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Five Years Ago

At the Start of Rookie Year

Grant

If I were the kind of guy who made five-year plans, mine would include winning a World Series, playing in an All-Star game, and having my pick when it comes to endorsement deals.

Just putting that out there, universe. I’ll check back in when I’m twenty-seven and see what comes true. K, thanks.

And to do that, I need a killer first season.

I have to go into spring training and play hard every day.

Baseball is my one and only dream. This sport saw me through the toughest years. Hard times are in the rearview mirror at long last, and good riddance to those days I’d like to forget.

Hell, if I play my cards right, the opportunities for my career are endless.

That’s not cocky.

That’s just true.

Fine, maybe it’s a little bit cocky, but facts are facts, and these are mine. I’m twenty-two. I earned a degree in history from a good college, I racked up one bonkers season in minor league baseball, and thanks to going in the first round of the draft, I’m making bank as I get ready to head to Arizona for spring training. My goal there? Lock up the starting catcher slot. Lock it up so damn tight that the coach can’t picture anyone else but me behind the plate for the team.

Pretty sure I don’t have time for extracurricular activities. And that’s okay. I don’t need to be a hookup maestro. Besides, I bet the quest to be a player after hours is a recipe for disaster on the diamond.

So yeah, I suppose that’s my five-year plan. Don’t look back. Move the hell forward. Leave it all on the field.

Which means—don’t be distracted by men.

That shouldn’t be a problem for me.

I’ve learned to live, breathe, and eat the sport, and romance has taken a back seat. There will be time for men later in my twenties.

Not at my first spring training.

Not during my rookie year.

And definitely not with a man on my team anytime soon.

No matter how charming, sexy, smart, or easygoing a certain guy is. No matter how hot the attraction burns between us. And no matter how close I want to get to him.

And this turns out to be the biggest problem in my brand-new career. Not hitting a wicked fastball. Not scrambling for a wild pitch.

Nope, the problem is my shortstop.

Declan Steele.

From his easy confidence, to his deadpan wit, to the way he guides me through the complicated world of pro ball, I’m hooked on the man from the second I meet him.

Add in his movie star face and a carved body that makes me want to throw him against the wall and kiss the breath out of him—or hell, let him shove me against the door. I don’t care—and I’m not sure I stand a chance at my five-year plan.

Let alone a one-month plan.

Already I’m behind in the count, and if I’m not careful, I’m going to strike out on my first chance to make it in the pros.

But with Declan, I’m not sure I can be careful.

Or if I want to. Because he just might be everything I didn’t know I needed.