“Now I’m going to google vacation destinations in November. And I said November just in case.”

  Just in case we make the playoffs in October.

  Holden slams his hands over his ears again.

  Laughing, I grab my phone and begin the hunt. I search as the other guys meander onto the plane, calling shotgun, claiming seats and roughhousing—the usual stuff after sweeping a series.

  Trash is talked.

  Wagers are staked.

  And we all complain when we hear the Wi-Fi is down for the flight.

  “Guess that means you can’t catch up on all your History Channel documentaries, Dante,” Gunnar calls out.

  “And you’ll be behind in your cartoons,” Dante fires back.

  “It’s gonna be rough,” Gunnar says. “I might have to, gasp, read.”

  “Hope you brought a picture book.”

  I’m not a big TV person, so I don’t care about the lack of streaming to the plane’s TV app, especially when there is sleep to be had on this overnight flight.

  I sink into my seat, checking out five-star hotels in various vacation destinations in Miami. When I moved in with Grant, I promised him that I’d get us a condo in Miami. Maybe I’d rather snag one someplace else, though. Like Hawaii. Someplace that has no associations for us. Someplace all new.

  I like that idea a lot.

  I can take him to Kauai in November. I picture our days and nights. We could even find a property while we’re there. I could buy it—for us.

  I’m hunting online for the best luxury hotels with room service, ocean views, hot tubs, and all the amenities, when a voice from a few rows back calls out, “Holy fuck! He just got clocked!”

  I look up from the screen, ears perked, listening for more from Gunnar, our third baseman.

  Poor bastard who got hit. That’s gotta suck.

  Returning to my screen, I click on an image of a sun-kissed beach.

  Gunnar’s quiet for a few seconds. Come to think of it, the whole plane is strangely silent. A sinking feeling descends on me, and with nervous fingers I click open a browser to check the sports news, just as Gunnar speaks again.

  “Oh, fuck. Has Steele seen this?”

  17

  Declan

  This can’t be happening.

  I click on the video, cringing when the pitch slams into Grant’s helmet, nailing him square on the earflap. I ache when his helmet falls off as he crashes onto his back. I feel like I’m going to throw up if he doesn’t get up quickly.

  And I die a little inside when he flips over in so much obvious pain.

  He’s still not getting up.

  C’mon, babe. Get up.

  The trainer runs to the field to check him—the manager now too.

  My stomach twists as the sportscasters gives the play-by-play on video. “He’s hunched over on the ground now, still curled up. I’ve heard players get hit in the helmet plenty of times, but that was like a thunderclap. Not a good sign.”

  “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay,” I mutter under my breath, praying, hoping.

  Finally, Grant pushes to his knees, then he stands. The camera zooms in on him, and my heart seizes. He looks dazed, so damn rattled, his head down as the manager and trainer walk him into the dugout.

  Yes, he’s walking off, but he’s being taken out of the game. In baseball, players don’t come back into a game even if they’re cleared from a concussion. Once you’re out, you’re out. That means the manager saw something concerning enough to pull Grant out.

  My throat is tight. Awful scenarios swamp my head. The reporter doesn’t say if he has a concussion. A contusion. Or worse.

  I dial his number—a futile exercise since Grant won’t answer. He was hit twenty minutes ago. It goes to voicemail. I’m sure his phone is turned off, sitting on the top shelf of his locker.

  But I want to know how the hell he’s doing. How can I find out in the few minutes before we’re airborne?

  C’mon, man. Think. You know Cougars.

  I scroll through my contacts. I hit Crosby’s name, but that goes to voicemail too. I try Chance for the same result.

  Obviously.

  They’re at the same game.

  On the same field.

  You don’t bring your goddamn phone onto the diamond.

  Vaughn!

  I’ll call my agent. He can call the team. But Vaughn doesn’t answer, so I send him a text, asking if he can find out what’s going on with Grant.

  Holden sets a hand on my shoulder. Gives a bro squeeze. “Why don’t I call Reese and see if she can head over?”

  “Yes,” I say, letting myself feel relief at this one thing. “Call her now. See if she can find out if he’s okay.”

  The jet is taxiing now on the tarmac. Holden hits Reese’s name on his phone, and my heart spikes with fear as I press my fingers to my temples.

  As the plane heads to the runway, Holden quickly asks his woman to find out anything she can. When he ends the call, he shifts his attention to me. “Reese is on it. We’ll get the details soon.”

  My phone buzzes in my hand.

  Please, God, let it be Grant.

  My text app lights with a new message. With speedy fingers, I open the thread, but there’s no name on it.

  I groan, closing my eyes and slumping into the seat. It’s a message not sent on the Vaughn text. Service not available.

  We’re out of range already, and there’s no ESPN or Sports Network for the next five and a half hours. No online news either.

  “Please take your seats for takeoff. And seatbelts on, Dragons,” the cheery flight attendant booms over the loudspeaker. “And we have your favorite chicken risotto tonight.”

  How the hell can she be happy about chicken risotto when Grant is hurt?

  As I buckle my seatbelt, the plane picks up speed.

  I drag a hand down my face, then turn to Holden. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit.

  He claps me on the shoulder, then brandishes his phone screen at me. “I’ve got word search games. We’re gonna have a meal. And I downloaded the first season of a hilarious Matt LeBlanc series from Showtime. I’m going to get you through this.”

  It’s a relief, his desire to take my mind off Grant. Since there’s nothing I can do from thirty thousand feet and a country away, I say yes to the word search, and we go hunting for bugle, eschews, and salve.

  I wish I could be Grant’s salve right now.

  “He’s going to be fine,” Holden says as he slides his finger across bugle.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, but he can’t know that.

  No one can.

  I swallow roughly, trying to let go of the worry for the next five and a half hours.

  18

  Grant

  They won’t let me go for another hour.

  “I’m fine. I swear I’m fine,” I say. I’ve been twiddling my thumbs in the trainer’s room, which is plastered with photos of the Cougars alongside shots of Cruz Azul, one of Mexico’s top soccer clubs.

  Christian gives me a stern, brown-eyed stare. “You’re not fine. You have a headache. That’s a sign of a possible concussion.”

  “I passed all the other tests. My vision isn’t blurry. My neck is fine. Coordination is good. And my recall kicks ass. Just try me again. Ask me who we’re playing and what the score was.” I challenge him, gesturing to a photo of his favorite soccer player from his home country. “Or Delgado’s position. He’s a striker. Impressed?”

  “Yes, Blackwood. But with the headache, we still need to watch you a little longer.”

  “Can you watch me at home?” I ask. I’m just eager to get the hell out of here.

  Sure, I have a wicked headache, but that tracks when you’ve been beaned by a furious fastball. I’m sure it’s a hit-by-pitch headache, not a concussion one.

  “Is there someone there who can keep an eye on you?” Christian asks, arching a brow.

  A pang of longing sets up camp in my chest. I shake my head sadly. “Declan’s not here.”

  “Ah, okay then. Why don’t you hang with me for a few more minutes?”

  “But it’s so late, Christian. The game’s over. And we won. Eight to three,” I say, trying to impress him with my recall.

  With a smile, he says, “Yes, we did.”

  When an hour passes, Christian confers with the team doc, then returns. “You have two options,” Chris details. “I can drive your car home and hang with you for a bit then catch a Lyft from your house, or I can drive you in my car, and someone can get yours tomorrow.”

  Declan.

  My heart slams a little harder at the thought of him, and I wish he were picking me up right now. The desire to see him spirals higher than earlier in the week after the report. This longing digs so much deeper.

  “I’ll call Reese,” I say, reaching for my phone. She’s practically family, and when I switched on my cell an hour ago, I found a million messages from her, including one letting me know I wouldn’t hear from Declan till he landed. I’d answered to assure her I was doing fine.

  I’m about to ring and see if she can swing by, when I weigh other options. The guys all stopped by to visit when the game ended and said they would again before leaving for the night. I could ask Crosby or Chance. Any of the guys would do it. That’s a good thing, but my shoulders sag heavily.

  Calling on friends is one thing. Calling on family is another.

  As I’m debating who to reach out to, my phone rings.

  It’s Declan’s mom.

  “Hey, Cyndi,” I say.

  “Grant, are you okay? Are you home? If you are, I’m coming over. If not, I’ll be at the ballpark in ten minutes to pick you up and take you there. We live nearby, and I just heard the news.”

  My heart glows. My mom hasn’t called me in months. My boyfriend’s mom called me right away.

  “Sure, I’d love a ride.”

  When I hang up, I tell Chris he’s off the hook. Ten minutes later, as promised, Cyndi Marie Martin strides into the trainer’s room with a soft smile and warm, kind eyes.

  “Hey, sweetie,” she says to me, making a beeline for the lounge chair where I’m resting. She drops a kiss to my forehead.

  “Hey, Cyndi,” I say, happier to see her than I ever thought possible. Happy she’s here to take me home.

  With crisp efficiency, she turns to Christian. “Hello! What do I need to know about our guy? Am I supposed to wake him every few hours?”

  Christian shakes his head. “Nope. Concussion protocol has changed. For the first three to six hours, we don’t want them to fall asleep at all, but once you’re six hours post-hit, that’s the time to go to bed. Rest is important in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

  She nods, and a few minutes later, I slide into the passenger seat of my Tesla and my guy’s mom takes me to our home. Along the way, I yawn.

  “Are you sleepy, sweetheart?” she asks, touching my arm.

  “I’m tired, Cyndi,” I say, then confess, “but I really want to see your son. Do you know where he is? Has he landed yet?”

  She smiles softly. “Oh, sweetie. He’s on his way home to you.”

  “Is he?” I ask, hoping that’s true. “Is he going to be here soon?”

  “He is. He’s on the team plane right now. They just landed. He texted me when we got in the car, and I’m sure he texted you too. He should be home very soon.” She tells me more, mentioning Reese and Holden and Declan and phone calls and texts, but my head still hurts, and I want to be home.

  I can walk myself up the stairs, thank you very much.

  But Cyndi is insistent, hovering by my side. “I’m going to make sure you get in bed. No watching TV or playing on your phone,” she says.

  “I’ll behave. I promise.”

  “You better.” Her hand stays on my back as we climb the stairs. Damn, she’s a good nurse.

  “You’re really serious about this whole watch-over-me thing?” I’m not used to this attention from a mom type.

  “I am.”

  “Because Declan would want you to watch over me?”

  She laughs, shaking her head. “Yes, of course he would want me to. But I’m here because I care about you. Deeply.”

  “I care about you too, Cyndi.” When I make it to the top of the steps, I turn to her, my brow furrowing. “You’re not coming in our bedroom, are you?”

  She laughs. “I want to make sure you lie down.”

  A faint blush crosses my cheeks, heating my face. “Well, you know . . . it’s the bedroom, and all,” I say, stammering.

  She drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The bedroom where you have sex?”

  My jaw drops. “Cyndi!”

  She rolls her eyes. “You share a bedroom, sweetie. The jig is up.”

  I scrub a hand across my face, hiding my shock. She’s so bold, but so cool too. I might be in love with her, just as a mom and all.

  “Get in bed and get some rest,” she says, going full caretaker on me. Not gonna lie—I do like the attention.

  When she leaves a few minutes later to head downstairs, I glance at the clock, willing time to speed up so Declan will walk through the door. We live together, and it’s amazing to share a home, and so much better than the alternative of us on opposite coasts. But we also live apart, and it’s hard when you need your person.

  So hard.

  Soon, sleep takes over.

  A little later when the front door clicks open, I hear Declan’s voice and my whole body goes warm.

  19

  Grant

  I listen at first, shamelessly spying.

  “How is he?”

  “He’s sleepy, sweetie,” Cyndi says, using the same endearment for her son that she uses with me.

  “That’s not good,” Declan says, and I picture his frown.

  “It’s fine, actually. It’s past two in the morning. He’s supposed to be tired.”

  “I’m going to go see him,” he says. “And Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m so glad you were here,” he says, relief flooding his tone.

  “Me too.”

  The sound of his shoes on the hardwood floor grows closer and closer.

  “Hey,” I call out softly.

  “Hey, you.”

  I hear the smile in his voice before he turns into our bedroom, then shuts the door behind him. When he does, I scoot up in bed.

  Declan’s eyes widen. “Are you allowed to do that?”

  “Yup,” I say, then cast my gaze downward to his shoes. “But dude, you wore your shoes in the house.”

  “Oh, soooo sorry,” he says, as he toes them off, then sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, his expression soft and worried. “How are you?”

  “I’m not wounded. I’m not broken.” I reach for him with my arms, but my head pounds as I go. With a wince, I lie back down.

  “How do you really feel, babe?” Declan asks, taking my hand.

  I thread my fingers through his, and a kind of rightness settles over me. A sense of security, even. “Good, now that you’re here,” I say, then I tug him closer.

  “We’re not making out,” he warns.

  “I know. I just want to feel you near me.”

  I scoot over a bit, making room, and he slides next to me, wedging his body against mine. He’s so warm, and I want to suck up all his body heat. “You want me to hold you?” Declan asks.

  “So much,” I whisper, my voice quavering.

  He wraps his arms tight around me, gently presses his chest to my side, then drops a tender kiss to my cheek. “Good, because I want to hold you,” he murmurs.

  Declan hums, a soft sound as he snuggles me, bringing me close, his palms coasting gently up and down my arms. His face rests near my neck, his heart beating peacefully.

  “You seem happy,” I say.

  He buries his face in my shoulder, sweeps a kiss above the neckline of my T-shirt. “You have no idea how worried I was.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, my voice pitching up.

  “Don’t sound like you like it so much.”

  “But I do like it.”

  “My worry?”

  “Actually, I think I love it,” I admit, feeling all buzzy and happy in his arms.

  “I was freaking out, to put it mildly,” Declan tells me.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” he asks, incredulous.

  “Yeah. I don’t even think I have a concussion. And I’ve had two—one in my second season, and one in high school.”

  “It looked really bad today. It looked terrible, Grant. I didn’t know what happened or how you were,” he says, emotion thick in his voice. “Wi-Fi was down on the flight. I was so damn worried about you. You’re my person. I wanted to be there for you so badly.”

  This, I’m pretty sure, is what it means to swoon. I’m a grown man, and I am wildly swooning for my guy. “I wanted you here too,” I tell Declan. “Your mom is awesome, and I love her, and I’m so happy she was able to help but . . . she’s not you.”

  His arms wrap tighter around me, but even as he squeezes, he’s remarkably gentle. “I’m here now, babe.”

  Declan’s voice is everything I need. He’s everything I want. My heart clutches, rising higher in my throat. I swallow past the lump, shifting gears, so I don’t break down into an emotional mess. “Your mom knows we sleep together,” I blurt.

  He chuckles against my neck. “Wow. You and Mom had a heart-to-heart while I was gone, did ya?”

  I laugh. “Dude, she came into our room. She saw our bed. It was weird. I was like, um, this is our bedroom.”

  “Did you think to add that we fuck on the couch too, or did you maybe leave that out?”

  “I did not mention the sex couch. Or the kitchen or the front hallway. Or your new BMW. I left out the guest room too. I was a gentleman.”

  “But we’ve never slept together there,” he says.

  “True. Though, if your mom’s asleep in there now, I think maybe we should make that off-limits officially.”

  Declan nuzzles me. “Yes, Mom’s crashing there tonight. Good thing it’s pure for her.”