“But Declan hit the second pitch you called out of the park. And the second one for a straight-up single and RBI.”

  Nikki steps in with a don’t-mess-with-my-players voice. “Is there a question for Grant in there, Troy?”

  I appreciate the assist, but it is futile. Troy smiles smugly. “My question is this: are you sharing signs with Declan Steele?”

  I burn.

  Red billows across my vision as I clench my fists.

  But I will not let this prick get the better of me. I’ve had media training. I’ve dealt with bigger assholes than this guy.

  Nikki raises a finger. “That’s not a question we’re going to entertain.”

  From his spot leaning against a wall in the briefing room, Crosby swings his gaze over to me. On the other side, Chance takes a step closer. My bros have my back, God love them.

  Crosby closes the distance, raising a hand like he’s in class. “Oh hey, Troy. I’m friends with Declan. Want to ask me if I share signs with him?”

  Chance clears his throat, his big, deep voice booming. “I’m a pitcher. I know all the signs. Want to ask me if I pass them on to Declan or Holden or Gunnar or any other Dragons? Go right ahead.”

  Troy squares his shoulders. He’s not a tough-as-nails blogger for nothing. “Did you share the signs?”

  “No,” Chance says with a get-the-fuck-out-of-here smile.

  Troy turns to Crosby. “And you?”

  Crosby shakes his head exaggeratedly.

  Troy lifts his chin, unperturbed, then shifts his gaze to me. “Grant, you haven’t answered the question.”

  I burn inside, but clamp my lips shut.

  Crosby scoffs. “He’s not answering that bullshit question.”

  Nikki steps in literally this time. “That’s enough questions, Troy.” She sets a hand on his arm and turns him toward the door. “Kindly exit the room now.”

  Once he’s gone, I press my fingers against the bridge of my nose, tempted for the first time since Declan dumped me five years ago to throw something. Instead, I exhale hard and swallow the words I want to spit out.

  I take one deep breath.

  Then another.

  Then I spin to face the other reporters waiting to talk to me. I hold up a hand, put on my game face, saying, “Excuse me for a moment.”

  With that, I exit the press room and walk into the adjacent locker room, free of reporters, where I find my way to a private section and slump into a chair. Crosby and Chance follow, taking seats across from me.

  “Dude, don’t let it get to you,” Crosby says. “That guy was a double-decker asshole of the highest order.”

  “I can’t fucking believe he asked that,” I mutter, my breath shaky. “I’m so pissed off. So fucking pissed.”

  “He’s a bottom feeder angling for a story,” Chance adds. “He knows nothing, and it’s all click bait to him.”

  I stare at my friends, simmering with outrage. “I would never give signs to Declan. Never. You know that, right?”

  Crosby holds his hands out wide. “We know, bro.”

  “We’d never doubt you,” Chance seconds.

  I drop my head into my hands. “This is just . . . I don’t even know what it is. But I hate it.”

  “Look, he’s the type of reporter who hunts for any hint of a scandal,” Chance points out.

  “And he’s fishing where there’s nothing to catch,” Crosby declares. “Plain and simple.”

  Nikki rounds the corner and gives us a report. “Weasel Face Evans was banned from the Cougars’ post-game briefing room. Thought you’d want to know.” She crouches next to me and asks, “You okay, sweetie?”

  “I am. Thanks, Nikki.”

  I am not fine, but the only person I want to tell exactly how not fine I feel is getting on a plane right now. The desire to vent to Declan, to share every awful second of that interview, is like a drumbeat, loud and insistent. I haven’t felt this off-balance since I nearly lost my spot on the roster five years ago.

  I could message him, see if his plane has Wi-Fi, maybe get a reply. But he’s probably already asleep—it’s a long flight and he has a shoot in the morning.

  I refuse to look at my phone the whole way to the airport, resisting temptation as I head through security, giving him space to unwind as I walk along the jetway. But when I take my seat on the plane heading home, checking my messages before I power down, a text from Declan flashes on my screen, sent forty-five minutes ago.

  * * *

  Declan: Call me. We need to talk about that interview I just saw on the sports blog.

  * * *

  The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  Oh, hell no. He can’t be doing this to me again.

  12

  Grant

  No.

  He wouldn’t do that. Still, my pulse spikes. My palms sweat. I’m on a Tilt-A-Whirl of time and emotions, with wild thoughts whipping through me.

  I shift in my seat, turning away from everyone else on the plane, and call him, stat, but it goes straight to voicemail.

  You’ve reached Declan Steele. You know what to do.

  But do I? Do I know what to do with the cyclone of feelings ripping through my chest? I’ve never dealt with a personal attack in the press. Sure, I’ve witnessed reporters speculating about good games and bad games. I’ve faced tough questions about even tougher losses. I’ve fielded plenty of queries about my charity work.

  That’s all part of the job.

  But until now, nothing has ever dug into the core of who I am, who I love, and how I play the sport. No one has ever attacked my integrity.

  The question still stings.

  I want to tell Declan about the crappy end to my night, curl up with him on the couch, feel his arm around me, hear his reassuring voice. He is what I want after a shitty day at work.

  I stab his name again, and the call goes straight to voicemail . . . again. My stomach churns as I press my forehead against the tiny window and stare at the starry night sky in Texas while we taxi.

  I check the time, doing some quick calculations. Declan should be in New York in a couple more hours, but there’s nothing I can do until then.

  Closing my eyes, I swallow roughly, holding the phone tight.

  Get over yourself, Blackwood.

  He’s not leaving you over an interview. He said he’s never leaving you.

  That ought to reassure me. His words. His passion. His absolute intensity for me.

  But can any person truly promise he’ll never go?

  Tonight, I don’t have any answers.

  Except this—I need to get my shit together. I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m in a serious relationship. I’ve got to treat it seriously, and that means yank myself out of this funk. Before I lose cell service, I write Declan back, replying to his message rather than obsessing over what it means.

  Trust.

  I have to trust in him, and in us.

  * * *

  Grant: I tried to call you, but it went straight to voicemail. Hope your flight was good. Love you so fucking much.

  I try to sleep on the plane, but I can’t. I grab my iPad and click on my calendar, hunting for a distraction. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow with an Alliance event with LGBTQ teen athletes in the afternoon, then a free night before a series against the Coyotes begins the next day.

  Maybe I’ll see if Crosby and Chance want to play pool tomorrow evening. Or better yet, I’ll drive to Petaluma and have dinner with my grandparents.

  At last, I close my eyes, but I sleep fitfully.

  The wheels touch the tarmac in the dark of night, jostling me awake. Rubbing my eyes, I yawn, turn on my phone, and hope.

  A few emails pop up from my agent, asking if I’m okay after the interview. Nikki messages, too, with a chin-up note. And then there’s a text from Declan.

  My heartbeat races as I click it open.

  * * *

  Declan: One more thing. In case you can’t call me before your flight, here’s why I wanted to talk—just to say you did great in that interview, and I’m seriously proud of you. I meant ‘talk’ as in I wanted to hear your voice and find out if you’re okay. Man, texting is hard sometimes.

  * * *

  Relief crashes over me. I relax and smile, my body letting go of the tight wire of tension it had been clutching. All thanks to his reply.

  Except . . .

  This isn’t actually a response to my text.

  I read his first text again—the one that said call me, the one that freaked me out—then I re-read this new one. It seems like we’ve been cross-posting. I find a newer message from him, replying to mine.

  * * *

  Declan: Love you so much too. Miss you. Thinking of you. Still want to talk to you about the interview and how you’re feeling. (P.S. I wrote the last message before we took off, but it didn’t send until we landed.) Have I mentioned that keeping in touch through text is fucking hard?

  * * *

  Yes, Declan. Yes, it is.

  Text tag is my new least favorite game. Sure, I’m glad we’re finally in synch, but tonight feels like a train station where the conductors don’t know what’s happening on the other tracks.

  * * *

  Grant: I’m good now. Don’t worry about me. Get some sleep.

  * * *

  Declan: Same to you. Just got to my hotel. Need to crash for a couple hours. I do worry about you, babe. That’s my job. Let me do it.

  * * *

  Grant: If you insist.

  * * *

  Declan: I do insist. I’ll call you tomorrow.

  * * *

  I wish it were tomorrow now. And I also kinda wish I didn’t need him this much.

  Love should come with a warning, or a handbook for how fantastic and terrible it is at the same time. This love with Declan is the best thing I’ve ever experienced. But every moment that reveals how starkly I need him, also betrays how much I’d be lost without him.

  Needing someone means they can hurt you incomprehensibly if they leave. I don’t want him to ever leave my life.

  And that’s a new awareness too.

  But it’s not one I can bask in.

  Since I’ve got to figure out what the hell to do with the discomfort of loving so big, so deep, so desperately.

  13

  Grant

  I dread opening my social media in the morning. I bet there will be a flood of retweets and shares of Troy’s post-game interview ambush.

  But a quick scan of my feeds brings a small smile and a measure of comfort. Most of the mentions are support from my fans. Plenty of eye-rolling gifs comments on the reporter’s video clip, and a hashtag picks up steam—#isharesigns—with fans suggesting the most preposterous ways they’d steal signs and share them with their team.

  I hit like on many of their posts.

  But even so, I’m going to need a hard workout and a long run to get Troy’s spurious report from my head.

  My usual four miles isn’t enough, so I jog across the Golden Gate Bridge, drinking in the view of the Pacific Ocean and the cargo ships cruising by.

  Eventually, I evict the bottom-feeder from my brain and head home to shower, then walk to Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium to meet Owen and River.

  “Have a London Fog latte,” Owen suggests when I find the two of them at a table in the back corner.

  “A London Fog latte after a run?” River asks, arching a brow at his friend.

  “There is never a bad time for a London Fog latte,” Owen declares.

  When I first met the Dragons social media manager at a PR strategy lunch two months ago with Nikki and Declan, it was all I could do not to blurt, Wait. You’re THE Owen?

  River had often mentioned his college friend Owen, then it turns out he works for Declan’s team. Small world. Now, River and Owen both sometimes join me at Alliance events.

  “No, a London Fog latte is good at three p.m. with a cookie,” River says to Owen. I might as well not be here, but on the plus side, it lessens the burden of conversation.

  Owen rolls his blue eyes at River’s latest opinion. “You’re so rigid.”

  River winks. “That’s what he said.”

  I give my California surfer dude friend a suspicious look, then cast a similar one to Owen. “Did I interrupt something with you two? I can come back when you’re done flirting.”

  “Please, we’re not flirting,” Owen says in the biggest denial of all time.

  “Tell that to the judge,” I say, plopping down in a chair.

  “We just don’t always see eye-to-eye,” Owen adds, gesturing from River to himself.

  “Gee, that sounds like the recipe for a snarky rom-com,” River teases.

  “And that sounds like something I’d like to watch. But anyway”—Owen turns to me—“what do you need? What can I get you? I’d offer up a voodoo doll of a certain reporter, but I think the best revenge is to live well, so I say put him out of your mind.”

  I heave a sigh, wishing I’d had a chance to talk to Declan this morning, especially given the barrage of media mentions. But he’d already left for his shoot, and now he’s out of pocket all day. “I’m just gonna grab an iced coffee,” I say, pushing back in my chair. “And I agree—let’s forget the weasel face. Put him behind us.”

  “Excellent plan. And I’ll get your iced coffee. I insist,” Owen offers and heads to the counter when I say thanks.

  “I want someone to do my bidding like that,” River says with a pout. “If only I were an important, multimillion-dollar athlete dating a hottie in Owen’s ball club. Clearly, I missed an opportunity.”

  “It’s never too late to change careers. Do you have any athletic talents to work with?”

  River strokes his bearded chin, considering. “I’m very, very good on my knees. Does that count?” he asks, all doe-eyed and innocent.

  Laughing, I toss a glance at the counter. “When you say things like that, do you really expect me to believe you’re not flirting with Owen?”

  “I said that to you. Not him.”

  “But it was kind of about Owen,” I point out.

  “Nah. That was just about . . . well, about me.” He taps his chest. “Me and my prowess.”

  “I bet Owen would like to know more about your prowess. Since he’s flirty AF with you too.”

  River knits his brow. “What?”

  “You don’t see it? The way you two zing each other?”

  “Do I zing Owen? Because that sounds steamy. Is that a new BJ technique?” River sweeps his arm out wide, adopting a megaphone voice. “Learn the zing technique and you’ll wow your partner with your tongue.”

  Shoes click on the floor.

  “The zing technique? Tell me more.” Owen sinks into a chair, flutters his lashes, and waits like a cat playing with its kill.

  “Want me to leave? Give you two some privacy?” I offer, even though I’m going nowhere. Watching these two is better than watching James Bond.

  Owen slides the iced coffee to me. “Don’t leave, Grant. We must learn about this zing technique from River.”

  I shake my head. “We? I don’t think so. I’m already an all-star in the BJ department. There’s nothing wrong with my technique for giving head.” I furrow my brow. “Although, on second thought, there’s always room to learn, and it’s good to keep things fresh. Tell me more.”

  “Then we should invent the zing technique, market it, and make a mint,” River says airily, recovering from his caught-in-the-headlights moment.

  “Yes, let’s do that,” Owen seconds.

  I shake my head, amused. “Like I said, you two flirt so much I want to say here’s a condom, get a room.”

  “We’ve always been like this,” Owen says, offhand.

  “This flirty?” I ask.

  River jumps in. “Friendly! We’re friendly. Hello?” River motions from Owen to him and back. “Remember? Owen and I have a friends-only pact.”

  “And I am not a pact breaker,” Owen puts in seriously.

  I spread my arms out wide. “Then it’s solved. You two will never zing each other. Meanwhile I’m going to invent this new blow job technique and drive my man crazy with it.” I sip my iced coffee as I picture zinging Declan when he returns home later this week, and before long, I can hardly remember Troy Whatshis name.

  River, Owen, and I head together to the nearby Alliance, where the three of us tuck into comfy couches and join a group of teens in an epic trivia battle. My crew is victorious, and I smack palms with Jason, a quarterback at a local high school.

  “We rock,” he declares. This kid has become worlds more outgoing and confident since he got involved with the organization only a few weeks ago.

  “It’s hard to beat such talent,” I gloat.

  As we clean up, Jason clears his throat. “Do you have a minute to talk?” he asks quietly. He has the all-American athlete vibe of a young Zac Efron but with a hefty serving of vulnerability.

  “Absolutely. As long as you need,” I tell him. We leave the games room and head to a quiet hallway, and I’m delighted he’s turning to me for help or advice. This is why I love to volunteer here. I remember well being his age—those complicated days of figuring out who I was. If I can be a willing ear to a fifteen-, sixteen-, seventeen-year-old, then I’m serving a meaningful purpose.

  “What’s up, man? And how can I help?” I ask, giving him all my attention. I can see this talk he wants to have is important to him.

  He seems to gear himself up for something difficult and then just says it. “I think I’m ready to come out to my teammates and was wondering if you had any advice,” Jason says.