“It is,” I admitted, voice quieter than I meant it to be.
He reached across the table, brushing his fingers against mine. “Well, for what it’s worth,Ithink you’re kind of incredible. And not just because of your job or fuckable mouth.”
“Yeah?” I asked, voice catching a little.
He smiled, soft and crooked. “Yeah. Brock, you . . .”
To my surprise, a flush crept up his cheeks—subtle but unmistakable. Tucker, always so bold and unshakable, was blushing, and for a moment, it disarmed me more than anything he’d said.
“You could be writing box scores or hard-hitting political exposés or gay alien romance—I’d still think you’re the best part of my day.”
That did it.
Something shifted in me then—the wall I had built out of instinct and habit had finally,finallystarted to give.
And in the quiet that followed, I realized I wasn’t afraid of needing someone anymore.
Not someone.
Tucker.
I reached for his hand this time, lacing our fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. And just like that, the decision I’d been dreading all day didn’t feel so impossible anymore.
Tucker
Division Series: Roasters 2–0
Itwasofficial,thiswould go down in history as the longest travel day of my career. When some unsuspecting baseball scholar sat down to write my biography, which would, eventually, be turned into a musical or made for television movie; either was fine by me—they would ask me about this day, and I would tell them it smelled like sweaty ass.
More so than usual, too.
It made no difference that all of us had showered before we’d left Austin. A last-minute gate change had led to us sprinting through the airport to make our flight. As if that wasn’t bad enough, we had been rerouted to Vegas for a fourfuckinghour layover that then took us to Seattle rather than Portland.
We were finally on the last leg of our trip, a chartered coach back that would drop us off outside the Roasters’ facilities. Rose City was still a good twenty minutes away, but I could practically taste the late-night nachos calling my name.
I rested my forehead against the cool glass and let my thoughts drift—not to our back-to-back wins or the fact that we were one game away from advancing to the next round of the playoffs—but to the man who was, hopefully, waiting for me when I got home. The one I had fallen head over ass for.
And Brock gave good assandhead.
Something had shifted in our (gulp) relationship the day he’d told me about his dad, almost as if it were the final piece of the puzzle that was Brock Heller. That had been the day I’d seen the real him,allof him—raw, hurting, brave. Ever since, I’d been thinking less about sneaking around and more about what it would feel like to hold his hand in public.
To claim his as mine.
And then somewhere between Vegas and Seattle, I’d decided that tonight was the night—it was time for me to lay all my cards on the table and tell Brock how I really felt.
A low snore came from the seat behind me. Roman. He was the only person I knew who could sleep anywhere, anytime, and still look like he’d walked out of aGQspread when he woke up.
I reached across the aisle and nudged his side with the back of my hand.
“Sleeping Beauty,” I whispered. “You awake?”
He cracked one eye open. “I am now, asshole.”
“We’ll be there in a few minutes.”
He yawned, stretched, then turned in his seat to face me. “Do you still want to crash at Sinclair’s?”
“Actually, there’s something I should tell you.”
