Page 40 of The Men of Summer Collection

I adjust the bill of my Hawks ball cap as I watch the report. My stomach curls, but it’s like an accident on the side of the freeway and I can’t look elsewhere.

A woman’s crisp voice blares from the overhead screen at my gate.

“The San Francisco Cougars are shaking things up at spring training. Yesterday evening, we broke the news of star shortstop Declan Steele’s trade to New York, and now our sources are saying it’s no longer a neck-and-neck race between rookie Grant Blackwood and league veteran Jorge Rodriguez for the starting catcher slot. The veteran backup just might be pulling away from the new guy. A couple of wobbly games both at the plate and behind it will do that to you. Now it’s looking like Rodriguez just might come out of spring training on top.” She takes a long pause, stares at the camera. “And that the rookie might be sent back to Triple-A for some more time in the minors. Back to you, John.”

Gritting my teeth, I tear my gaze away from the screen of doom, my chest knotted, my muscles tenser than a courtroom waiting for a verdict.

I head to the jetway as the gate agent calls for my group, then make my way onto the plane.

Sinking down in the cushy leather seat, I grab my phone, and google Grant.

The first hit is a sports blog, It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over.

A headline from yesterday says it’s a toss-up between Grant and Rodriguez. But today’s post says the slot is the veterans to lose.

“What the hell?” I mutter.

I’ve had bad games in spring training. Hell, I had bad games my first time there. I still made it.

But . . .

I wasn’t up against a solid vet who’d put in the time as a backup. Dragging a hand down my face, I read on.

With every word, regret swirls in my gut.

I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved.

I told Grant not to get involved.

I said make sure you have no distractions.

And what did I do? Broke all the rules. I put myself in his path. I let my attraction get the better of my reason. I let my desire overrule my logic. I knew this could happen especially to him.

Me? I’ve been wearing blinders since I was a kid.

But Grant is all new. I should have kept my distance. Resisted temptation.

I curse under my breath, bang my head against the headrest, and close my eyes.

Should have, would have, could have.

I fucking did it.

Rubbing my temples, I open my eyes, click on my messages, and scroll to his name.

All my instincts tell me to send him a text. Tell him he’ll do great. All he has to do is keep his eye on the ball.

But I’d just be distracting him then, wouldn’t I?

I don’t write to him about the news report. As much as I want to reassure him, it won’t do him an ounce of good. I power down my phone as my gut twists and my heart tears in half.