Talking doesn’t seem to be on the agenda for him either. We kiss as we move to his bed, Derek lying back and pulling me down on top of him. His shirt’s still on, buttons digging into my chest, and he sits up enough to let me push it off his shoulders. His pants go next, kicked off, leaving him in boxer briefs, giving me a full view of the ink across his chest—a sunburst, dark against his tanned skin. Below that, another tattoo, a constellation of stars descends below the waistband of his briefs.

  “You’re really hot,” I say. Smooth, Chason. Very deeply smooth.

  At least Derek laughs. We make out for a while, his cock nudging my hip through the fabric of his briefs, even though he doesn’t seem like he’s in a hurry now. I peel down his last layer of clothes, pausing as he lifts his hips, and reach for his cock, rewarded with a moan against my lips that extends as I stroke him.

  We’re pressed close, chest to chest, and it feels closer than we should be if this is a one-time thing. If this is nothing more than two guys blowing, pun intended, off some steam together. He kisses my neck, teeth catching like he might leave marks, and that’ll be something—walking into the clubhouse with those as a souvenir.

  His breathing picks up, especially when I spit in my hand and reapply myself, thumb teasing the edge of his foreskin. “I’m close,” he breathes.

  “Appreciate the warning.”

  “Just trying to be polite.” He laughs slightly, then groans, deeply, and comes all over my hand.

  We lie there for a minute. I try not to wipe my fingers against his bedspread. Possibly sensing my discomfort, he hands me a wad of tissues, then tells me the bathroom is just down the hall. A dismissal, though not a surprising one. There’s no point in me lingering, I tell myself. This was only a one-night stand, a way to get Talia worked out of my system. Sticking around would make a weird night even weirder.

  When I return to the bedroom, Derek has his boxer briefs pulled back on.

  He’s lounging against his headboard, scrolling through his phone. “I was gonna get something to eat,” he says. His eyes meet mine in a hopeful question. Is he asking me if I want to join? Or is that my cue to leave?

  I’m so rusty when it comes to the rules of hookups. I kinda want to stay, but the words that come out are, “I was about to head out.”

  Since that’s easier. I think.

  “This place does pretty good tacos. Your loss,” he says, a little sarcastic but also somewhat let down.

  Or maybe I’m imagining his look of slight disappointment before he schools his face back into the challenging, I dare you to strike me out expression I know from game broadcasts.

  “Thanks though,” I add. “I just got out of a relationship and…”

  Ugh. The stuff with Talia is too much to explain. It all still feels too private, too fresh. Really, does he even want to hear it?

  “It’s all good, Chason,” he says, deliberately overemphasizing my name this time.

  “Ah, you’re a fast learner,” I remark as I pick up my clothes, trying to futilely unwrinkle them, even if the only witnesses to my walk of not-quite-shame will be whatever desert critters are brave enough to crawl out into the road.

  “I am,” he says, then takes a beat, his eyes traveling up and down me again. “So are you. At least when you’re impatient and really want something.”

  My face burns. Pretty sure if we didn’t work in the same small world, I might ask him if he’s free tomorrow night. If I can return the favor on my knees.

  Hell, with his tacos comment, maybe he was about to do the same.

  But once is for the best.

  I need to focus on baseball and finding a way to win. Even if that’s not likely for my team this season.

  Once I’m dressed, Derek walks me to the door, still clad only in his boxer briefs. He looks sleepy, hair in disarray. Adorable, really. It makes me want to stay, even if I know I shouldn’t press my luck. Derek gets the door, unlatching it, opening it so that he won’t be visible to the street.

  “Enjoy the tacos,” I say.

  He gives a small smile. “Enjoy spring training.”

  Then, impulsively, I grab his face and press a hot, fast goodbye kiss to his lips.

  When I break apart, he looks unsteady, whispers, whoa.

  A small dose of pride spreads in me. I knocked him off kilter, like he did to me tonight. “By the way, is five your lucky number?”

  With that, a you remembered smile. “I think it was. Night, Chason.”

  And I’m dispensed out onto the porch. The door closes. For a second, I consider raising my hand, knocking to be let back in. But no, that’s not how this works. So I pull out my phone and enter the address of my rental house. At least I can cleanly navigate my way home.

  For the rest of spring training, I only see Derek once. The Arches play the Pilots at their park, and we both start. I reach first on an error then advance to third base on a single, flying past him at short.

  Mostly, I’m thinking about scoring.

  But partly I’m wondering what I’ll say if I run into him later. In the corridor. Outside the park. Want tacos? How’s your spring training? Have you learned how to play craps yet?

  Why am I even practicing opening lines?

  That’s a good question.

  One I don’t find the answer to as I field my position in the next inning. As I watch Derek work a walk. As I wonder what it would be like to tag him out on the next play.

  The batter at the plate hits a weak grounder to our second baseman, who’s set up in the shallow outfield. He flips the ball to me as I hurry to cover second; I drop my foot on the bag as Derek hustles down the basepath, then throw onto first for a bang-bang double play that ends the inning.

  My teammates begin their retreat to the dugout, but Derek is still there, uniform streaked with dirt like he can’t believe I turned two on him. Huh. I’ve never played against a guy I hooked up with. It’s kind of awesome. A little like having a delicious secret.

  Especially when Derek shakes his head and says, “You sure you got your foot on the bag?”

  Like I faked out tagging second base. “I’m sure. If you want, I could tag you out again.”

  I’m not trying to flirt with him, but it comes out that way, even if it probably just sounds like regular, harmless trash talk to my teammates. That may be all Derek hears too.

  “Now there’s a thought,” he says.

  So maybe he heard me correctly. I lift the glove to my face to hide a smile, but then seize the chance and add, “A good thought.”

  He lifts a brow, then his lips curve into a dirty grin. “You have so many good ideas.”

  “I do.” I’m this close to jumping on the chance he’s maybe offering, to asking if he wants to meet again. But is this just harmless flirting? Or the start of something more that I’m not ready for yet?

  I stall too long. Before I know it, Derek is heading off the field with a tip of his cap.

  After the game, we load up on the team bus. I look back one more time. My pulse kicks faster when I see him in the distance, leaving the facility.

  Maybe I’ve found my answer to the Why did I want to run into him? question. That one night with Derek last month was both challenging and easy at the same time.

  I think I like that combo.

  But I turn my gaze away and focus on baseball. That’s what I do for the rest of spring training and into the first few months of the season.

  I play hard, and I go home alone. Sometimes, before I fall asleep, I check his game stats to see how his spring is going.

  Mostly, he’s playing well enough.

  Mostly.

  5

  Adam

  * * *

  On a Monday night in late June, the mood is dreary.

  I cross home plate in the bottom of the eighth, having just knocked in two runs. Ordinarily, I’d high five some teammates. Batting runs in is, obviously, one of the most satisfying parts of playing baseball for a living. It’d be more satisfying if the Arches scored more than the other team.

  Since we’re trailing by five, no one comes out of the dugout. It’s just another night in St. Louis, like most of the ones this season.

  When the game ends the way most games this season have ended, no one in the clubhouse says Want to grab a bite? or Better luck tomorrow.

  But the mood shifts Tuesday morning when I arrive at the clubhouse for an early workout.

  The second I push open the door, the vibe among my teammates is…curious.

  Chatty.

  My skin tingles.

  I know this vibe. My teammates are clustered toward one end of the stalls, whispering loudly. There’s pretty much one reason they’d be doing that.

  A trade.

  I feel a burst of anticipation that surprises me, then a little too much hope.

  One of my teammates says my name—“Chason” with a full ch. I clear my throat to alert them to my presence. Conversation stops. Our center fielder turns slowly, chair squeaking. “I think they need to talk with you.”

  They could mean anyone: our manager, the team’s president of baseball operations, my agent. I leave the changing area. When I reach our manager’s office, my agent is waiting for me outside. He’s also become a good friend over the years.

  I figured I’d see Maddox LeGrande today—he told me he was coming to town. The fact that he’s here now means only one thing, and it’s not that we’re having lunch. “Hey, Adam,” he says, since he’s one of the few people who uses my first name. The sliver of a smile says the rest. The news is good. As in…I’m going somewhere that wins. “Wanted to be the first to tell you.”

  “Trade?” I ask, though the question is a formality. I’ve been playing well this season and the rest of the team…hasn’t. Something increasingly difficult to talk around during press scrums. Maddox nods, looking pleased. “How’s Seattle sound to you?”

  Holy shit. That takes a few seconds to sink in. Seattle. “Are you sure?” Like there’s been some mistake. Because Seattle already has a shortstop, who’s an accomplished hitter. Defender. Kisser. My tongue was in his mouth just a few months ago.

  “Great,” I say, like that one word can mask how I feel—a little guilty, like I shouldn’t be this excited to go to a club with a winning record, and a lot weird.

  Because, well, it wasn’t just my tongue in Derek’s mouth. But I swipe dirty thoughts from my brain, as Maddox ushers me into the manager’s office, even as something else nags at me. Something I’ll deal with later.

  I must look as bewildered as I feel, because my manager starts talking about all the great times I’ve had in St. Louis, about how much there is left to accomplish in my career. About how change is hard—baseball’s motto for when something difficult happens to someone else.

  His speech ends with an offered hand. I shake, then get pulled in for a hug. I knew a trade was coming. Even though it’s good—hell it’s great—it’s still hard, something that sets in as I say goodbye to my teammates, the team personnel, and the ballpark staff. As I pack up what I’ll need from my apartment and arrange to have the rest of my things shipped. As I get on a chartered flight to Seattle, wondering what’s going to happen.

  That’s what’s nagging at me—the Seattle Pilots don’t need two shortstops. Either they’re floating the idea of trading Derek—doubtful, even if he’s had a slightly slow start to the year—or one of us will have to play a different position.

  And that’s the other problem. Positions. A slightly hysterical thought. Because I can imagine him in a lot of positions, none of which have to do with baseball. I should let it go. We hooked up and only spoke once on the field. Do guys normally think about their hookups for months after?

  I have four hours to think about it on the plane from St. Louis to Seattle, then on the brief drive from the airport to the ballpark. Seattle seems like a cool city, modern and young, though I’ve no idea of where to start apartment hunting. When I scroll through listings, everything already has double-digit offers and bids.

  Maybe someone on the team will have suggestions. Too bad there’s no one to turn to and ask a thornier question. Hey, how do I face my spring training hookup again when I see him in the same clubhouse in, oh, say, thirty fucking minutes?

  I drop my face in my hands.

  I’m good at baseball. But there’s no handbook for awkward post blow job friendships. Guess I’ll just have to figure it out.

  The ballpark sits downtown, its roof domed against the slightly gray sky. A peppy handler meets me at the players’ entrance then shepherds me into an office with the team president and Pilots manager.

  I do my best to focus, but I’m thinking about what comes next the whole time. That moment when I walk into the clubhouse feeling like the new kid in class. Man, I wish there were dogs here too.

  When I make it to the clubhouse, it’s as awkward as I imagined. A few guys murmur greetings. I say hi back. Then my gaze swings to Derek, who’s taking off his shirt.

  Because of course I walk in right when he’s getting undressed. Thanks, universe.

  And when I scan the stalls, of course, mine is right next to his.

  Someone has a funny sense of humor.

  I swallow roughly, wondering where to look. Out of the corner of my eye, I take stock of the guy I hooked up with.

  I don’t usually do hookups—with men or women.

  Derek looks even better—still broad in the shoulders if leaned down from his spring training bulk. I have to admit, I have a thing for tattoos, partly because I don’t have any. His ink looks even better in the daylight. Intriguing. I follow its tracery down his torso and want to follow it with my—

  …And he’s looking right at me, with a scrunched expression, like he’s not sure what I’m doing there. Which, same.

  For a second, we just look at each other, questions passing between us we can’t ask. Like if he’s cool with my being here. For one thing, neither of us has much say in the matter. For another, the answer is probably no. I also have no idea what I’m supposed to say to any of my new teammates. Psyched to join you? Ugh. That’s trying too hard for the new guy. Happy to be here. Though I’m not sure I am quite yet, even if I’m more likely to get a ring here than in St. Louis.

  A question presses against my tongue. Is he thinking about me like I’m thinking about him? Or is he just thinking about which of us is going to play at short.

  Finally, so I don’t stand around like a dingus who’s never been in a clubhouse, I step forward, drop my stuff in the stall, and turn to him. Screw the weirdness. I have to deal with my new teammate, whether or not I want to strip off his uniform pants.

  “Hey, Derek,” I say.

  At least he pulls on a shirt. “Hey, Chason. Guess you won’t be turning two on me any longer,” he says drily, a reference to our last encounter.

  Which makes my pulse spike—that he remembers the details.

  This is awfully inconvenient. Being attracted to my teammate. “Let’s hope not,” I say.

  “You enjoying Seattle so far?”

  “Yeah, all two hours of it.”

  “I’m guessing you just found out this morning about the trade?” he asks.

  “My agent came by to tell me.”

  “Gotta love a business where you start work in one town and finish it in another,” he says, kind of easygoing, and I do not know what to make of Derek Miller. I’d expect him to freeze me out. But he’s sort of…inviting.

  It’s weird, but kind of cool.

  “It’s not a bad town to finish the day in,” he adds.

  Before I can say anything else, a couple other guys on the team swing by, with Travis and Bautista joining in. Are they the kind of guys who carry a grudge? Are we going to relitigate the casino dog fundraiser incident on top of everything else?

  I hope not. Bautista extends a hand, shaking mine. “Welcome to Seattle.”

  “Happy to be here,” I manage.

  Travis offers a clap on the back hug, which I return. Maybe he can sense my discomfort. “No hard feelings about that dog thing, bro.”

  There’s my answer and it’s a welcome relief.

  “As long as you play well,” Travis adds, with a wink. Got it. As a first baseman, he has two real talents: hitting the ball hard and making small talk with base runners. He seems especially good at the latter, since he keeps going, “Where do they have you staying?”

  “At a hotel for now. The team made reservations at a place nearby.”

  Next to him, Bautista cringes. “Dude. You don’t want to stay for long in this neighborhood.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s boring, and full of athletes,” he says.

  Derek rolls his eyes. “Sounds awful.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I say. “I was looking at apartment listings on the plane. Guess the market’s pretty tight, but I’ll make sure to look not near here.”

  Bautista laughs. “Fast learner.” Then his eyes flicker, and he nudges Derek in the arm. “Hey, don’t you have an extra room since Grady left?”

  Oh shit.

  Derek’s smile tightens. “Yep, sure do,” he says, firmly. Like the conversation is over.

  No. Just no. Bautista has to stop now. My stomach churns.

  But he continues on, oblivious. “Hope you have better luck than I did. Took me a while to get a realtor to even take my calls. I mean, I thought, I’m a big leaguer, they gotta be accommodating. But nope. Maybe I should have posed as a tech bro.”

  “The hotel’s fine. I really don’t mind,” I say quickly. Because I can see where this is going and it’s toward Derek’s spare room.

  “Nah, man, that gets depressing after like a week. I’d offer you a room in my place but it’s being renovated,” Bautista urges, then turns to Derek, imploring him. “Miller, do the new guy a solid. Let him stay with you till he finds a place.”

  Derek makes a noise that’s a cross between agreement and choking.

  This can’t happen. I can’t slide into town, join the team, then crash at his place. That’s the definition of not cool. It’s also the definition of entirely too tempting. “Seriously, a hotel is fine,” I interject.

 

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