“Same, Deck. Same.”

  Declan brings me close, wraps an arm around me, dropping a kiss onto the top of my head. “I want to be enough for you, Grant,” he whispers.

  “You are,” I tell him. I desperately want to be enough for him too.

  Declan Steele feels like the home I’ve always craved. The one true place where I’m wanted in every way.

  Yet, this is what I’m most afraid of. This is what I worried about when I talked to Reese last night. That we have cracks. After tonight, I’ve seen them clearly for the first time.

  We’re not as perfect as we felt a few months ago.

  The illusion of a sweet, sexy slide into our happy ending has faded away, and I’m realizing how fragile love is, how easy it can be to shatter a couple. I see that the real work comes after the fantastic kiss on a Ferris wheel high above the city.

  I don’t want to make the wrong move again. I don’t want to cause another crack.

  Or worse, a fissure.

  I don’t know if epic, soul-shattering sex will be enough to stitch us back together every time we fall apart.

  9

  Declan

  Whoever came up with the saying hot as balls was dead on. Balls do indeed get toasty on a sweaty, humid, hotter-than-one-hundred-degree day.

  I toss a glance to Holden as we make our way from the hotel to the ballpark, walking under the sweltering summer sky in balls-hot Houston. “Let’s make a deal,” I say.

  “Is this another of your dinner-is-on-you-if-I’m-better-than-you bets? Because the answer is yes. I accept.”

  I flip him the bird. “The deal is this,” I say, tugging at my T-shirt. “If the retractable roof is down, we bail. Are you in or out on the plan?”

  “I’m in. I will bolt if the AC isn’t on.” My teammate offers a fist for knocking, and I knock back, sealing our getaway plan.

  As we turn onto the block with the ballpark, Holden rubs a hand across the back of his neck, clears his throat. “So, are you ready for the media crush? You know they’re going to be all over you and G, right?”

  Holden’s a good guy, and since I joined the team in a late May trade, he’s looked out for me. He’s younger than I am by a few years, but we’ve got a bit of a brothers-who-watch-out-for-each-other vibe. It’s kind of sweet, especially since I don’t have siblings.

  “Yep. I’m good with it,” I say. That’s all true. When Grant and I came out as a couple on social media, our respective teams’ publicists—Nikki for him, Owen for me—took us out for lunch together, asking if they could do anything to help. It’s been great to have our employers in our corner. “So is Owen. He’s supposed to meet me any second.”

  Holden laughs. “Speak of the devil.”

  The team’s social media and PR manager rounds the corner, his phone pressed to his ear while he chats with his usual smooth confidence. He stops when he sees us, then says loudly, “Look who I just found wandering the streets of Houston. It’s my shortstop and second baseman. Ciao, Angie,” he says, then stabs the end button. “My cat sitter. She says Goldilocks is doing great and enjoying her duck and tuna pate. I ask you, what else is there in life?”

  “A retractable roof at the ballpark?” Holden suggests.

  Owen winks. “I’ve got you, guys. I made it clear to the league that all the players will look better on social without the scowls this Texas heat will put on the face of literally any living being.” The Clark Kent lookalike pushes his black glasses up his nose and flashes a big smile at us. “Now, how are you two doing on home run derby day? Do you need anything? Anything at all, either today or on game day tomorrow?”

  “If you’re making AC happen, then you’re officially my hero,” I tell him as we head to the players’ entrance.

  “Just give me a cape, then.”

  Holden brings us back on topic. “So, Owen, is my bud Declan going to face the inquisition today?” I get where Holden is coming from. He grappled with the press earlier this year when he joined the team, having been burned by the media in the past. But he worked with Reese and changed his surly tune. “You’ll be there the whole time, right?”

  “Of course,” Owen says. “Just like I’ve been from the start. And today, we’ve got Erin Madison from KRGO,” he continues as we push through the door to the stadium. “She wants to do a quick video package about the two of you, since you’re the heart of the lineup and the best double play combo in the majors, and don’t even try to deny it.” I love how clearly he loves his job and believes in his players. What more could you ask for from a PR guy?

  “As if either one of us would deny that,” I say.

  “And, Declan, she’d also like to get a short bite for social on you and Grant as a couple. She’s great, though, so I expect you’ll get a direct how is it going and is it serious type of question. Are you good with that?”

  “As long as she also asks Holden how things are going with the coach’s daughter,” I say, giving my teammate the side-eye.

  “Bring it on.” Holden says. “Reese is fucking awesome. And it’s serious with us too.”

  As Holden and Owen walk a few feet ahead, I noodle on how to answer Erin’s expected relationship-status questions.

  Are Grant and I serious?

  That’s a question I would have answered only one way until the dance club.

  Fuck, yes.

  But now, there’s the issue of our differences, and it’s nagging at me. What if we have different visions for the life we want?

  The contrast between our public lives and our private one is starker than I thought.

  I understand why Grant does the hard work of living by example—he makes it possible for men like us to be media darlings rather than a circus sideshow. But I want a quieter life. He wants a bigger one.

  Do we want the same things for our future?

  I know precisely what I want for us. I’ve known it since I moved in with him. It becomes clearer every day.

  I want to marry him.

  I want to spend the rest of my life with Grant Blackwood.

  But I also want to be able to make him happy for the rest of our lives, and I’m not entirely convinced I can anymore.

  When we reach the locker room, Erin waits outside, her mic and camera set up, her brown hair falling neatly along her shoulders. She says hello to the three of us and checks that we’re ready to shoot, then turns on a mic and positions herself in front of her tripod-mounted camera. “I’m here with Declan Steele and Holden Kingsley, who both joined the Dragons earlier this year. After the team’s World Series wins were tainted by the signal-stealing scandal, the Dragons continue to rebuild, and these two players are key. Do you feel you’ve helped turn things around?”

  She offers the mic to Holden first.

  “It’s been a good run so far this year, and we need to keep playing well and playing honestly the rest of the season.”

  “And your thoughts, Declan, as the newest Dragon?”

  “What he said,” I say with a wiseass smile.

  Erin laughs.

  “But seriously,” I add, “we have a great manager, terrific new talent, and every man on the team is looking ahead rather than behind.”

  She fires off a few more questions about our upcoming series against the New York Minotaurs once the All-Star game is over, then she asks Holden about Reese. He answers as he’d said he would—without the f-bomb but with love in his eyes and sincerity in his tone.

  It’s my turn next. “Declan, how is everything going with Grant Blackwood? Is it serious with the two of you?”

  Yeah.

  I want to marry him.

  But I’m not going to say that to the camera before even I tell the man I love.

  With those thoughts swirling in my mind, I give Erin an answer that’s true enough. “We’re living together, so I’d say it’s serious.”

  And I seriously hope I’m not off-base thinking Grant wants the same thing.

  10

  Declan

  The next day, Grant and I head to the ballpark early for the game itself, walking through the concourse to our respective locker rooms. “So, you’re calling for a slider in my first at-bat, right?”

  “You wish,” he says.

  “Great. Fastball then,” I deadpan. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Dude, I’m never sharing strategies with you. We’re going to strike you out, and your cocky attitude only makes me want to defeat you harder. You’re getting the personal Grant Blackwood guarantee on that.”

  Glancing behind us, I make sure the coast is clear, then I shoot him a sly grin. “Can I get the Grant Blackwood guarantee of hardness?”

  With a roll of his eyes, he grabs his crotch. “You always get that guarantee. Now, get the fuck away from me—you’re the enemy.”

  “Bye, sweetheart,” I tease, then blow him a ridiculous air kiss. “See you in five days.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but I’ll see you post-game. Pretty sure we’re heading to the airport together tonight for our flights, dickhead.”

  “I love it when you use affectionate nicknames. Be sure to have a pot roast waiting for me when I return home at the end of a tough week on the road, honey-pie.”

  “You can roast this . . . Mister Steele,” he says, giving me a salacious wink as he drags out the dirtiness in my last name.

  One last look around, then I whisper to him, “We should order a limo to the airport instead of taking a Lyft. Want to? We can mess around in the back seat.”

  “I want that so much more than a pot roast. So, the answer is yes.”

  Grant turns into his league’s locker room as I grab my phone from my back pocket and google local car companies.

  As I search, my phone buzzes with a text. I click open the thread from my agent.

  * * *

  Vaughn: The Legends shoot in New York was moved to nine a.m. tomorrow instead of the afternoon. I switched your flight to an earlier one, so no time for press conferences or post-game shenanigans! I’ll have a car service at the park so you can catch the flight on time. We only have one day with the sponsor before your New York Minotaurs series.

  * * *

  Groaning at the quick demise of the limo plans, I reply like a professional.

  * * *

  Declan: Do I look like a rookie to this whole sponsorship thing? I know the drill. And I will be there on the earlier flight. You’re cute when you worry.

  * * *

  Vaughn: I’m cute all the time. See you tomorrow, slugger. If you win MVP, I bet I can score you even more sponsors. It’s such a feel-good award.

  * * *

  Declan: But hey, no pressure.

  * * *

  Vaughn: As if you ever feel pressure.

  * * *

  Declan: I am cool as a cucumber.

  * * *

  I close the thread with him, open one with Grant, and fire off a quick text.

  * * *

  Declan: Looks like I won’t be seeing you post-game after all. Gotta catch an earlier flight for the Legends shoot tomorrow.

  * * *

  Grant: It’s hard to be so popular. How ever do you manage?

  * * *

  Declan: It’s a tough life, but someone’s got to do it. I’m so damn important that a helicopter will land on the field to whisk me off to make my earlier flight to New York.

  * * *

  Grant: Can you still fit through the locker room door with the size of your ego?

  * * *

  Declan: You weren’t complaining about the size of my anything this morning.

  * * *

  Grant: Are you trying to distract me with sweet nothings? If that’s the case, when you stride up to the plate you better not think about what I did to you this morning in bed.

  * * *

  Declan: I’ll think about the bed, and the table, and what we did in the shower. And I will still hit an epic homer. I am that good.

  * * *

  Grant: What are you? Babe Ruth calling your cock shot?

  * * *

  Declan: I am the Sultan of Swat at the plate and the King of Your Pleasure at home.

  * * *

  Grant: I don’t know if I should be annoyed or impressed with your swagger.

  * * *

  Declan: Take door number three. Turned on. You should be turned on.

  * * *

  Grant: If I were any place but a locker room, I’d snap a shot of my dick right now and send it your way to distract you. Oh wait, I took one last night. Here goes. Think of this steel at the plate, Mister Steele.

  * * *

  My phone fills with a fantastic image that makes me want to get down on my knees.

  But I need to get rid of this boner, stat, before my teammates walk into the locker room. Deleting the image and closing the phone, I imagine pop music, crowds, and dancing in front of the whole entire stadium.

  Yup. That’s an erection eraser for sure.

  “And now batting third for the visiting team is Declan Steele with the San Francisco Dragons. Hailing from the great state of California, the Golden Glove shortstop bats right and throws right. Let’s give it up for Number Eighteen.”

  I stride to the plate in the top of the first, wave to all the fans in the gloriously air-conditioned ballpark, as well as the ones watching at home on TV, then adjust my batting glove. Taking a practice swing, I do my damnedest to avoid making eye contact with the guy behind the plate.

  It’s time for baseball, not for flirting.

  I sense him behind me, though, and I put on my mental blinders, blocking everything out—his sexy taunts earlier, his dirty pics, and his big heart that I adore.

  But especially his fantasy of striking me out.

  Grant gives the signal. The pitcher nods, then goes into the windup and fires off the ball. Looks low and out, so I check my swing.

  “Strike one!” the ump calls out.

  Grant’s delight wafts off him as he lobs the ball back to the pitcher, who takes a beat, leans in, nods.

  I dig in, and the pitcher throws the ball.

  Less than half a second later, my brain says swing, and I follow that instinct, connecting with a loud crack.

  Dammit. That was a goddamn hanging curveball, and those are pitcher’s pitches.

  But I run it out anyway, hoofing it to first base, even though I’m sure it’s a foul ball as it soars, and arcs, and flies, and holy fucking shit! The ball flies over the right-field fence. I pump my fist, smacking palms with the first-base coach, then running the bases, and sending the man on second home.

  I cross home plate with a triumphant grin on my mug.

  I can’t help it—I shoot Grant a better luck next time look.

  He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and snorts like he can’t believe it.

  In my next at-bat, I knock in a runner with a sharp line drive.

  At the end of the night, I win the game’s MVP award. Vaughn will be happy.

  It’s a helluva night.

  I chat with Erin once more as I leave the field, giving her a comment on the win, then I spy Troy Evans, a reporter for It Ain't Over Till It’s Over, a sports blog that has blown up in popularity over the last five years.

  Troy calls out to me with a scratchy smoker’s voice as I head to the dugout. “Declan, a word on winning MVP. Did that surprise you or were you expecting it?”

  Did that guy with the ponytail really just ask that ridiculous question? “How can someone expect it?” I say with a smile. “I’m just glad it happened. Have a great night.”

  I take off, wishing I could say goodbye to Grant properly.

  I’ll have to be content with watching his post-game interview on TV.

  11

  Grant

  Losing sucks. But losing and then having to deal with the press afterward sucks more. That especially includes talking to Troy Evans, who looks like he could play the douchey, grizzled white reporter in every sports movie ever. Type cast, actually, since he was the blogger who fanned the flames of rumors that I was being sent down at the end of spring training five years ago.

  Dude is a shit-stirrer.

  He’s one of a handful of reporters in the press room after I’m showered and dressed. The team’s publicist, Nikki, is here too, acting like a badass Zoe Saldana.

  “How did it feel to play your third All-Star game?” Troy asks with his phone camera in my face. Other players are here too, but he’s locked in on me.

  “Great,” I say.

  “Even though you went hitless in this game, as well as your last regular season game?”

  I try not to grind my teeth loud enough for the audio to pick up. “Yes, hits do make me feel better.”

  He clears his throat, shoves his phone even closer, and asks, “Why’d you call such an easy pitch for Declan Steele in his first at-bat?”

  My blood goes cold. I try to make my tone frosty too. “Excuse me?”

  “Was that a hanging curveball? He’s quite adept at hitting those.”

  “No, he’s not—”

  “Oh, so you know what he’s good at hitting?”

  Is he for real? “I know what everyone’s good at hitting,” I say, crossing my arms, pushing out a laugh so I don’t spit vitriol at him. “That’s my job, Troy.”