“Oh fuck, yes,” he says.

  His excitement trips all my wires.

  It makes me feel proud and aroused at the same time.

  I wrap my hands around his ass, squeeze him, urging him into my mouth, to use me to get off.

  “If you could talk I bet you’d say fuck my face right now,” he says.

  Holy fuck. I would. I shudder and nod my yes.

  “Yeah, I knew you would,” he says, then he delivers. Thrusting in a few quick pumps till he’s coming down my throat.

  Then while he’s still moaning, still panting, he reaches for my hands, pulls me up, and guides me against the wall.

  “Won’t take long,” I whisper, as he wraps a hand around my dick. In no time, I’m losing touch with reality, pleasure taking over, as I come hard in his hand, on his stomach.

  And I love everything about this shower fantasy.

  Far too much.

  12

  Adam

  * * *

  In the morning, my phone rings obnoxiously.

  From the other side of the apartment.

  Oh shit.

  I bolt up, race out of Derek’s bed—I seriously cannot stop sleeping with him—and skid into the kitchen, grabbing my phone from the counter. After we showered last night, I was in the kitchen sending my list to Audrey, then abandoned my phone when Derek was hungry. For round two.

  Me bending him over his bed. We both enjoyed that as much, if not more, than the shower.

  Another ring. I slide the call open fast. “Hey, Audrey.” I keep my voice low since I don’t want to wake Derek.

  “Hi, Adam. Good news,” she chirps, as I pad to the living room, farther away from our—Derek’s—bedroom. “I have a potential place for you.”

  Wait, what? “You do? Already?”

  “Your list was helpful. Thanks for sending it last night. I really appreciate the details. And yes, I have a fantastic three-bedroom, with terrific lighting, a rainfall shower in the main bedroom, and a big kitchen. It’s everything you want,” she says, then rattles off the address.

  It’s…this building’s twin. Literally. It’s owned by the same company. It’s two blocks away.

  Holy shit.

  As she talks, I pop in earbuds and look up the place on my phone. I open the listing and whistle quietly in appreciation. It’s a great apartment.

  “The windows are terrific—you’ll have a great view of Lake Union,” she says as I flick through the pictures.

  The apartment is everything I want.

  With one tiny exception. It’s not this place. Where I am right now. Which is exactly why I have to take it. “How soon can I move in?” I ask even though the question rips at my chest.

  “That’s the best part. It’s vacant. So, how’s today?”

  “Perfect,” I choke out.

  As she shares the details, the sound of footsteps on hardwood floors grows louder. I turn and my breath catches. Derek’s yawning, scratching his hair and I want to freeze time. Sleepy sexy Derek is my new favorite look.

  And this is the last morning I’ll get to see it.

  When Audrey finishes a minute later, I thank her, then hang up. I trudge into the kitchen to the end of the most unexpected and bittersweet romance in my life.

  I shouldn’t be so hung up on him.

  We only spent over a week together. But I’ve never felt so understood. So wanted.

  Yet, everything is happening too soon. The trade, these feelings, moving. Everything. What if I can’t balance it?

  It’s not the first time I’ve tried to do too much. Talia. Derek and I will reach an inevitable end—and then I’ll have to see him every single day at the ballpark.

  “Derek,” I say, his name scraping my throat.

  The guy I like far too much cranes his neck from the fridge. “She found you a place,” he says evenly.

  I blink. How the fuck did he do that? “Did you hear me on the phone?”

  Shaking his head, he gives a sad smile. At least, I think it’s sad. Maybe I just hope it is. “I kind of figured it out from the look on your face,” he says, waving at me.

  It hurts breaking things off with someone I feel like I’ve known for longer than the time we’ve had together.

  “I can move in when I want. It’s two blocks away. And this is wild—it’s basically the same layout. The same place. A sister building,” I say. All the words topple from my mouth at once, and crash land in a mess so I don’t say something I’ll regret. Like I don’t want to leave because I’m falling for you. Or I have to go since I don’t want to get too caught up in you. But you get it, right? Your tattoos say you do. Baseball is your constant. Well, it’s mine too.

  Maybe I don’t have to say anything because he closes the distance, cups my chin and says, “We always knew this was temporary. But it was good while it lasted, Chason.”

  It was great.

  He’d called me Adam last night. I’m back to my last name. To being a teammate, a friend. “Yeah, it was,” I say, trying to play it nonchalant too. “I had fun.”

  “Me too,” he says. His tone is light, though that might just be for my benefit. “And now we’ll get back to work.”

  He lets go of my face, returns to the fridge and grabs the carton of eggs, then sets to work making his breakfast. Saying nothing.

  “Do you want me to get coffee?” I ask awkwardly.

  With his back to me, he shakes his head. “I’m all good.”

  Maybe he’s good. But I’m not. And that—him saying he’s chill, me being a wreck inside—is why I turn around and pack my bags so damn fast.

  13

  Derek

  * * *

  A week or so later, I open the door to my condo after a game.

  I brace myself.

  Every time I’ve walked in here since he left, I’ve been clobbered by a wave of feelings. Missing.

  At least it doesn’t smell like a cabin anymore. Maintenance fixed the leak and hauled away the sodden mattress too.

  So I’ve got my spare bedroom back, complete with an empty bed frame to match the hollowness in my chest.

  Good times.

  I shut the door, flop down on my couch, and grab the remote. I’m not in the mood to watch anything, so I pick up my phone and open my e-reader. I click on a thriller I downloaded the other week. Maybe Axel Huxley’s international tales of intrigue will take my mind off this annoying ache in my heart. His latest book does the trick for a few chapters, the story helping me escape these feelings that aren’t going anywhere.

  Until the moment’s broken by a loud, presumptive knock at my front door. Travis.

  I flash back to the last time he popped by, when Adam was still living—staying—here. Not helpful.

  I shove the memory away as I head to the door, answer it and let Travis in, even though I saw him an hour ago. “Aww, you miss me,” I tease, trying desperately to keep my mood light.

  Since it’s easier than admitting the truth. I needed company tonight. Badly.

  Sure, sometimes it’s annoying how Travis invites himself over and eats his way through my fridge. But he’s a good guy, a solid ballplayer, and I’m grateful that he’s here. I pull out food from the fridge. Rye bread, mustard, pastrami. Adam’s right—the sandwich is better this way.

  My heart twinges once more, and again that’s not helpful—all these reminders of him.

  I force myself to focus on sports. “That was a helluva game tonight,” I say as I toast the bread.

  “Sure was. You’re doing well at second. Man, I can’t imagine having to switch like that.”

  “Because you play first,” I say drily.

  “I believe my bat reflects that, thank you very much.” He puffs out his chest.

  He’s not wrong. He anchors the lineup for a reason. “Yes, it does,” I say, no teasing this time. “And thanks for the compliment.”

  “You played second in the minors?”

  “I did. I guess I didn’t forget it all,” I say as I spread mustard on the bread. Truthfully, switching to second is working partly because my best skill might be adaptability. Bumping back and forth between my parents’ houses as a kid, spending some nights alone, hiding under the covers with the dog when the shouting got to be too much—I had to adapt.

  Which is what I’ve had to do on the diamond. When I finish making the sandwich, I slide it in front of Travis. “One pastrami for you,” I say.

  He smiles, takes a bite, then swipes the mustard off his mouth. “Dude. This is the Adam-style,” he says.

  And it’s like a punch in the gut.

  Like I don’t have enough reminders of the guy at the park.

  “Yes,” I say tensely.

  “Should we bring him one? At his new place? It’s not far.”

  I do want to see his place. But I’m sure I’d like the lighting too much for my own good.

  I make a show of yawning. “I’m gonna crash soon. But feel free,” I say, then turn, so he can’t see the longing on my face.

  Days snap back to their pre-Adam rhythm over the next several weeks. I go to the ballpark. I play. We’re playing good baseball, maybe better than we have in years. Adam’s no different in the clubhouse—quiet, thoughtful—or on the field, where all his shyness seems to melt away.

  Missing someone you see every day is great. Said no one ever.

  What’s actually great is that it’s been several weeks since my last fielding error. In the seventh, Adam lobs a grounder to me and we turn a flawless double play. He flashes a smile. “Looking good,” he says as we head off the field.

  I smile too, wishing I felt it entirely.

  But I do feel better when I reach the dugout and Becker claps me on the back. “You’re taking to second like a natural, Miller,” he says. From him, that’s high praise.

  “Thanks, Skip.”

  There’s that, at least. My game has improved. I’ve handled this transition. I’ve adapted. I’ve needed to do it so I have. That’s what I fucking do.

  Maybe I needed to get Adam out of my home.

  Maybe I need to keep focusing on the game—and not on the way I feel when I return to my condo and I’m alone again.

  14

  Adam

  * * *

  My new apartment is great. Plenty of light, but not so much glare it wakes me. Neighbors who don’t seem concerned that I’m going to throw wild parties—but to be fair, I’m not. It also allows for dogs up to sixty pounds so I spend a lot of time looking at listings from a local shelter, even though having a dog and being on the road will be tough. But a man can dream.

  And I do since this place is great. Really.

  Except for the mattress I bought online, which is either too hard or too soft. Or maybe the problem with my bed is that it doesn’t have Derek in it.

  At least we’re on the road half the time, the grind of the baseball season a welcome distraction from the conspicuous distance between Derek and me. Guys notice—Travis attempts something like a heart-to-heart on a flight to Houston that I manage to mostly avoid.

  It’s harder to avoid Angelides, our catcher, who approaches the empty seat next to mine on the plane ride back, giving me a grunted “Anyone sitting here?” and not waiting for an answer before dropping down.

  We haven’t interacted that much since the trade—he’s usually got a cloud of anger around him that matches any slate-y Seattle day, though he’s easy enough to work with on the field.

  I wait for him to say what he wants—maybe to talk about fielding. Maybe his usual seat was just taken.

  “You good?” he asks, eventually, a question that can encompass a lot.

  “Do I seem not good?”

  A shrug of one of his thick shoulders. Then a patient silence.

  I study the airport tarmac out the window, shimmering with mid-summer heat.

  Angelides doesn’t say anything. The silence is growing awkward, probably purposefully.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say.

  “If something’s going on in the clubhouse or off the field”—Angelides makes a hand gesture that could encapsulate a lot of things—“better to deal with it directly than let it go.”

  Said like he knows that from experience.

  “Stuff can get complicated,” I say. There. Nice and vague.

  “And sometimes guys pretend to be cool about stuff they’re not actually cool with,” Angelides counters.

  Busted. But this isn’t just my business to tell. And the stuff with Derek—I’ll get over it.

  “Thanks, man,” I manage. “I’ll give that some thought.”

  Angelides nods. For a second, I worry he’s going to press the point. Instead he gets up, then claims an empty row nearby, leaning against the plane window. A brief expression passes over his face—eyes scrunched shut momentarily as if in regret—before he settles in to sleep.

  I have the rest of the plane ride to think about the situation with Derek. I’m sure we’ll return to being real friends, instead of two guys making small talk. For now everything between us feels too recent, too fresh.

  Like when we land and go our separate ways at the airport. I wish I were hopping into his car to head to his place. Instead, I go to mine.

  Eventually, once I have furniture and my apartment looks like a human being—or at least a ballplayer—lives in it, my parents demand a tour.

  “So, let us see the place,” my mother says, when I FaceTime them one morning in August.

  I point my phone camera at the sparkling clean countertops in the kitchen. They’re pristine because I’ve mostly been eating team-provided food and I haven’t been making late-night sandwiches.

  Then I show them the couch where I’ve been occupying the middle cushion because there’s no one else to sit on it. The windows admitting the late morning Seattle light.

  “It has a pretty good view,” I say, and hold up the camera so they can see the city—or possibly just the glare off the windows. Maybe Derek’s looking at the same view. Which is too melodramatic a thought for eleven in the morning, when we’ll see each other in a few short hours.

  “Not too much light?” my dad asks. Because they know I usually sleep until midmorning.

  “No,” I say, “the lighting’s perfect.” My throat goes faintly scratchy. I know why and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “And you’re liking Seattle?” my mom asks.

  My throat goes even tighter. “Seattle’s great. Really. Everything’s going better than I expected.”

  When I put it that way, it doesn’t even sound like a lie.

  A few days later, my mattress situation shifts from an inconvenience to an actual problem when I wake up with a twinge in my back. The discomfort lasts through a shower, my drive to the ballpark on my truck’s heated seat, and through a trainer’s rubdown. There’s no way I’ll sit out a game with a mattress-related injury, so I ask the trainer to slap a lidocaine patch on it, then go out to the field.

  Derek’s running fielding drills with Travis and Angelides, who’s practicing recovering balls out of the dirt and winging them to second base. For a while, I just watch. There’s a harmony to the game that makes it peaceful, especially on a day like today, the stadium roof open but the weather otherwise cool.

  Derek looks good at second base. Even among guys who are natural athletes, he’s particularly willing to try stuff again and again until he gets it right.

  Except…

  But no, it’s not fair to blame him for us not being together. It’s a decision I made and he agreed with. A mature one. The right one, except it twinges the way my back does—a pang that’s becoming increasingly impossible to ignore.

  At the end of the day, we still play on the same team. We still need to work together, to be friends and teammates.

  “Hey, Chason,” Derek yells from the field, “you gonna come out here or are you gonna stand on the sidelines?” A cheerful ask, punctuated by the bright flash of his smile.

  I gesture to my back, which feels better but not completely relaxed. “Just got worked on.”

  Derek’s demeanor immediately goes from playful to clubhouse leader. He waves to Angelides, then comes over to me. “You okay?” Derek asks, looking a little over-concerned given that I only have a sore back.

  “Just slept on it funny.”

  Travis cracks up from where he’s standing on first base. “How do you get hurt sleeping?”

  Derek’s eyes narrow skeptically. “You sure?” he asks with such legitimate concern that my heart squeezes.

  “For real,” I say, reassuring him, “I got this mattress from some place online and it turns out I probably should have gone shopping at an actual store. There’s a lump or something.”

  A totally normal ballpark conversation. Except that I know Derek’s bed is ridiculously comfortable because I’ve slept in it. “You should get a better bed,” he says.

  Don’t I know it.

  He’s about to say something more, but I keep going. “Don’t worry. I’m working on it.” And don’t say that I’m also working on a lot of stuff.

  Like how to get over him.

  15

  Derek

  * * *

  I can’t stop thinking about Adam’s bed as I get ready for our game that night.

  Or my own for that matter.

  How I haven’t replaced the damaged one in my spare room, even though I need to. I’ve been researching mattresses in my spare time. Who knew there were so many options? There’s organic, cotton, latex foam and on and on.

  I never planned to devote so much attention to bedding, but I’m in the market too.

  That’s what I wanted to say when he cut me off.

  But I can read between the lines. Adam needs to concentrate on himself, his new home, his family, baseball.

  It’s all good. I’m doing the same.

  Well, not family. But…friends and baseball, which both feel like family.

 

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