11. Grant

Losing sucks. But losing and then having to deal with the press afterward sucks more. That especially includes talking to Troy Evans, who looks like he could play the douchey, grizzled white reporter in every sports movie ever. Type cast, actually, since he was the blogger who fanned the flames of rumors that I was being sent down at the end of spring training five years ago.

Dude is a shit-stirrer.

He's one of a handful of reporters in the press room after I'm showered and dressed. The team's publicist, Nikki, is here too, acting like a badass Zoe Saldana.

"How did it feel to play your third All-Star game?" Troy asks with his phone camera in my face. Other players are here too, but he's locked in on me.

"Great," I say.

"Even though you went hitless in this game, as well as your last regular season game?"

I try not to grind my teeth loud enough for the audio to pick up. "Yes, hits do make me feel better."

He clears his throat, shoves his phone even closer, and asks, "Why'd you call such an easy pitch for Declan Steele in his first at-bat?"

My blood goes cold. I try to make my tone frosty too. "Excuse me?"

"Was that a hanging curveball? He's quite adept at hitting those."

"No, he's not?—"

"Oh, so you know what he's good at hitting?"

Is he for real? "I know what everyone's good at hitting," I say, crossing my arms, pushing out a laugh so I don't spit vitriol at him. "That's my job, Troy."

"But Declan hit the second pitch you called out of the park. And the second one for a straight-up single and RBI."

Nikki steps in with a don't-mess-with-my-players voice. "Is there a question for Grant in there, Troy?"

I appreciate the assist, but it is futile. Troy smiles smugly. "My question is this: are you sharing signs with Declan Steele?"

I burn.

Red billows across my vision as I clench my fists.

But I will not let this prick get the better of me. I've had media training. I've dealt with bigger assholes than this guy.

Nikki raises a finger. "That's not a question we're going to entertain."

From his spot leaning against a wall in the briefing room, Crosby swings his gaze over to me. On the other side, Chance takes a step closer. My bros have my back, God love them.

Crosby closes the distance, raising a hand like he's in class. "Oh hey, Troy. I'm friends with Declan. Want to ask me if I share signs with him?"

Chance clears his throat, his big, deep voice booming. "I'm a pitcher. I know all the signs. Want to ask me if I pass them on to Declan or Holden or Gunnar or any other Dragons? Go right ahead."

Troy squares his shoulders. He's not a tough-as-nails blogger for nothing. "Did you share the signs?"

"No," Chance says with a get-the-fuck-out-of-here smile.

Troy turns to Crosby. "And you?"

Crosby shakes his head exaggeratedly.

Troy lifts his chin, unperturbed, then shifts his gaze to me. "Grant, you haven't answered the question."

I burn inside, but clamp my lips shut.

Crosby scoffs. "He's not answering that bullshit question."

Nikki steps in literally this time. "That's enough questions, Troy." She sets a hand on his arm and turns him toward the door. "Kindly exit the room now."

Once he's gone, I press my fingers against the bridge of my nose, tempted for the first time since Declan dumped me five years ago to throw something. Instead, I exhale hard and swallow the words I want to spit out.

I take one deep breath.

Then another.

Then I spin to face the other reporters waiting to talk to me. I hold up a hand, put on my game face, saying, "Excuse me for a moment."

With that, I exit the press room and walk into the adjacent locker room, free of reporters, where I find my way to a private section and slump into a chair. Crosby and Chance follow, taking seats across from me.

"Dude, don't let it get to you," Crosby says. "That guy was a double-decker asshole of the highest order."

"I can't fucking believe he asked that," I mutter, my breath shaky. "I'm so pissed off. So fucking pissed."

"He's a bottom feeder angling for a story," Chance adds. "He knows nothing, and it's all click bait to him."

I stare at my friends, simmering with outrage. "I would never give signs to Declan. Never. You know that, right?"

Crosby holds his hands out wide. "We know, bro."

"We'd never doubt you," Chance seconds.

I drop my head into my hands. "This is just... I don't even know what it is. But I hate it."

"Look, he's the type of reporter who hunts for any hint of a scandal," Chance points out.

"And he's fishing where there's nothing to catch," Crosby declares. "Plain and simple."

Nikki rounds the corner and gives us a report. "Weasel Face Evans was banned from the Cougars' post-game briefing room. Thought you'd want to know." She crouches next to me and asks, "You okay, sweetie?"

"I am. Thanks, Nikki."

I am not fine, but the only person I want to tell exactly how not fine I feel is getting on a plane right now. The desire to vent to Declan, to share every awful second of that interview, is like a drumbeat, loud and insistent. I haven't felt this off-balance since I nearly lost my spot on the roster five years ago.

I could message him, see if his plane has Wi-Fi, maybe get a reply. But he's probably already asleep—it's a long flight and he has a shoot in the morning.

I refuse to look at my phone the whole way to the airport, resisting temptation as I head through security, giving him space to unwind as I walk along the jetway. But when I take my seat on the plane heading home, checking my messages before I power down, a text from Declan flashes on my screen, sent forty-five minutes ago.

Declan:Call me. We need to talk about that interview I just saw on the sports blog.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

Oh, hell no. He can't be doing this to me again.