“That’s easy. ‘Imagine,’ April 1975. John’s final live performance.”
“Wow.”
That’s right, Heller. Your boy knows his Beatles.
“I can’t believe you said that.”
I reeled back. “What?”
“Clearly, the only correct answer is ‘Strawberry Fields Forever.’”
Holy Ringo, I’m in love.
Before I even had a chance to react—or formulate some kind of clever rebuttal—Brock leaned back and laughed, his shoulders shaking. I had no choice but to laugh along with him.
If I thought arguing with him was fun, laughing with him was even better.
Brock
Roasters 90–51
Ifsomebodyhadtoldme two months ago that come Labor Day, I would be curled up in bed, watchingTop Chefreruns with Johnathan Tucker, I would have spat out my kombucha.
Nonetheless, here I was, clothed only in boxer briefs, nestled against Tucker’s side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like we had been doing this for years.
So much for a casual hookup. There was nothing casual about spooning with the Roasters’ second baseman on a rainy Tuesday morning.
Tucker’s arm rested across my stomach, his breath, steady and calm, fanning the back of my neck. He had dozed off about an hour ago, after an early morning practice and what I was bold enough to admit—at least to myself—was very enthusiastic sex.
I stared at the muted TV screen across the room, pretending I wasn’t memorizing the shape of his hand splayed across my waist, the way his fingers twitched occasionally like he was still gripping a bat. At first glance, Tucker had always seemed like one of those guys who had to be “on”—loud, cocky, the kind of athlete who flirted with the camera and collected first dates like they were baseball cards. And maybe that was who he was to everyone else.
But not here.
With me, he was . . . easy.
Not always, of course. He got grumpy when the team lost, especially since they were only leading their division by a few wins, and anytime the other press pundits hounded him about his less than stellar batting record against left-handed pitchers. Generally speaking, though, Tucker was mature beyond his years.
He listened. Herememberedthings I said, beyond baseball stats and locker room gossip.
Just last week, he’d asked me about my alien romance novel, which he had taken to callingSpace Blue Balls, for obvious reasons. One thing had led to another, and before I’d known it, we had outlined the entire plot on index cards—the most progress I had made in nearly a year. To celebrate, we’d reenacted a few of the spiciest scenes, without the double-pronged alien dong that was.
It was getting harder and harder to convince myself that this thing between us was just fun, a few months of casual hookups, quiet mornings, and making out in the shadows of dugouts and hotel elevators.
Tucker gavegreatelevator.
I wasn’t supposed to feelsafewith him. And I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to feel this—whatever this was. Close. Comfortable.More.
It was that last one that made my stomach churn with both nerves and, dare I say, anticipation?
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I reached for it, careful not to wake him. Melody, my editor.
Melody
Still planning to swing by the office today? I’ve got something big to run by you.
Those words should have been exciting. I’d spent five years grinding out coverage in this city, taking every late-night beat, rain-delay interview, and half-baked locker room quote, just to build a name for myself in the world of sports journalism. And I had. Mission accomplished.
