14. Grant

I march into the house, brandishing my phone. "Pops, you've got to hear this."

My grandpa looks up from the cutting board where he's slicing cucumbers and carrots next to a big bowl of lettuce. Cradling her phone, my grandma waves hello as she ducks into the living room to schedule what sounds like a Scrabble game with a friend.

I turn to my grandfather as I waggle the phone again. "This is ridiculous."

Setting down the knife, Grandpa places a hand on my shoulder, turns me around, and ushers me toward the front door. "Let's go for a walk, son."

Fine. A walk might help. I need to burn off this frustration.

He opens the screen door, and we walk down the front steps and into the summer evening. The scent of cut grass hangs thick in the July evening, but I'm not in the mood to enjoy it as I tap the phone screen. "Listen to what Troy Evans said in this new blog report." I mimic the reporter's scratchy voice, reading the headline first. "Most Valuable Player or Most Valuable Partner? Exactly which one is Declan Steele?" I scoff, rolling my eyes. "He goes on to talk about Declan's batting average against the Cougars this year, and it's over .500, compared to Deck's .251 lifetime batting average against the team when he was a Comet. As if us being together is the reason."

"Hmmm," my grandpa says. "That's a little silly."

"Just a little," I say, still seeing red as I point to the offending story once more. "He has the gall to suggest I share tips on how to hit pitches from any team, any pitcher, and that Declan could then share those with Holden and the rest of the Dragons. Like that's the only reason Declan is having a good season, and by extension, the rest of the Dragons too. Then this guy Evans finishes, ‘and where there's smoke, there's fire. Could this be the start of another sign-stealing scandal?'"

Grandpa snort-laughs. "I could drive a truck through the logic holes in that piece. But, be that as it may..." He reaches for the phone, shooting me his most paternal grin. "Why don't you let me take that? And give you a breather."

I heave a sigh and drop the phone into his hand. As soon as he pockets it, though, my fingers itch to read the post again, which shows how wise he is to keep me away from it.

"Now, let's check out the Brombergs' zinnias down the street," he says, and we set off walking through the neighborhood where I grew up.

"The Brombergs? Mrs. Bromberg used to make those peanut butter brownies for Grandma's Scrabble games."

"They're the best," he adds in a whisper. "I might have pilfered as many as I could, snatching them from my lovely bride."

"I used to grab one every time she made them too."

My grandpa squeezes my shoulder. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

But I can't stick to brownie talk for long before I'm back thinking about the report. "Pops, here's the thing that's driving me crazy. I thought the whole accusation Troy made was going to end with the interview last night. With him posting the clip from the locker room. But then it continued with this follow-up piece. I feel so stupid for thinking it would be one and done."

"Grant, you can't predict what the media will do."

"True, but it's so unfair," I say, getting wound up like a jack-in-the-box.

"Life is unfair," Grandpa says in his sagest voice as we walk. I notice his step is nice and even, his stride strong.

"Hey! You're doing better than earlier this year. Your knee was still a little wobbly then," I point out, pleased with his progress.

He gestures to his knee. "Course it is. I'm as good as new." He stops at a patch of zinnias in his neighbor's front yard. "I think I might try my hand at gardening. Can you see me puttering around in a yard in my golden years?"

I imagined my grandpa working in his sunny backyard ten, twenty years from now, picture visiting him. Then, I expand the scene, so that Declan and I are coming to visit my grandparents together.

"I can see it perfectly," I say, all the annoyance drained away at last. "What would you plant?"

We walk on, and I listen as he paints a vision of his future garden. I love that he wanted to take my mind off the latest report. That he knows how. And that it works all through dinner.

When I'm home a little later, my phone rings. I see Declan's name on the screen, and my shoulders relax a tiny bit.

"Damn, if I wasn't a cocky bastard, I'd think you'd been avoiding me all day," I say as I head up the stairs to our bedroom.

"Hey, you," he says, and the sweetness in his voice unknots me. That's the way he's been greeting me since we fell for each other the first time. He always says it with such tenderness that it's like getting a massage. The first touch melts me.

But only for a moment.

My anger at that "news" piece Troy ran rushes back. It's a slap in the face to my reputation on the field sure, but also to Declan's.

"Also, I'm never avoiding you. Dinner ran late. I got to my hotel a few minutes ago. I saw the post on It Ain't Over Till It's Over and I had to call and find out how you're doing."

"Are you pissed too? You must be," I say as I reach the top of the stairs.

"Not really," Declan says evenly.

I arch a brow as I trudge into the bedroom and flop onto the bed. "Why not?"

"Because this is just the crap they do sometimes. The media will go after anything."

"But it's such a lie," I point out.

"You know that, I know that, and our teammates know that. That's what matters."

Declan's right, but there's someone he left out. "But what about the fans?" I ask.

"You can't control what they think, babe. They're going to think what they want."

"But it's not true, what he wrote," I say.

Declan sighs softly. "Look. We've been lucky. We've had a lot of support so far. We're not always going to have everyone's vote of confidence. This is one of those times."

"Yeah, but this is one of the first times someone's ever come at me or someone I love. And I know it's not a homophobic thing. It's just him being a shit-stirrer, but even so, I hate it."

"Because you want to be liked. Because you try so hard to like everyone too. You find the positive in everything," Declan says, his tone kind and understanding.

Maybe that's why this is hitting hard. I want to be a good guy and be seen as a good guy too. "I'm a fucking ray of sunshine," I tease.

"You joke, but you are a sunshine guy. That's what I mean. You have this whole aura about you. Openness, positivity, good vibes. You're not used to people saying bad things because you've been the golden guy." He seems thoughtful, like he's been wanting to share his wisdom for a while.

I settle into the pillow and hum, considering. "Have you had the media drag up shit about you before?"

"Sure. Do you remember when I was traded to the Comets?"

"Obviously," I say, stretching out on the bed.

"I was supposed to be the savior. They traded pitchers away for me. They wanted to make a World Series run," he says, his voice wistful. "I was going to be the missing piece. The firepower in the lineup. Do you see where I'm going?"

"I think so," I say heavily.

"I didn't get the team there," Declan continues. "The Comets screwed up by trading away pitchers, and that mistake—the mistake of me—was a constant drumbeat in the media for a year or more. Our pitching didn't hold up, so it didn't matter what kind of numbers I put on the scoreboard. We made it to the postseason only once when I was there, and we didn't get past the divisionals. It sucked, Grant."

"I had no idea they covered the trade that much after the fact." I hate that he went through that.

"You had no idea because we'd broken up. But yes, it was endless. It was the soundtrack to my first year there, and even into the second. I had to tune it out."

"Your blinders," I say with a smile. "One-Track Steele."

"My alter ego came in handy then."

I mull over Declan's story, looking for the nugget of wisdom in it. "Are you saying I need to tune this out?"

"You do, babe. You won't get everyone's support. We won't. I doubt we're universally loved anywhere, even in the queer community. I'm sure there are people there who don't like us for whatever reason."

"Because you're a catch, and I caught you," I say, putting the swagger and charm back in my voice.

"You did. So, try to put Troy behind you," Declan suggests.

That I can do. Because I have a better idea. "I want you behind me," I say in my best flirty, dirty voice.

"Mmm. I will get behind you when I'm home this weekend. I will bend you over the bed and make you forget this entire week. I will make you feel so fucking good, you won't be able to say anything but more, gimme more, baby, give me fucking more."

My skin tingles. "Don't get me hard, baby. I'm too tired to beat off right now."

"Mmm. Yup. Like that. If I were there, I might not be able to resist kissing your neck, your jaw, your ear," he says in a low and sexy voice.

"Deck . . ." I warn.

"Yes, rookie?"

"I want you."

"I know you do. And I want you. So fucking much."

Those words mean more than sex. They're a code for all my deepest needs, ones he alone is privy to. Like how much I crave being wanted. How I long for a big, voracious love from him. Guess that makes me a greedy bastard.

"Now, I am turned all the way on," I rasp out.

"Then you better switch to video so I can see you and help you."

A minute later we're both naked and taking matters into our own hands, and I feel so much better already—mentally and physically.

All thanks to my guy.