Mike’s hotel is just three blocks down from the stadium. Rob snags the same secluded spot he parked in previously, but without Mike’s keycard, he can’t use the side door and has to enter through the lobby. He sees a few of the Waves at the hotel bar, drowning their loss in beer, watching the Phillies play on the big-screen TV. As he passes, he glances over once, twice, trying to see all their faces, trying to find Mike among them. When he’s satisfied Mike isn’t there, he heads for the elevator, then to the third floor.
He finds Mike’s door easily enough.
For a full minute, he stands outside. He remembers the feel of Mike’s belt loop held tight in the crook of his finger as the shortstop led the way to this door. He remembers the lust that rose within him when the door shut and they were alone. Finally, alone