have to rip off the Band-Aid. “I hate dancing. I hate clubs. I hate crowds like that.”

  His lips part, his jaw coming unhinged. “That’s what you were in a funk about?”

  “Yes. I feel stupid in places like that, when everyone is looking at me, and I don’t know what to do. It reminds me of how shitty I felt when I was younger and my dad would show up at my games . . . and you know.” I let out all the awful emotions and memories until they trickle off. “You know all of that.”

  “I do,” Grant says softly. “But why didn’t you just tell me that?” He sounds wildly relieved, but hurt too.

  My shoulders unknot momentarily. I’ve lifted a weight off them, but it’s not all the way gone. Dragging a hand across my forehead, I rise, take a steadying breath, and cross to where he stands. I stop when I’m a foot away, but I don’t touch him. Funny how we did nothing but touch at the club and I felt completely disconnected to him. Already I feel more connected in our home, and we haven’t touched once.

  “Because you were looking forward to it so much,” I say heavily. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

  “Sure, I wanted to go, but not to the point of making you miserable.”

  “But you’re so . . . social. You’re outgoing. You love all that.” I flap my hand in the direction of the club. “The crowd, the people, being on display—it’s who you are.” I push past the discomfort because it’s a relief to say all these things that have been weighing on me. “And you’re so good at that. I love that you’re so bold.”

  He stares at me, still worried. “But . . .?”