Page 2 of Stetson

I showered and changed into a clean pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt. One by one, players left and I was alone in the clubhouse. I paused, standing in the middle of the room. The only lights to be found were the ones in each locker, illuminating the names on the backs of our jerseys. When I found mine, I couldn’t help but swell with pride. The next time I entered that space, it would be as a Major League Baseball player.

* * *

Only some of the team showed up to the bar. The older, more experienced players rushed home to soak up every bit of family time they could.

Atlanta was bumping at night, with people lining up around the corner to get into some places. Unfortunately for them, the city’s dive bars were a hidden treasure. The kind of places where your shoes stick to the floor and the music was way too loud, but the cheap booze helped you forget the inconvenience. Harrison and I crowded into the space behind the guys and for about five seconds, I had every intention of behaving. I started with a mixed drink I knew I could handle but thanks to the stifling heat, it disappeared quickly. Someone bought me another, then Harrison thrust a tequila shot in my hand. It would have been rude not to take it, right?

Just one.I told myself. Unfortunately, I neglected to say that out loud. Too bad my teammates weren’t mind readers either.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila—I don’t remember anymore…

2

LEVI

I hada love-hate relationship with baseball. As an agent, I represented quite a few players. Watching them flourish never ceased to amaze me. Plus, they kept me busy during the part of the sport I hated: Barrett being gone ninety percent of the time.

He'd been at spring training for six weeks, and I had another thirty-two hours and twenty-four minutes before he got home.

But who was counting?

When Barrett got drafted to New York, I’d offered to move. He refused. It was one of the biggest fights we’d ever had. At the time, I couldn’t imagine being away from him for weeks at a time, but Barrett was a Georgia boy at heart. He said he couldn’t imagine giving up his home for something as temporary as a contract. The unpredictability of the sport was enough for him to stand firm in his decision.

Ten years later, he was one of the best players in the league.Everyoneknew the name Barrett Swindon. To go with that, the name Levi Grant. If only they knew my name for more than the scandal that came along with it.

With a groan, I tossed my book onto the table with a loudthump.

I had to get out of this damn house.

After so long, you think I’d be adjusted to the quiet, but it was the exact opposite. The house wasn’t the same without Barrett dancing around the kitchen with no shame in the world. Or bringing me a spoonful of his latest recipe to taste. Damn, the man could cook.

I swapped my sweats out for the jeans and t-shirt I’d abandoned earlier, replacing my old Hellbenders cap on my head.

As I sat in the back of the Uber, I let my mind drift away from my absent partner. Specifically, to the boy I’d seen earlier that day. The sports community—hell, the entirestate—had been buzzing with his name. “Hometown Hero” Stetson Holloway had been drafted to the Thrashers. I’d seen him play his senior year, but another agent snatched him up before I could even blink. He’d dominated his way through college ball, easily winning the collegiate World Series title for his university.

I’d gone to the field that day to keep an eye on a few of my problematic players but instead, I spent my time there watching every move Stetson made.

I swore I’d walk away, but then the man had to go and take his damn shirt off. That idea swiftly went out the window.

The sun hammered onto the field that day. I was melting in the shaded dugout, so I knew the players had to be miserable. I watched intently as Stetson whipped his shirt off, adding it to the pile with the others. He’d lookeddelectable. I’d resisted the urge to lick my lips. His broad shoulders and the hint of abs teasing his flat stomach hit a spot that, outside of Barrett, no other man had touched.

We’d spent quite a few years searching for a third to bring into our relationship. I’d been head-over-heels for Barrett since the day we met but I had a special interest that Barrett didn’t share, and I couldn’t fault him for that.

I was a Daddy, and every Daddy needed his boy. Even I could realize that Barrett was nobody’sboy. In fact, Barrett was the only person who had any power to bossmearound. There had been a few prospects over the years, but none that fit.

However, when I noticed Stetson on the field with his bright blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and smile that could kill, something seemed to click into place. But I needed to calm myself down. If I came on too strong, I was sure to screw it up. Besides, I needed Barrett to meet him first.

I let myself daydream about Stetson until I arrived at my favorite dive bar. The door swung open as someone went in ahead of me, and a cacophony of noises filtered out of the place. I made my way to the counter, ordered a drink, and sought out the main source of the chaos. Then I smiled.

Half of the Atlanta Thrashers were packed into a corner, surrounding averydrunk Stetson, who had a shot in one hand and a mixed drink in the other. I chuckled to myself and shook my head, taking an empty stool to watch the show. Normally I’d intervene, but could drop the agent hat for a night.

I sat back and nursed my drink while Stetson knocked back four tequila shots. Who knows how many he’d had before I showed up? I barely contained my laughter as he climbed onto the table on a dare, belting out a drunken rendition of “I Want It That Way.” I nearly choked on a mouthful of my drink and tears gathered in the corners of my eyes.

“For the love of God, will someone shut him up?”

Uh-oh.

I searched for the voice, but Stetson was faster. Before I knew it, he was jumping off the table and wobbling on unsteady legs. His teammates caught him, but they weren’t strong enough—or sober enough—to hold him back. With every thunderous step, I wondered when it would be appropriate to step in. When he came face to face with the guy who’d shouted at him, I leapt out of my seat.

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