Chase stepped in, and there was a moment of celebrity fandom, one where the man smiled brightly and hands were shaken and photos requested, and my fingers itched to sneak the fruit into the racehorse’s mouth. He flapped his lips at me, his big brown eyes watchful, and I inched closer.

There was a negotiation of sorts, tickets to tomorrow’s game mentioned, and then Chase waved me on, the apple allowed, and I stepped up to the horse, holding it flat in my palm, my fingers running along his face as he crunched into the apple, half of it gone, the other half quickly taken, my palm wet from his contact. I had a horse once. One winter. Boarded fifteen minutes away. I had memories of standing in our kitchen, in front of the blender, a concoction of apple cider, carrots, and oats in the blender. I poured it into a thermos, and Dad and I went to the barn on her ‘birthday,’ pouring the dubious mixture into a bucket, my excitement mounting as she ate it all. There were winter days where schoolbooks were pushed aside, and I climbed upon her back, riding her bareback through the ring. But then there was spring training, those months in Florida and far from her. And then there was the start of the season, and somewhere along the way she was sold, and I barely noticed, my world dominated by pinstripes, little time for anything else. Suddenly, with my hands capturing the racehorse’s muzzle in mine, his breath huffing against my palms, I missed her.

On the ride back to the hotel, I told Chase about her. Her name had been Rosie. She’d been an Arabian, fiery and ill-mannered. “Like you,” he said, and I made a face. He reached over and took my hand, pulling it to his mouth. “You are never allowed to pick winners again, Ty Rollins.”

“It wasn’t my best moment,” I conceded. “But in all fairness to Moonshot, I think he was robbed. There was clearly some unfair jostling at the start.”

He raised a brow at me. “I saw no jostling.”

I shrugged. “You’re old. Your eyes are getting weak.”

Then he laughed and leaned over the center console. “I’m falling in love with you,” he said softly.

I swallowed hard, my eyes lifting to his. They were steady on me, sure and unwavering, as if he spoke an absolute certainty. My smile began, a runaway train out of control, no force able to stop its spread. “Okay,” I whispered, unsure of how to respond.

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Okay,” I repeated. “That’s good to know.”

And it was. It was, actually, great to know. My smile grew, until the moment that he pulled me forward and kissed it away.

53

It felt like everything was moving too fast, yet time was also standing still. It’d been three weeks and six cities since that night we broke apart and then fell back together. Only 24 days, yet … when every evening was spent with him … it felt like a year. There were just over sixty games left in the season. Then, I would have a decision-filled offseason. The biggest question that weighed me down? Whether to tell my father about Chase.

“We don’t have to do this.” He gasped into my mouth as his hand yanked at my zipper.

“Shut up,” I pulled at his shirt, my nails skidding across his back in my haste to get it off, to expose that torso, the perfect lines surrounding each muscle, his abs a ripple of beauty.

“Are you sure?” he asked as his fingers dug under the waist of my jeans, pulling them over my hips, his mouth on mine as soon as the question left it.

“Third base,” I shot out, in between frantic kisses. “Stop arguing with me and do it.”

He gripped my waist and pushed, then I was on his bed, my jeans skinned off, flip-flops tossed somewhere, and he was pushing me back, crawling on top of me, his weight gently on mine, the press of him hard and hot, in between my legs.

It was strange how so many points of our body could touch, from foot to shoulder, the length of him atop me, his weight supported by his hands, his mouth on my neck, marking his territory, and yet the only thing I felt, right then, was his cock. It was hard, in his boxer briefs, between my legs, his cotton underwear against mine, my legs wrapping around his hips, and when he gently ground against me, I almost lost my mind. Suddenly, I didn’t want his mouth on me; I didn’t want to go down on him. I only wanted him to pull it out and push it inside of me. I wanted him to own that part of my body, to replace any memory I ever had of Tobey, to thrust inside and teach me how it was done. This time would not be a rushed affair, with no phone calls, total silence afterward, both of us running back to our normal lives. This time, with Chase, would be done right, sex filled with love and passion and the promise of a million more times. I begged him for it, and he silenced me with his kiss.

“Don’t ask me for that, Ty. Please.” His voice rasped on the beg, his hips shifting, dragging his arousal over me, each pump of his hips sending me to a new level of delirium. He pushed up on his hands, looking down between our bodies, my panties sticking to me, his bulge extended, and he slid one last painful time across me, my back arching off the bed with the need of it all. “You have no idea how badly I want that,” he groaned. “But right now, I want something even more.” He sat up, pulling at my legs, unwrapping them from his waist, and pushed at my knees, spreading them apart, his body sliding down the bed before I realized what was happening.

“Wait!” I called out, reaching for him, propping up on my elbows and trying to stop him, my hand on his shoulder, pushing him off. “I changed my mind. We can just skip this base.”

He pulled at my thighs, dragging me to the edge of the bed, his head lifting to look at me. “Skip it?” I felt the stretch of my panties and then they were gone, pulled down and off my legs, the last barrier between his mouth and me, and I’d never felt so exposed in my life. Thank God the lamps were off in the room, the only light coming from the bathroom. Thank God he couldn’t see my blush in the dark.

“Skip it,” I whispered, suddenly too shy to take this step, to have his mouth on my most private place, a flood of doubts and insecurities taking over.

He didn’t skip it. He ignored me, leaning forward, and then his mouth was on me, and it was different than a kiss, different than his touch, different than anything I had experimented with on my own. I pushed against his head, resisting, scared and insecure … then he moved his tongue, a soft flick of it across my clit, and I groaned, my hand twisting in the short length of his hair, the sound from my mouth one that I had never made. My toes dug into the bed, my knees pointed at the ceiling, and I lost everything. Every conscious thought, every worry, every understanding of what was pleasure and what was right. I watched his eyes close, felt the slow, beautiful movement of his tongue, and finally understood what the giant fuss about sex was all about.