If there ever is one. “Thanks for the coffee,” I eke out. Kinda sucked when you pulled your pants on and left last time, I don’t say. Even if it was just a hookup. At least he was honest about it. I have no reason to feel this way, other than that I do. It’d be easier if he was an asshole. But Adam is actually this nice.

  “No problem.” Adam takes another sip of coffee, then clears his throat. “I was thinking about looking at some apartments later.”

  Oh. I hide my surprise with another drink. I wasn’t expecting him to take off so soon. But that’s his style. Too bad, since I want him gone for my sanity, I also kind of don’t. This place is empty without someone else, ever since my last roommate, who was one of our relief pitchers, got traded in the Pilots’ endless revolving door of players. Hearing Adam rustling around last night was nice. There’s something oddly comforting about the low sound of the TV from another room, especially when that sound doesn’t escalate.

  “Where are you looking? Need any tips?” I ask. At least I can be helpful. He doesn’t need to know I like the quiet company, especially since he’s already got one foot out the door.

  “Here.” Adam thrusts his phone at me, as if to prove he’s looking at listings. On it, a Zillow page. “What do you think?”

  I take his phone, reading through the description of an apartment within an easy drive to the ballpark. Two bedrooms. A doorman. A state-of-the-art gym with an Olympic-sized pool. “Looks perfect.” My lack of enthusiasm must show because he raises his very nice eyebrows in question. How are his eyebrows that attractive? Truly, I must be under-caffeinated.

  “I was going to check it out tomorrow,” he says. “If you wanted to come, that’d be cool.” A small smile with that, one that I find more persuasive than I should. He’s your teammate. He left the night you sucked him off. And he might be taking your roster spot. My muscles tighten. There—that’s the resentment I should be feeling.

  “Tomorrow sounds great,” I manage. Because the sooner he’s out of here the sooner I can get back to normal. Nights alone. No one to bug me. Or lie to me about what he’s up to. Perfectly alone. Which is definitely what I want.

  We navigate the rest of the morning with limited contact. Adam goes to his room and I retreat to mine. He leaves the door open, even during a phone conversation: a call to his parents from the sound of it. They’re talking about the trade, and he classifies me as a buddy from the team who let me stay with him.

  I can’t imagine calling my parents or stepparents. Certainly not having a long conversation with them. The last time I spoke with them was…Christmas, maybe. Shit, that was six months ago. I should probably set a reminder to check in every few months to make sure everyone’s still all right. Or as all right as they get.

  At least this year no one from the team bugged me about whether my dad would be coming on the annual “dads” trip for Father’s Day, where all the dads, uncles, and grandpas travel with the team. If I get traded somewhere else, I’ll have to go through telling the front office all over again. Yay.

  Adam steps out of his room just as I’m getting ready to head to the ballpark. “I was talking to my parents,” he says. “They wanted to know when they can come see me play.”

  I know that’s a thing parents do, but it always comes with a certain level of surprise. “Do they come to your games a lot?” I ask as I gather my wallet and phone from the living room.

  He shrugs, but smiles. “As much as they can.”

  And he likes it. “Bet they cheer the loudest. Wave signs and all that.”

  He scratches his jaw, a little embarrassed. “Yes. That obvious?”

  I hold up a thumb and forefinger. “Just a little. That’s nice though. At least, it sounds like it is.”

  “I don’t mind it,” he says. The spark in his brown eyes says he not only doesn’t mind it. He likes it.

  I nod to the door, so we can take off. “So you really are Mister Wholesome?” Maybe teasing him will take my mind off my resentment.

  He narrows his eyes. “I’m trying to be.”

  “You sure about that?” I prod.

  His smile falters. He locks eyes with me, chin up. “Positive.”

  I swallow. I should stop. Truly, I should. There are a million reasons why messing around with Adam is a bad idea.

  Starting with reason number one. We play the same fucking position. Doesn’t take a genius to know what’s coming next.

  Once I reach the ballpark, our manager, Becker, calls me into his office.

  “What’s up, Skip?” I ask when I step inside.

  “So, Miller, here’s the thing,” Becker begins, in his grizzled voice, looking like he’s about to deliver the anvil drop I’ve been waiting for since Adam’s trade was announced, trying to formulate whatever words will soften the blow.

  My gut twists. I wish this weren’t coming, but I pride myself on being a realist. I know the game too well to miss the signs—namely, how Adam’s playing well. And how I’ve been playing well enough. I decide to make it easy on Becker. “Let me guess—you’re moving me.” I try to keep how I’m feeling out of my tone, though some must leak through.

  “Second base,” he confirms. “It could be temporary.” Though he says it in a way that means it probably isn’t.

  Great. Fucking fantastic. Turns out losing your spot sucks even when you see it coming. “Understood,” I say, trying to take the news like a champ.

  “You’ve played second before,” Becker points out like that softens the blow. Which I have, though not since the minors. “We figured it’d give you some time to focus on your offense.” A reminder that I’m having a down year, even if my “down” is better than a good chunk of the league.

  “Yep,” I say tightly, “got it.” I grit my teeth, but try to shake off the annoyance as I trot out to the field. Maybe the sunlight will burn off some of my irritation. When I reach the diamond, Adam’s taking ground ball practice.

  That’s annoying too.

  If he looked good sitting in my kitchen earlier, he looks even better now, throwing while wearing a pair of baseball pants and a team T-shirt that shows off his toned body. When Adam spots me, he flashes me a grin, then scoops up the ball the coach sends to him like it’s no harder than breathing. “Hey, Miller,” he calls, “get out here.”

  I do, jogging out with a glove. The team’s been patchwork about who’s been playing second this year, so at least I’m not taking anyone’s permanent spot.

  “You up for practicing double plays?” he asks, as if he can tell I’m irritated about getting moved.

  He doesn’t press me when I just nod. I’m grateful for that.

  Grateful too that he doesn’t make a thing of it. He just wants to play ball. I know that feeling well. Baseball—it’s reliable when nothing else is.

  It does the trick today, loosening up the tension running up my back. I hope it works on some of the tension between us. I’ll get over this. I always do. Doesn’t hurt that Adam’s too damn nice to be mad at. Too bad I like that about him.

  Our first base coach hits balls to Adam, who turns, tossing them to me, and I throw on to Travis, who’s set up at first. Hit-toss-catch-throw, hit-toss-catch-throw. Easy, the way the rest of the day hasn’t been. Easier when Adam yells, “Good hands,” after a particularly nice turn.

  As I scoop the ball, and toss it his way, I serve the compliment back to him. “Same to you, Chason,” I say.

  And he gets a flush to his cheeks that has nothing to do with the grim Seattle weather.

  Another reminder of that night.

  He fights off a smile, but I can tell where his mind went.

  I told myself I wouldn’t linger on one quick hookup, but the way he acts around me—curious, flirty, and, let’s be honest, really fucking interested makes me wonder if I was wrong about why he left.

  Maybe he wasn’t racing away from me.

  Maybe he was running from whatever was happening in his life.

  I might be reading something into nothing, but my instincts tell me Adam Chason thinks more about the night of the fundraiser than he ever expected.

  And my instincts are rarely wrong.

  But that doesn’t mean I should act on them. I definitely shouldn’t.

  When we wrap up, Adam collects some of the balls littering the infield; I stay, gathering them up too. We’re the only ones in earshot, the rest of the team having gone in to change for batting practice.

  “Derek,” he says, after a minute, softly, personally, getting my attention, “I didn’t mean to displace you at short.”

  Something he doesn’t have to say, but that deflates what remains of my previous temper. “It wasn’t your decision.”

  “That’s gotta be shitty, right? Guy comes in and takes your spot,” Adam says. I can tell he legit feels bad.

  “That’s baseball. It’s how it works,” I say, trying to let him off the hook. “You wanna make it up to me?” I don’t mean it sexually, but once the words make landfall, it’s hard to hear them any other way.

  Adam turns the same red he did this morning. A color I want to replicate, not on a baseball diamond, even if he’s currently kneeling in the dirt. He looks my way, holding my gaze. His eyes glimmer with heat, the way they did that night. His desire flashes like a scoreboard in them. This is not the time and place. Yet, I can’t resist teasing him. “If you really want to, that is,” I add, and I don’t bother to conceal the innuendo this time.

  He breathes out hard. “I guess I owe you one.”

  Maybe he also regrets running off that night.

  He bites the corner of his lips, and I stifle a groan. That look. That mouth. Everything about the last twenty-four hours makes me want to see if he looks just as good kneeling on my hard condo flooring. To do a lot more than that, none of which I should be thinking about in the middle infield.

  “Maybe more than one,” I say.

  And I could be imagining his smirk as I jog off the field—but pretty sure I’m not.

  8

  Adam

  * * *

  Things I should do over the next few days—look for apartments.

  Things I don’t do—look for apartments.

  In my defense, Derek’s extra bed is really comfortable. I sleep better than I have in ages. Also, the coffee from the place around the corner is excellent.

  I bang out a few emails to realtors, so points to me for trying.

  Derek and I fall into a routine for the rest of our homestand. I get him coffee, we go to the park, we play ball.

  And at night, Travis shows up, parking himself between us on the couch. Maybe his cockblocking ways are for the best. I don’t trust myself to sit too close to Derek. But I truly don’t have time to look for a place, because we take off for our series in Oakland against the Elephants. As I board the team jet, Audrey, one of the realtors I’ve messaged, pings me back. I’d love to help you find a place. Thanks for sending over your must-haves. I’m assembling a list of available properties.

  She sends me times for an appointment. The first time that aligns is a day after our away series.

  Which gives me a few more nights at Derek’s condo.

  Which I am enjoying far too much. Especially the shower. It’s far enough away from him that when I blast some music, and take a long, hot shower, he can’t hear me saying his name as I come.

  We finish the series against the Oakland Elephants on Wednesday night, a game chilly enough I spend my time in the dugout warming my hands over a space heater. Alex Angelides, our catcher, is standing at the railing; he gives a slightly derisive snort as I rub my palms.

  “How are you not freezing?” I ask.

  “It’s in the high fifties. Practically bathing suit weather.” Because he’s from New England—built broad and square, if a head shorter than most other guys in the dugout—he has opinions about the rest of us enduring the cold. Namely, that West Coast weather is warm and we’re all wimps.

  Who cares though, because Derek and I turn double plays like we’ve been doing it for years. One off a line drive I field from my knees, into the waiting cup of his glove. Another where he makes a diving grab, then flips it to me in a no-look throw at second before I send it on to first. I offer a hand up, a congratulatory whack of my glove against his ass as we walk off the field.

  “Maybe you should be playing at short,” I say then instantly regret it. Derek’s been cool about this whole thing—cooler than I would have been if someone tried to take my spot in St. Louis—but I shouldn’t make light of it either.

  “Nah,” he says breezily, “it’s all yours.”

  No wonder he’s a clubhouse leader. He called me nice but he’s the one who has such a knack for what others need—a helpful word, a pat on the back, a smile, a joke, a serious piece of advice. I’m not sure who does that for him. Maybe no one. Note to self: Move up that appointment with Audrey or you’ll be sending heart emojis to your roomie. Maybe I already am.

  “I might want some reps at second,” I say. My contract is up at the end of the year. Going into free agency with slightly more defensive versatility wouldn’t be bad. If it means us working together, well…I don’t hate that either.

  He smiles. “You looking to switch it up?” Asked with an undercurrent I shouldn’t be thinking about when I should be focused on my next at-bat. Or, really, thinking about during the game at all. “Definitely,” I answer. I’m not talking about baseball positions though.

  “Positional flexibility is really important,” he says, solemnly, like ice wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Except for his faint smirk. So he’s not talking about baseball either.

  We descend the dugout steps. I’m grateful for the chatty press of our teammates. I can’t risk looking at him. Not when what I’m thinking is as obvious as the logo on my hat. I want you. All the things I can’t say. “Agreed,” I say, belatedly.

  He draws an audible breath. “Good to know, Chason.”

  “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  And we’ve negotiated one of the most awkward and essential convos two guys need to have. Even though we can’t do a thing about it.

  Still, the good mood lasts as we change for the flight, load the bus to the airport, then ourselves onto the team jet. I answer my agent’s texts as we wait for take-off.

  * * *

  Maddox: Tell me things. Is Seattle treating you right? Your stats seem to say so.

  * * *

  Adam: Can’t complain.

  * * *

  Maddox: You never do. But seriously? Everything okay? Need help with anything? How’s the living situation?

  * * *

  I turn toward the window, angling the phone so no one can see. He’s not just my agent. He’s a friend, so I write back with a little…hint.

  * * *

  Adam: Better than I expected. A lot.

  * * *

  Maddox: There’s a story there, Adam. You’ll tell me when I take you out to dinner next time I’m in town.

  * * *

  Adam: Maybe I will.

  * * *

  Even though I can’t. Not the whole story. Right now, this hazy, warm feeling lasts through the flight and for the drive home to Derek’s place. The easy vibe carries us up the elevator as we chat about the next series, down the hall as we talk about favorite players from years ago, to his front door as he slides in the key.

  We’re barely in the front hallway when he says, “You hear that?”

  A telltale noise. A drip-drip-drip. Water.

  We check the place, starting with the bathroom, and find nothing: no overflowing faucet or a running toilet. No issues in Derek’s bedroom. I haven’t been in here much, but it’s as neat as always, homey with a big bed and a soft gray comforter.

  Which means the noise must be coming from—fuck. My room.

  When I walk in, the room looks okay, except for the center of the bed, which is soaked. Water drips steadily from the light fixture above it, leaving a splotch on the bedspread.

  Great. Just what I want to come home to. Home, a word I’m not unpacking right now. And I feel bad that it’s my room causing problems. “Sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” Derek says, lightly. “I’ll hit the breaker.”

  He leaves. A second later, there’s a flicker, then the lights in the bedroom and bathroom power off. He returns, holding a pile of towels.

  The bed makes a vague squelching noise as we strip it down. “What do you think did it?” I ask as I peel back the sodden sheets and toss them in the laundry basket.

  “You’re obviously cursed,” he teases.

  “Shut up,” I say, smiling.

  “I mean, seriously, you didn’t need to apologize for a leak,” he says. “Unless you planned it.”

  “Yep, you caught me.” This must have been going on for a while, because the room smells vaguely mildewed. “For real, what do you think caused it?”

  He shrugs. “Leaky pipe. Maybe the lady upstairs took one of those self-care baths and left the faucet running.”

  “Self-care bath?” I ask, because I’m sure he doesn’t mean what I’m thinking.

  Maybe he does because he laughs. “You know, candles, glass of wine, that kind of thing. I’m more of a shower guy.”

  I’d like to see his self-care in the shower.

  “Yeah, big fan of showers myself too,” I deadpan. Because as ballplayers we take an almost excessive number per day.

  “I meant long ones, Chason.” He smirks. “There’s a rainfall fixture in mine if you ever want to check it out.”

  Which sounds like…an invitation.

  “Anyway,” he says, “I’ll call maintenance in the morning.”

  I press my palm against the bed. It squishes. Yuck. “Mattress looks pretty well done for.”

  Derek presses his hand down too and cringes as water wells up. “This is not self-care.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10