5. Declan

One hour till blast off.

I can do this.

I listened to my power rock this morning at the gym.

I ran across the Golden Gate Bridge.

Hell, I ate kale and tofu for lunch.

I am pumped up and ready to shake my booty.

Ugh. Shake my booty. I can't even say it in my head without cringing.

After I get out of the shower and dry off, Grant strides into the bathroom wearing jeans and nothing else. It's a damn good look. "Your stylist is here."

I roll my eyes. "How about you just toss me some clothes?"

"Fine, fine. I can do that." He lobs a pair of bright red boxer briefs my way. "Wear these."

With a laugh, I tug them on. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd leave me for Rafe Rodman." Grant is hooked on the designer's underwear, and he's gotten me hooked on them too. Not that I need more reasons to be attracted to Grant, but the tightness of his boxer briefs does not hurt.

"Right. Yup. I'm gonna leave you for Rafe. Thought I would tell you by giving you some hot underwear. Because, oh yes, you do look smoking," he says, eyeing me salaciously.

I head out of the bathroom and grab the jeans he left on our bed for me. After I pull them on, he hands me a shirt. "I didn't even have to pick it out. The shopkeeper at Sage chose it for you."

I furrow my brow. "How?"

Grant gives an easy shrug as he grabs the fabric from the bed and tosses it my way. "I described you. Basically, I told him how hot my boyfriend is, how good you look in certain shirts, and how much I'd want to take it off, and he found the perfect one."

"You really do like to talk us up, don't you?"

His eyes narrow. "I didn't use your name."

I shoot him a no-you-didn't look. "I don't care if you did. That's not what I'm saying."

He tilts his head and our eyes lock. "What are you saying then?"

"I'm saying you like to talk us up."

"Yes, I do, Declan." His tone underlines the statement with a Sharpie.

After sliding my arms into the shirt, I button it up, but Grant shakes his finger. "No. Leave a couple open."

"Really?" I ask, uncertain.

"Dude, it's not a post-game presser. It's a dance club," he says with a laugh.

"Yep. It's definitely a dance club." I work open a few buttons, fiddling with them as I go. I am so far out of my comfort zone.

"Perfect," Grant approves with a nod before he heads into the closet. "So, the guy at the store I mentioned—he helped pick out a shirt for me too, but I changed my mind."

"About what to wear?" I call.

"Yes. You've seen it before. Sorry, not sorry."

A few seconds later, he ambles out, and I forget my momentary irritation. I let go of my dread. Instead, I close the distance in a hot second, sliding my hands down Grant's strong arms then roaming them up his chest. When I reach his nipple piercing, I flick it through the fabric.

His breath hitches. His palms curl over my hips. "You like?"

"I love," I whisper. He's wearing the same black shirt he had on the night we got back together—the night after the Sports Network Awards when I met him at a tapas bar and he wore this for me because it was tight, because it revealed the outline of his piercing, because he wanted to turn me on.

I bury my face in his neck, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. "Don't know if I can tear myself away from you."

Hell, maybe I can convince him to stay home with the promise of electric, indulgent sex.

"Mmm. Guess I'll have to be strong for both of us," he says.

I'll have to try harder. As I skim my lips across his neck, under his jaw, and along his chin, I squeeze and knead his pecs, playing with his nipples through the fabric until he's gasping and panting. I draw a sharp breath. "Maybe we should just stay in and finish what I'm starting," I suggest. "I could throw you on the bed, taste you everywhere, suck you off till you're about to come, then stop." I dip my voice to a low and smoky tone. "We could watch that video we made last night. Tease the fuck out of each other. I could edge you all night instead of going to Edge."

Please say yes.

He hums, a dirty sound, like he's considering my alternative, then he seems to snap out of it. He leans back from me, his brow furrowed in concern. "Are you sure you want to go?"

This is my chance to say it.

But I'm wearing a shirt he bought me. He's been planning this with Reese for two months. All our friends are going. Most of all, Grant wants this.

I reach into my bag of mental tricks, fishing around for a few handy lines from Walt Whitman's anthemic poem.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells.

"Yes. Let's do it."

Grant shoots me a big grin. "We're going to have a great time."

I adopt a cocky expression and smack his ass. "Can't wait to get out on the floor and dance with you," I say, the words tasting like a lie.

***

Electronic music pulses through the club. It rattles my bones. It's so goddamn loud we're all shouting at each other and still can't hear.

But thankfully we aren't dancing yet.

I hold on to the hope that maybe we'll skip that part and just hang. Sure, someone might recognize us, or stop and stare, but that's fine. At least I won't be making a fool of myself.

The entire crew is here at the bar—Grant's sister, Sierra; Crosby, Chance, and Sullivan from the Cougars; Holden and Gunnar from my team; River, who's Grant's business partner in a chain of gay bars; along with Reese, her friends Layla and Tia, and Crosby's girlfriend, Nadia.

Grant rests his elbow on my shoulder as Crosby asks me about a pitcher on the Philly team. "How nasty is his stuff?"

At least, I think that's what Crosby said, but I can barely hear him. "Later, man. We'll talk later," I shout.

He nods a yes and lifts his beer, knocks some back, then swings Nadia into his arms for a risqué kiss.

Chance is hitting it with River and Sierra, the three of them busting a move in the middle of everyone. Gotta love that about Chance—a straight man with zero issues dancing with a queer dude. His twin brother is gay, so maybe that helps. Though, judging from the way Chance is staring at Sierra, he may not realize there's anyone else on the dance floor.

Gunnar hits the dance floor, and seconds later he's flanked by men and women. He casts his gaze at a busty brunette, then at a fit, hipster dude, taking turns bumping hips with both.

Looking like he's enjoying both.

Interesting.

Holden and Reese peel away, and then the rest of them, joining the crowds with wild glee. The club is packed, hundreds of people like sardines in a strobing tin. This should be fine—I'll blend in. No one will notice me.

Grant slides his arm around my shoulder and brings his mouth against my ear. "Dance with me, baby," he whispers, so close I can hear him even with the music. This is the first time he's given me an affectionate nickname other than Deck. The way he purrs it sends a shiver down my spine. I need to focus on this tonight—his sweet nothings are my everything.

I set down my iced tea—party animal, that's me—take his hand, and push through the crowds. We bump and jostle our way onto the dance floor.

Hey that corner far away looks nice,I want to say. But Grant is hellbent on the center.

Pushing past sweaty couples, men and men, women and women, women and men, we make it to the middle.

O Captain, my Captain!

I've got this.

I can handle crowds. My job involves getting up in front of forty thousand people in the ballpark and millions on TV.

This ought to be a piece of cake.

"Hey,"he mouths. "Let's show them what we've got."

"Okay," I say, but I'm not sure if he can hear me. It doesn't matter since we're doing this no matter what.

Yup. I'm doing the awkward shuffle like Kevin James in Hitch, and Grant...

Grant is Channing Tatum.

The music slows to a painful thumping pulse, and I have no clue how to dance. It feels as unnatural to me as kissing a woman.

Maybe sensing my discomfort, Grant takes the lead, roping his arms around my neck, lining up my thigh between his. "You look so good," he mouths.

"Thanks," I shout back, my voice robotic.

For a moment, in Grant's arms, dancing is easy enough. After only a minute, though, the music shifts again to a faster beat, and before I know what's happening, Grant's behind me, bumping up against my ass.

Okay, that I can handle.

I know how that works.

But what the hell do I do with my hands?

Grant knows exactly what to do with his. They slide down my sides, hitting my hips, and he holds on tight as he grinds against me.

It feels good. Mostly. But it should feel better. The man I love is rocking against me, grinding, swaying, and this is a familiar pose. But I can feel the eyes on us.

It's not because we're two guys. Hell, this place is an everything-goes zone. I glimpse Reese dirty dancing with Layla and Tia. Holden joins in with the River, Chance, and Sierra crew. Beyond them, a pair of women I don't know are wrapped up in each other, arms high in the air. Over there is a group of shirtless guys, tangled together.

So, it's not the gay thing.

It's the me thing.

I'm not into the scene, and there's a reason, as with most things I do. I don't drink because my father drinks too much. I don't like being the center of attention for a reason because I know how shitty it feels when you're singled out for the worst reason, like your dad stumbling onto a field while reeking of tequila.

Not just once.

Not just twice.

But many times.

That's why I hate dancing in public.

It reminds me of all my shame as a teenager. Tonight stirs up all the stuff I've worked through in therapy. All the issues I've dug into, pushed past, crossed over to be where I am today.

Ah hell.

I should tell Grant.

I should stop being a chickenshit and say it.

But look at my guy. Grant is grooving and moving, and this is what he wanted—to show me what he's got, to dirty dance for me and with me. I'm not going to stomp on his good time. He already doesn't drink for me. I can't ask him to not dance for me.

I swivel around, and he wiggles his brow, his smile lighting up. He mouths, "You've got this."

He has no idea how I really, really don't.

No clue I'm faking it.

I need him as a buffer to hide my discomfort, which gives me an idea. I shift positions to behind him, my hands on his arms, his hips, his waist. There. Now I know what to do with my body.

Hide it behind his.

With my jaw tight, and tension lining my spine, I dance with my boyfriend for the next endless, awkward, absolutely uncomfortable songs.