13. Grant

I dread opening my social media in the morning. I bet there will be a flood of retweets and shares of Troy's post-game interview ambush.

But a quick scan of my feeds brings a small smile and a measure of comfort. Most of the mentions are support from my fans. Plenty of eye-rolling gifs comments on the reporter's video clip, and a hashtag picks up steam—#isharesigns—with fans suggesting the most preposterous ways they'd steal signs and share them with their team.

I hit like on many of their posts.

But even so, I'm going to need a hard workout and a long run to get Troy's spurious report from my head.

My usual four miles isn't enough, so I jog across the Golden Gate Bridge, drinking in the view of the Pacific Ocean and the cargo ships cruising by.

Eventually, I evict the bottom-feeder from my brain and head home to shower, then walk to Doctor Insomnia's Tea and Coffee Emporium to meet Owen and River.

"Have a London Fog latte," Owen suggests when I find the two of them at a table in the back corner.

"A London Fog latte after a run?" River asks, arching a brow at his friend.

"There is never a bad time for a London Fog latte," Owen declares.

When I first met the Dragons social media manager at a PR strategy lunch two months ago with Nikki and Declan, it was all I could do not to blurt, Wait. You're THE Owen?

River had often mentioned his college friend Owen, then it turns out he works for Declan's team. Small world. Now, River and Owen both sometimes join me at Alliance events.

"No, a London Fog latte is good at three p.m. with a cookie," River says to Owen. I might as well not be here, but on the plus side, it lessens the burden of conversation.

Owen rolls his blue eyes at River's latest opinion. "You're so rigid."

River winks. "That's what he said."

I give my California surfer dude friend a suspicious look, then cast a similar one to Owen. "Did I interrupt something with you two? I can come back when you're done flirting."

"Please, we're not flirting," Owen says in the biggest denial of all time.

"Tell that to the judge," I say, plopping down in a chair.

"We just don't always see eye-to-eye," Owen adds, gesturing from River to himself.

"Gee, that sounds like the recipe for a snarky rom-com," River teases.

"And that sounds like something I'd like to watch. But anyway"—Owen turns to me—"what do you need? What can I get you? I'd offer up a voodoo doll of a certain reporter, but I think the best revenge is to live well, so I say put him out of your mind."

I heave a sigh, wishing I'd had a chance to talk to Declan this morning, especially given the barrage of media mentions. But he'd already left for his shoot, and now he's out of pocket all day. "I'm just gonna grab an iced coffee," I say, pushing back in my chair. "And I agree—let's forget the weasel face. Put him behind us."

"Excellent plan. And I'll get your iced coffee. I insist," Owen offers and heads to the counter when I say thanks.

"I want someone to do my bidding like that," River says with a pout. "If only I were an important, multimillion-dollar athlete dating a hottie in Owen's ball club. Clearly, I missed an opportunity."

"It's never too late to change careers. Do you have any athletic talents to work with?"

River strokes his bearded chin, considering. "I'm very, very good on my knees. Does that count?" he asks, all doe-eyed and innocent.

Laughing, I toss a glance at the counter. "When you say things like that, do you really expect me to believe you're not flirting with Owen?"

"I said that to you. Not him."

"But it was kind of about Owen," I point out.

"Nah. That was just about... well, about me." He taps his chest. "Me and my prowess."

"I bet Owen would like to know more about your prowess. Since he's flirty AF with you too."

River knits his brow. "What?"

"You don't see it? The way you two zing each other?"

"Do I zing Owen? Because that sounds steamy. Is that a new BJ technique?" River sweeps his arm out wide, adopting a megaphone voice. "Learn the zing technique and you'll wow your partner with your tongue."

Shoes click on the floor.

"The zing technique? Tell me more." Owen sinks into a chair, flutters his lashes, and waits like a cat playing with its kill.

"Want me to leave? Give you two some privacy?" I offer, even though I'm going nowhere. Watching these two is better than watching James Bond.

Owen slides the iced coffee to me. "Don't leave, Grant. We must learn about this zing technique from River."

I shake my head. "We? I don't think so. I'm already an all-star in the BJ department. There's nothing wrong with my technique for giving head." I furrow my brow. "Although, on second thought, there's always room to learn, and it's good to keep things fresh. Tell me more."

"Then we should invent the zing technique, market it, and make a mint," River says airily, recovering from his caught-in-the-headlights moment.

"Yes, let's do that," Owen seconds.

I shake my head, amused. "Like I said, you two flirt so much I want to say here's a condom, get a room."

"We've always been like this," Owen says, offhand.

"This flirty?" I ask.

River jumps in. "Friendly! We're friendly. Hello?" River motions from Owen to him and back. "Remember? Owen and I have a friends-only pact."

"And I am not a pact breaker," Owen puts in seriously.

I spread my arms out wide. "Then it's solved. You two will never zing each other. Meanwhile I'm going to invent this new blow job technique and drive my man crazy with it." I sip my iced coffee as I picture zinging Declan when he returns home later this week, and before long, I can hardly remember Troy Whatshis name.

River, Owen, and I head together to the nearby Alliance, where the three of us tuck into comfy couches and join a group of teens in an epic trivia battle. My crew is victorious, and I smack palms with Jason, a quarterback at a local high school.

"We rock," he declares. This kid has become worlds more outgoing and confident since he got involved with the organization only a few weeks ago.

"It's hard to beat such talent," I gloat.

As we clean up, Jason clears his throat. "Do you have a minute to talk?" he asks quietly. He has the all-American athlete vibe of a young Zac Efron but with a hefty serving of vulnerability.

"Absolutely. As long as you need," I tell him. We leave the games room and head to a quiet hallway, and I'm delighted he's turning to me for help or advice. This is why I love to volunteer here. I remember well being his age—those complicated days of figuring out who I was. If I can be a willing ear to a fifteen-, sixteen-, seventeen-year-old, then I'm serving a meaningful purpose.

"What's up, man? And how can I help?" I ask, giving him all my attention. I can see this talk he wants to have is important to him.

He seems to gear himself up for something difficult and then just says it. "I think I'm ready to come out to my teammates and was wondering if you had any advice," Jason says.

He already came out to his family and close friends, but this is a huge next step. I hold up a hand to high-five. "I've been there. Many times. Let's talk."

We grab a bench, sit down, and dive in.

"How did you do it?" he asks.

I share the story of how I told the other Cougars in my first ever spring training—that was a kismet moment. "One of my teammates made a joke about whether I asked my dates to Venmo me money, and I said ‘Sometimes when I go on a date, he pays for me. But sometimes I pay for him, depending on my mood.'"

Jason beams. "Perfect answer."

"But that situation isn't always going to present itself. In college, I just had to sort of announce it to my team."

"Was that hard?" he asks, his voice strained.

"Yes, but worth it." Damn, was it ever. "Coming out isn't always easy, but the world is changing, and every time I do come out, I'm so glad I did."

"Me too," he says with a smile. "But you're pretty out now," he adds, deadpan.

I laugh. "Yeah, it's not a big secret who I like."

We talk more about his school and the other kids, then run through some strategies that might work for him.

"Thanks, man. That was super helpful. You're good at this," he says. "Talking to kids."

"The great thing is kids—or really, teens—are just... people. I like people and I like helping out."

"When you have kids, they're going to be so lucky. You're going to be such a cool dad," he says, nudging me with his elbow.

For a few seconds, I go quiet in my head, considering his compliment—the gravitas of it, but also the rightness.

His remark doesn't shock me. Or surprise me either. Jason sees me as I am, and I've always known I wanted a family.

I flash a smile. "You know? I would be a good dad." Then I add, "Someday."

Down the road.

By the time I say goodbye, my day has officially taken a 180 from last night.

I take off for Petaluma, blasting my pop music as I drive away from the city and toward my hometown, my mind hopscotching to the game tomorrow, then to Declan's return at the end of the week, then to faraway somedays.

I'm in a better place than I was last night.

When I reach my grandparents' home, I pull over, park, and unlock my phone. I'm greeted with a notification of a new story.

I click the link and groan in misery.

Weasel Face strikes again.