Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
* * *
Grant: It’s Apollo and . . . wait . . . let’s give him a new name since that story has the “November Rain” problem too.
* * *
Seconds later, he replies.
* * *
Declan: Apollo and T.S. Eliot?
* * *
Grant: Done. I’ve renamed them.
* * *
Declan: I always suspected you were a revisionist heron historian.
* * *
Grant: Speaking of Eliot, I read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. You told me it was your favorite.
* * *
Declan: And do you hate it like “November Rain”? It’s got some mixed messages in it too, I admit.
* * *
Grant: I don’t hate “November Rain.” I like the song, but not the sentiment. I like Prufrock. But I DID think this line could use some improvement. Do I dare to eat a peach?
* * *
Declan: I’ll bite. What would you change it to?
* * *
Grant: Do I dare to suck a cock?
* * *
Declan: Has anyone ever told you that you have the dirty mind of a twelve-year-old?
* * *
Grant: Dear God, I hope no twelve-year-old has my mind. It’s an X-rated carnival in my head sometimes.
* * *
Declan: What sort of games and rides are open at the Grant Blackwood Wonderland?
* * *
Grant: The Steel Rod Rub-Off Intimidator. The Down-and-Dirty-Rim-Job Merry-Go-Round. The Suck-Me-Off-In-the-Sky Ferris Wheel. The Great Double-Banger. The Flip-Fuck Fiesta. The Hot, Hidden Hand Job Tilt-A-Whirl. Oh, and the Sixty-Nine Simultaneous Jizzer.
* * *
Declan: You. Win. The. Text. Messages. Forever.
* * *
Grant: Thank you very much. Step right up and get your tickets. Don’t be shy.
* * *
Declan: I’ll take an all-access pass, please. Every ride. All day long.
* * *
Grant: I had a feeling you’d be buying a party pack.
* * *
Declan: I’m going to ride all your rides.
* * *
Grant: First choice?
* * *
Declan: That’s cruel. How can I pick? But if I have to, I’ve got a reel playing in my head of you and me sixty-nining.
* * *
Grant: It’s like we share a dirty brain sometimes.
* * *
Declan: Why not? We share plenty of other organs.
* * *
Grant: By the way, do you see how I’m running solo? I’d suggest you do the same. As in, you better not find a new workout partner when you go to Tampa.
* * *
He sends me back a gif of Robert Downey Jr. rolling his eyes.
* * *
Grant: I definitely deserved that.
* * *
Declan: You did.
* * *
I return to my audio book as I run, a smile sneaking across my face at the realization that not once have I wanted to throw my phone at the wall. I definitely don’t want to chuck it a few mornings later when I wake up to a hilariously adorable text from my favorite Comet.
* * *
Declan: Question. What does one wear clubbing?
* * *
Laughing, I write back.
* * *
Grant: Dude, are you planning your outfit for a date three months—no, more than three months from now?
* * *
Declan: Evidently.
* * *
Grant: I love it! You keep that up and you’ll be upgraded to the Platinum Gay Card in no time.
* * *
That earns me another eye-rolling gif. I reply with my best fashion tip.
* * *
Grant: Honestly, I want to grind against you no matter what you’ve got on. But jeans and a tight shirt that show off your smoking hot bod are enough for me. Why are you asking?
* * *
Declan: Just figuring I’ll need to work through my dancing issues in therapy too. Might as well get started now.
* * *
I crack up, loving this new self-deprecating side of him. Most of all, I love that he’s showing it to me.
* * *
Grant: For the record, I can’t wait to go dancing with you. And if dancing isn’t your thing, I’ll lead. All you’ll have to do is just move with me. I’ll make it nice and easy.
* * *
Declan: It’s not my thing, but I do want to go with you. I can tell it’ll make you happy.
* * *
Grant: It will make me so happy to dance with you.
* * *
Declan: That is all I need to know. I’m there.
* * *
A few days later, the position players arrive for training. Once the whole team is here, we convince the rookies that Crosby can do the triple lift. Sullivan, Miguel, Chance, and I cover them in ketchup and baby powder, and for the first time in six years I don’t feel a pang in my heart during this ritual.
Our manager appears, parks his hands on his hips, and laughs his ass off. “All right, gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, get your asses to work. Rookies, hit the showers.”
The rookies rush to the locker room while the troublemakers among us head to the dugout to put our condiment weapons away.
“Remember when that was us?” Sullivan asks.