Travis’s meaty paw lands on my shoulder. “You’ll like it there.” He gives a chin nod to Derek. “What do you say?”

  Derek’s face goes stony. He clearly doesn’t want this, but if I protest again, I’ll look like a jackass in front of my new teammates for showing up a veteran player. Derek takes a deep breath. “Sure, Chason”—he says my last name the way it’s actually pronounced— “you can crash with me for a while.”

  I’m at another loss for words, this one not driven by shyness, but by the sheer effing cluster of this situation. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” Like I’m not taking his fielding position—and now his spare bedroom.

  6

  Adam

  * * *

  Thinking about staying at Derek’s place carries me through the game that night. Since I’m not in the lineup for the game, I park myself at the dugout railing and try to learn as much as I can about my new team. Watching Derek on TV gave me a healthy aesthetic appreciation for his fielding. Watching him like this is completely different.

  He’s magnetic—in how he moves, an economy of motions as he scoops balls hit into the middle infield and relays them to the other fielders. Until he makes a throwing error in the fifth inning, mishandling a ball that allows the runner to score. An error that could have happened to anyone, but Derek gives our dugout a long look after it, like he’s waiting for our manager to pull him.

  The Pilots—we, though the designation is still strange—win the game. At least that’s something different from St. Louis. Inside the clubhouse, I’m at my stall changing out of my uniform when Derek comes over. “I was about to head out, if you’re ready,” he says.

  Travis and Bautista aren’t around. It’s just us talking. I should give Derek one more chance to back out of the extreme awkwardness of sharing his home with someone he once blew and now works with.

  “Thanks again,” I say, “But you really don’t have to do this.” I toss my jersey—damp from the ambient humidity and the effort of standing in a dugout for three hours—into a nearby laundry cart. “I’m sure the hotel is fine.”

  “It’s all good,” he reassures me. “Bautista wasn’t kidding about the market up here. Besides, I got a spare bed.” Though his voice hitches slightly on the word bed.

  Now I can’t decline without looking ungrateful. “Okay. Sure,” I say, but my biggest concern isn’t actually appearances; it’s being in the same space with someone I’m too attracted to.

  Derek waits as I change into my street clothes while one of the clubhouse attendants fetches my suitcases from storage. We walk in silence out of the clubhouse, down the long hallway to the players’ parking lot.

  He pops the hatch of his truck. I load my suitcases, grateful for the momentary respite from awkwardness. This is only temporary. Even if being near him is bringing back memories in flashes: The way his knee brushed mine during that short Uber ride. The way he kissed me against his front door. And the way I walked home in a daze after, my lips stinging, wondering if I made a mistake hooking up with him. Wondering if I made a mistake by taking off too soon.

  “You all set?” he calls from the front seat. Because of course I’ve spent a solid minute arranging suitcases. I’m not avoiding him. I just…don’t want to have a conversation either.

  “Yeah.” I close the hatch. This is temporary. It’s just a spare room. Be cool, Chason. Ha. Like it’s that easy.

  The drive to South Lake Union on the waterfront is mercifully short. Derek plays tour guide as night falls, pointing out trendy restaurants, music clubs I doubt I’d ever go to, and, of course, too many coffee shops to count. All artisan, naturally. But he’s impersonal, like he might be with an out-of-town guest he barely knows. Except he glances over a few times, probably when he thinks I’m not looking.

  I’m looking. I’m keenly aware of the space we occupy.

  Eventually, we arrive at his condo, in a high-rise overlooking Lake Union. He insists on helping with one of my suitcases, which he parks in the front hallway. The place looks like most big leaguers’ condos: clean and slightly sterile, with framed memorabilia on the walls. A dining room that looks barely used and a living room that looks much more lived in, centered on a massive entertainment center. I catch my reflection in the TV screen. At least I’m hiding how weird I think this whole situation is, even if he probably feels the same way.

  I look around, hoping to find something to talk about—a family photo maybe. But there’s nothing like that except pictures of various teams and tournaments. Derek, with his arms around other players, smiling in victory.

  Except—

  “Who’s this?” I ask, trying not to coo and failing. Because the picture on his end table is of a kid recognizable as a young Derek with his arms around a fluffy, golden-furred dog.

  Derek offers a real smile for the first time since Bautista volunteered a spare room. “Oh, that’s Ultimate. She was my dog growing up.”

  “She looks like a sweetheart.”

  “Yeah”—his voice goes a little wistful—“she really was.”

  I pick up the picture, studying the pup. “Mutt? A little golden, a little lab, a little something else?”

  Another smile. “Hence the name Ultimate. Ultimate mutt.”

  “Did you pick her name?”

  “I did,” he says, chest puffing up.

  “That’s a good name,” I remark as I set down the photo.

  “Thanks, Chason. I was hoping you’d approve,” he deadpans. Finally, we’re back to an easy rhythm. Like the night of the fundraiser.

  So I stay there, on that frequency. I like this frequency. “It’s kind of funny. I was hoping there were going to be dogs at the casino thing. You know, to hang out with,” I say. “Since it was for a dog rescue.”

  “You were hoping to play poker with a dog?”

  I laugh. “Sure. If any played. Or just to talk to.”

  He nods faux-thoughtfully. “So was I better company than a dog?”

  I shrug, since I’m not giving in that easily. Besides, he won’t want me too. “You’re aiming pretty high, Miller.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure I hit the mark.”

  No doubt. “I mean, sure,” I say, like I’m not giving an inch. “I suppose.”

  “I didn’t hear any complaints,” he says, maybe fishing for compliments. This is another side of him I’m learning. At the fundraiser, he was all edges and cocksure attitude. Then at his place, he was playful and pushy. Now, he’s…interested.

  Same here, but that’s risky. “Fair enough. You worked out okay,” I tease.

  Derek gestures like he’s spinning something with his hand.

  I raise my eyebrows in question.

  “The picture of Adam Chason is filling in now. You went to the party to talk to a dog, but then you found me.”

  Come to think of it, that’s exactly what I did. I found him at the party, flirted with him, went home with him. Now, here I am again, in his house, sliding right back into the way we were that night. A little teasing, a little pushing.

  “You were decent enough company,” I joke.

  Derek tosses his head back, laughing, like he can’t believe I said that. “Why am I letting you stay here?”

  Suddenly, I snap back to reality, worried I’ve gone too far. “I can stay at a hotel if it’s a problem.”

  His hand comes down on my shoulder. “Enough. I wouldn’t have agreed if I wasn’t cool with it.” He motions to my suitcase. “Let me show you your room.”

  And that’s that. With a few words, he’s reassured me that I’m not unwelcome. I needed that. A lot.

  “That’d be great,” I say, grabbing my bags. “And thanks again.”

  “Happy to help,” he says, heading down the hall. Then, as he turns, he says over his shoulder, “Since I know you liked my company more than a dog’s. Evidently, that’s a high compliment from you.” He goes into the room before I can respond.

  My face flushes. Heat slides down my back from all these reminders of that night together. A night that ended too soon? Maybe it did. But a repeat isn’t in the cards now that I’m staying here.

  Somehow, I need to erase the memories of that night. It helps that his spare bedroom has all the personality of a hotel. Some art that the decorator must have picked out, a bed, a dresser mounted with a TV. “That’s…the bed,” he says, gesturing helpfully, as if I can’t figure out what the big piece of furniture in the middle of the room is. He swipes a hand over his face like he can’t believe he said that either. “You know, that thing you sleep on.”

  “I’m familiar with beds,” I say.

  “Yeah, same here,” he mutters, his eyes darkening, like maybe he’s remembering the last time we were in his bedroom. Together… Same here. He quickly heads to the door, then gestures to the en suite. “Bathroom’s that way. Feel free to spread out as much as you want.”

  In a hurry, he leaves me to unpack, which I do as little as possible, feeling very much like an unwanted guest, even though he’s definitely tried to welcome me. I hear Derek moving around in the other room, opening and closing cabinets, turning on, then muting the TV.

  My new temporary roommate appears in the doorway a minute later. “I was going to make something to eat. Want anything?” At least that’s familiar and easier to handle than sleeping arrangements that remind us of sex. Ballplayers’ favorite subject: food, and the preparation and consumption thereof. With that, comes the memory that I didn’t stick around last time to eat.

  Even thinking about a meal, I can’t seem to escape that night in spring training.

  “Food would be great,” I say then follow him into the kitchen.

  He parks me on a barstool at his kitchen island, as he starts rummaging through his fridge. I expected either takeout or prepared meals, but it seems like he’s actually going to make me something.

  That’s another surprise. I wasn’t expecting a cook. “Sandwiches okay?” he asks.

  Like I can turn down food on top of a room. “Derek…” I have no idea what to say. Maybe I should call him Miller. “You don’t have to make me din—” I stop before I act like this is a big deal. He offered sandwiches. The most casual possible food. Like tacos. Thanks, brain.

  His hands flex on the countertop. “I’m hungry. I bet you are too,” he says, glancing at the clock. It’s ten. “I have a couple kinds of bread, some turkey, probably some pastrami somewhere.”

  Great. Now we’re talking about sandwich preferences. Wheat or white. Mayo or mustard. Moments ago we were chatting about dogs, the night we met, and beds. Fucking beds. Tonight is topsy turvy.

  Well, what did you think shacking up with the guy you wanted a repeat with would be like?

  There it is. The sharp, clear awareness of my wants. For some reason, maybe it’s chemical, maybe it’s more, I wanted a repeat.

  I still do.

  That’s the problem.

  “Whatever is fine,” I say, past the dryness in my mouth.

  “Chason—” he begins, and that feels personal, somehow, with the rumble of it in his throat. He’s interrupted by a loud pounding on the door. “Fuck. That must be Travis.”

  Derek strides to the door and yanks it open to reveal Travis, who’s holding a six-pack already missing a beer.

  Travis salutes me as he comes in with a “‘Sup, Chason,” then spots the open sleeve of bread, and points. “Ooh, sandwiches. Make me one.”

  Derek rolls his eyes fondly, then prepares a sandwich without asking Travis his preferences. When he’s done, he turns to me, holding up bread and gesturing vaguely to the layout of condiments and meat.

  “You want mayo?” he asks, as if the real question isn’t What the fuck are we all doing? I’m too shy to ask when we’re alone, and Derek’s too nonchalant. Except for the tightness to his smile that Travis doesn’t seem to notice.

  I eye the pack of deli meat next to Derek—pastrami stacked neatly on a piece of waxed paper. “Pastrami with…mayo?” I try, and fail, to hide my skepticism.

  Derek’s eyebrows scrunch slightly. Now I feel bad. “What do you normally eat pastrami with?”

  “Usually with mustard on rye.”

  He nods like he’s absorbing some received wisdom, not a sandwich recipe. “Cheese?”

  I shake my head.

  “You sure?” Like he’s concerned about not being a good host. “I think I have some Swiss somewhere.”

  “I don’t eat meat and cheese together.” Another eyebrow scrunch, this one bordering on cute. “I’m Jewish,” I clarify. “Assumed it was obvious from the name.”

  Derek looks briefly surprised. “Is there other food I should get?” he asks, which is kind of cool, actually, but also implies I’m going to be staying here a while.

  And I can’t, if the last hour is anything to go by. Not sure I can last this long with my attraction to him.

  “I’m good. If I’m still here in a week”—I might combust, semi-spontaneously from being around him all the time—“we can do some shopping.”

  That’s a surreal thought, crashing for that long with someone I’m attracted to. But Derek doesn’t seem perturbed by it. Once our sandwiches are made, the three of us flop onto Derek’s sectional to eat. Travis and Derek are watching a TV show I haven’t seen before, a crime thriller that they half-explain to me while chewing loudly. I pull out my phone, scrolling through real estate listings that haven’t become any more auspicious since I looked at them earlier today. I switch to Twitter, where the main topic of discussion seems to be one of those advice posts asking if the person who wrote it is an asshole. One that makes me imagine my current situation.

  Dear Internet, I hooked up with a hot colleague in order to get over my ex. A few months later, I got transferred to the same office as my hookup. Now I’m living with him while I search for an apartment in a saturated real estate market. Also, he’s still blisteringly hot. Am I the asshole for taking a free room from a guy I hooked up with then left?

  The answer is almost certainly yes. So when Travis and Derek are done eating, I offer to take their plates back to the kitchen.

  A favor that doesn’t make me feel much better about taking a room.

  I return to the living room, but don’t bother to sit again. Instead, I do an exaggerated yawn, then I make my excuses to go to bed. “Long day. See you tomorrow,” I say.

  Travis nods a friendly goodnight. “Catch you in the morning, Chason.” A ch like church. I don’t bother to correct him.

  Derek cuts in. “It’s Chason,” Derek says, pronouncing my name correctly. I expect an eye roll from Travis, to be called Chason like Chasing just to be an asshole, the way some guys in the minors used to. Because ballplayers pick at each other, constantly, sometimes for funny stuff, sometimes for stuff that isn’t as funny. I’ve learned to smile and say it doesn’t bother me, even when it does, because sometimes that escalates. Nice doesn’t pick fights in the clubhouse, even when guys deserve it. Besides, I’m not the only one with a name people can’t seem to wrap their mouths around. Just ask Eugenio Morales on the Gothams. The broadcasters botch it more than they get it right. You learn to just deal with it.

  “Like Hazin’, but the H is in your throat,” Derek adds, maybe for my personal benefit.

  Travis startles, clearly surprised at the correction. “My bad, Chason,” he says to me. He can’t quite manage the ch, a noise that proves tricky for ballplayers despite us all being experts in spitting. But it’s not nothing, especially when Derek gives him an approving nod.

  I murmur a thanks, not looking at Derek. Because his explanation makes something tighten in my chest. I like it—probably too much.

  All the more reason I need my own apartment right away. If I throw my name around, I could get one fast. Tomorrow, I promise myself. I’ll start looking tomorrow.

  7

  Derek

  * * *

  My first thought when big-mouthed Travis offered my spare room to the new guy was Are you fucking kidding me?

  My second thought was about what Adam looks like rolling out of bed first thing in the morning.

  I’m about to find that out.

  I hope I don’t regret it. I bought this place for its view—of the city skyline. And now of Adam, sitting at my kitchen island.

  I’m not all the way awake yet. My “good morning” comes out hoarse.

  For some reason, his cheeks go slightly red.

  I wonder how far down that flush goes. Followed almost immediately by Don’t screw this up.

  Even if Adam probably blushes like he does most things—spectacularly. Which is endearing, and a little entertaining. His shy side makes me want to wind him up. And undo him in bed.

  Not exactly a clubhouse leader thought. I definitely shouldn’t be lusting after the guy living with me temporarily and working with me…for the foreseeable future.

  But lusting after coffee?

  Totally acceptable.

  A cardboard carrying case holding two coffees sits next to him, along with various packets of sugar and cream.

  He nods to the coffee. “Didn’t know how you took it.”

  I suppress the urge to say, Usually pretty enthusiastically. Even without the retort, Adam turns a color Crayola would probably call Mortification Red.

  Guessing he realized how he sounded. A little dirty. I don’t entirely object.

  “Sugar’s good.” I grab two packets, shake them, and dump them into my coffee. We’re not going to make it through the week if we don’t dial down the innuendo. Which I’ll do. Right now. Once I have caffeine. And breakfast. Maybe a workout. Possibly take a shower.

  It’s not entirely on me. Because are we ever going to acknowledge that he flirts his ass off with me—but also ran out of my house in Arizona? I’m not avoiding the riddle of my new roomie. I just don’t know how to solve it. So I’m waiting for a more opportune time.

 

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