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)
Carla has been my guide in getting this far. My Sherpa.
“It feels great,” I say, relieved. “The last few months have been . . .” I think about these recent times with Grant. I haven’t seen him, in person, but I’ve learned everything I needed. “I thought I needed to stick to a plan. To have everything in order. But maybe what I really needed was to know we could be together like this and not lose ourselves,” I tell Carla. “That I could trust myself with his heart because the last thing I want is to hurt him. Maybe I needed to know, too, he could handle baseball and me.”
“That is a lot to handle,” she deadpans.
“It is. But look at him. He’s killing it. He’s amazing on the field, and he’s amazing with me.” I scrub a hand across my jaw. “I’m so damn lucky.”
She smiles, even bigger this time, more pleased. “Seems you’re having a relationship. Maybe even a healthy one?”
I catch myself looking down to hide my smile. But why should I conceal it?
I meet her eyes. “I think so.”
“So, let me turn your questions around. Do you think you’re ready? Do you think you’ve been getting away with murder? Do you think you’re going to backslide?”
For the first time in a year of work, I answer with certainty. “I’m ready. I’m not getting away with murder. And I won’t let myself slide into old habits.”
That night, I head to the game in the Bronx and go on a tear on the diamond as we play the San Francisco Dragons, slamming a three-run homer over the left-field fence that sews up a win for my team.
When I go home to my apartment on Park Avenue, I call Grant. “Know what’s coming up soon?”
“Our day off?”
I smile. “Yep.”
“Can’t wait. I have this charity thing for the Alliance the night before. Reese is doing social media for it, and she found this trendy art gallery in the Marina with a terrific view of the bay. Though, if you were in town, I’d probably skip the silent auction and cuddle up with you.” He clears his throat. “And by cuddle, I mean fuck and cuddle.”
“I know exactly what you mean, and I can’t wait for both the fuck-fest and the cuddle-fest. But the event sounds cool too—the type of thing I’d want to attend with you someday. Go together, hold your hand, kiss you on the cheek.” Those are my couple goals, and I want to reach them.
“We would be so cute. They’d love us,” Grant says.
I laugh. “Poster men for the Alliance, eh?”
“Well . . . if the shoe fits. Too bad you’re only in town one night. The silent auction kicks off a weekend-long carnival the Alliance is doing for teens and local high schoolers.” He tells me more about the carnival and his role, and it sounds like a blast.
“I wish I were there to go with you.”
“Going with you sounds as nice as a cuddle-fest.”
“It does.” I clear my throat and broach a topic I’ve been wanting to talk about for three months. “When I see you, do you want to try to figure out how to do this thing?”
“You mean like long-term?”
“I do mean long-term, Grant. I feel long-term for you. All kinds of long-term,” I say, my heart thrumming.
He hums like I’ve made him so damn happy. “I do want to figure it out. I want to be with you,” he says. He is as serious as I am, and that’s all that matters to me.
We’re on the same page.
If only our circumstances would align a little more.
The next morning, I go for a run in Central Park with Holden, who’s in town for our series with the Dragons. As we round the Reservoir, we catch up on things with his new coach, then life, then dating.
“Are you still all nose to the grindstone, focused only on baseball?” I ask.
“Pretty much. I haven’t seen anyone for the last two years.” Then, he adds like it’s a secret, “Well, except for this one woman.”
“Then, there is someone?”
“Sort of,” he says, as noncommittal as one can get.
Maybe it’s the session yesterday with Carla. Maybe it’s the end of years of uncertainty. But fuck noncommittal.
“Why ‘sort of’?” I demand. “You either know or you don’t know. What’s the story?”
“She was out of the country for a while. It sounds crazy, because I didn’t even know her that well, but now I do, and I think she’s why I didn’t date for two years. Pretty sure in some ways, I was waiting for her to come back.”
I shake my head. “Man, you’ve got a second chance with someone you waited two years for, and you’re only on the sort of path with her?”
“It’s not that simple,” he protests.