Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
And my grandma said, “And don’t you dare settle for anything less.”
But this? This whatever-it-is with Declan? This is not a stolen heart. This isn’t anything.
There’s nothing to tell.
Even though I’m dying to speak. I met a guy. He revs my engine. He makes me laugh. He gets me. He’s so easy to talk to. He understands me. We've been through the same things. And I want his yes. But am I supposed to give him mine again?
All of that is stuck in my chest where it belongs.
Instead, I say, “My coach has an addiction to sticky mango rice, Pops. He gets it every night at midnight. I think he gets it because his wife isn’t around.”
My grandfather chuckles. “So, he’s cheating on his diet on spring training. His wife doesn’t know about his secret mango sticky rice addiction. That’s rich.”
We have a laugh, then say goodbye, and I check my phone one more time and find it empty.
A little like how I feel.
Since this feeling is bugging the crap out of me, I return to the hotel, go straight to my room, and flop down on my bed, kicking off my sneakers.
I stare at my phone, tempted to text Declan, but no words seem right.
I have no clue how to navigate this stuff, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing.
Especially when so much is on the line.
My career, my future, my team.
It’s all too much.
I turn off my notifications and crash.
18
Declan
I hit the gym that afternoon, running through those Nautilus machines with Chance.
Or really, next to him.
Music keeps my mind occupied, my headphones playing Nirvana’s “Come as You Are,” then Alice in Chain’s “Would?” before I go to my hair metal bands with Guns N’ Roses.
Which reminds me of someone.
Of soft hair, and five o’clock stubble, and lips so lush I lost my mind. I flick over to “November Rain,” and that’s the dumbest gym decision ever because now I’m replaying last night, remembering how Grant went after me during that tune like I was his meal.
He mauled my lips, and I wanted every second of the kiss attack.
I blink, trying to send the tasty reel to the trash can in my mind.
But even when I switch songs to something newer to vacuum up the memories, to Jordan Davis and Luke Bryan, my thoughts return to Grant and our talk last night. To the way he opened up to me, and how I did the same. To how effortless it was to connect, to tell him my story, and to hear his.
Everything about the man intrigues me, especially his boldness.
And my God, I hope he won’t regret me if he decides to go through with this.
This thing I desperately want.
And there I go, popping wood.
I sit up on the weight bench so my semi is less noticeable and distract myself by firing off a note to Emma. She dragged me to a Guns N’ Roses cover band in college, so my playlist is a perfect entry.
* * *
Declan: Remember Arrows and Daisies?
* * *
Emma: Worst cover band name ever.
* * *
Declan: Could have been Ammo and Lilies.
* * *
Emma: Fine. That might have been worse. Also, it’s funny that you wrote to me.
* * *
Declan: Why’s that?
* * *
Emma: I just bought a peach.
* * *
I laugh then type out a reply.
* * *
Declan: Do you dare to eat it?
* * *
Emma: I did. I ate it. I always take the Eliot dare.
* * *
I laugh over our private poetry jokes, this one courtesy of T.S. Eliot. Emma turned me onto the poet in college when I needed to conquer my fear of public speaking. She was a lifesaver. I wouldn’t have been able to survive those classes without her, and she helped me see my way into T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
As I make my way through the rest of the machines, I let a few lines from the poem play in my head.
* * *
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
* * *
Drawing a deep breath, I ask myself some of the same questions. Not about a peach, but about a person.
Do I dare to tell the rookie that I want to take him up on his offer more than I’ve wanted anything from any man in ages, but the barest chance he’ll regret me eats me alive?
I need to know he’s not just thinking with his dick.
Well, he is.
But I want to know he’s making decisions with his big head, to make sure he’s thought this through.
When I finish my workout, I find one more message from Emma.