Scoring With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  “Much better,” he says, a smile curving the edge of his lips.

  “Gotta say, rookie, I’m impressed you’re keeping up. No one keeps up with me.”

  “What if I told you I’m taking it easy right now?” Grant asks, deadpan.

  I laugh. “Wiseass.”

  But he keeps a stony expression. “Seriously. What if I could run even faster?” He picks up the pace a notch or two.

  Holy fuck.

  Dude is fast.

  But I’m a competitive bastard too, so I push myself, going faster, keeping up.

  I want to smack his arm, tell him he won’t win a battle of wills, or strength, or fitness.

  But he just might.

  Grant is as swift on his feet as he is with his arm.

  I clear my throat to segue to other topics, but only sports topics. “You did good with the triple lift.”

  “So did you. You had me. One hundred percent,” he says.

  I smile. “Excellent. I love nothing more than getting the rookies.”

  He casts a quick glance at me, then swings his gaze forward. “And listen, man. Sorry for the verbal vomit in the hallway. I think I was nervous meeting you. You seriously are one of my heroes in the game,” he says, earnest and straightforward, in a voice that does dangerous things to my mind.

  Things I can’t allow.

  “Good of you to say, but trust me, I’m nobody’s hero,” I reply as we near the end of our final lap. Then I add, “But no worries on the nerves. I was you once. Bright-eyed and eager.”

  He barks out a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

  I smack his arm. “Absolutely.”

  Then I wink.

  Something I definitely shouldn’t do.

  What I should do is walk away as soon as we finish the drill.

  And that’s what I do.

  6

  Grant

  At the end of practice, I shut my locker, say goodbye to the rookies and the other guys, including the veteran Rodriguez, even though I’m competing with him for the starting slot. Declan, though, I avoid, so I don’t accidentally gawk at the smoke-show of a shortstop. I make it out of the locker room, but as soon as I’m out the door, I remember my phone.

  Shit.

  I go back in and scan for Declan, relieved—mostly—that he’s dressed. He’s parked on the bench by his locker, talking with Crosby and Chance, who slides his wedding band onto his finger. He doesn’t pitch with it on.

  Other players mill about, chatting as they button shirts and tie shoelaces. Declan slowly turns my way, that easy smile sending a zing down my stomach.

  I have got to get it together.

  Maybe tomorrow will lessen the impact of him. Declan is a lot of heat to get used to. Maybe I’ll adjust, like inching into a hot tub.

  Now I’m picturing the shortstop sinking into a hot bath, and I swear I’m not doing this on purpose.

  “Let me guess,” he says. “You want your phone back, rookie?”

  “I do. Thanks,” I say as he stands.

  “Couldn’t risk you googling the triple lift and finding out we did it last year too.” He reaches into his locker and grabs my phone from the top shelf. “Hope you can catch this.”

  “Ha. No worries there,” I say as he wings it my way and I grab the device.

  “Nice,” he says, and that easy smile of his is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.

  “I do my best.”

  I turn to go, but before I can leave, Declan clears his throat. “You forgetting something?”

  I freeze, my brain cycling through the day. What could I have forgotten? Oh, wait, this has to be another prank.

  I turn back around. “To thank you for the whipped cream? It was quite tasty.”

  Another lopsided grin. Another swoop of my stomach.

  He shakes his head then rubs his thumb and forefinger together. “Pay up, rookie.”

  Ah, right. I grab my wallet from my back pocket and fish around for a bill. My heart sinks as I come up almost empty. “I only have a ten. Can I Venmo you the rest?”

  Declan cracks up so hard he has to hold his stomach. Crosby doubles over in laughter. Chance points at me, barely able to breathe.

  Every eye in the locker room turns toward us. Toward me. Or it feels that way—most of the team is here.

  “You do that on dates, rookie?” Chance gasps between guffaws. “Ask your dates if you can Venmo the money?”

  The heavens part and angels sing. I need an opening to get out ahead of the story of my sexuality, and the closing pitcher just lobbed a slow pitch right over the plate.

  I mentally square my shoulders. Not easy to brace yourself for blowback without coming off either defensive or challenging.

  “Sometimes when I go on a date, he pays for me.” I shrug like my heart isn’t hammering. “But sometimes I pay for him, depending on my mood.”

  There’s a heavy pause in the locker room. I glimpse a few furrowed brows on the guys, some blinks of adjustment, visible gulps.

  Chance just grins at me like we planned this. I didn’t, but that was a suspiciously perfect setup. But in a good way, I think.

  The silence only lasts a few seconds, and it feels damn good when Crosby breaks it. He arches a brow, his tone smooth as butter. “So, Grant, what you’re saying is you’re quite a catch with the dudes?”

  I don’t look at Declan. I don’t even risk it.

  But the rest of the Cougars have their eyes on me as I answer Crosby with a casual shrug and a sly smile. “That’s what I hear.”

  “Just one thing, Catch,” Chance says, holding up a hand. The nickname belies his overly serious expression.

  “What’s that?”

  “You like burgers?”

  “Course I do.”

  “Excellent.” He sweeps his hand to indicate all the guys in the locker room. “We’re going out to grab some grub. And you’re gonna pick up the tab. I’m sure that’ll be a change for you, but those are the clubhouse rules. Rookies pay.”

  He finishes with a grin that I match, glad this moment is behind me and I can get on with playing the sport I love.

  Forward momentum, it is nice to see you.

  “I’m good with that,” I tell Chance.

  Very, very good with that.

  We go to a nearby burger joint, order, then shoot the breeze about video games and cool tunes. We steer away from talk of baseball, which makes a nice break after a long day of training.

  Afterward, we head for the team hotel, the guys dispersing to their rooms, the pool, or the bar. I hang back with Chance and Declan as Crosby looks around the lobby in satisfaction, whistling in admiration as he gets a look at the name above the doors.

  Jen Trujillo Suites.

  “Damn, the Cougs do love us,” Crosby says.

  “Because they’re paying for our digs this year?” Declan puts in.

  “Because this place rocks. Kitchen, bedroom, and master bath. And it’s walking distance to the complex.”

  Declan snorts. “What, is this your latest endorsement deal?”

  Crosby wiggles a brow. “Good idea. I should get my agent on that, stat.”

  “Anyway, the team isn’t paying for it,” Declan adds. “Jen Trujillo is one of the team sponsors, so we’re here courtesy of her company.”

  “Well, someone is paying for our digs, you turkey burgers,” Crosby says, “and it’s not me, so I’m calling it a win.” He turns to me as we walk inside. “How do you like this place, G-man? You’ve been here for a week.”

  Does Crosby’s experimentation with alternatives to “rookie” mean that I have a license to come up with my own nicknames for him and the other veteran players? I’m gleeful at the thought.

  “I’ve spent most of it at the complex,” I say, “but I can’t complain.”

  I head to the elevator that’ll take me to my suite on the sixth floor. Crosby peels away with Chance, pointing a thumb down the hall. “I’m in the other tower. Catch you in the a.m.”

&
nbsp; “See you then,” I say.

  They walk away, and I hit the call button and wait for the elevator, figuring Declan will head in their direction.

  A few seconds later, though, the shortstop strides over, and the hair on the back of my neck pricks up.

  The effect this man has on me is so goddamn unfair. My future looks full of less hot tub and more ice bath.

  “Guess we’re in the same tower, rookie,” he says, and something about the sexy rumble of his voice tells me everything in my life is about to be ten thousand times harder than I’d thought.

  And no ice bath will do the trick.

  Not when the way he says rookie lights me up all over.

  “Welcome to the jungle,” I say as the elevator arrives.

  He laughs lightly. “It is a jungle in here, isn’t it?”

  I step into the elevator with Declan, and the doors close on us.

  7

  Declan

  Things I’d like to know—why elevators shrink the second you enter them with a guy you’re hot for.

  Can someone explain that law of physics?

  Is it a variation on Newton’s Laws? The space between two people becomes immeasurably smaller when you want to get your hands on him?

  Yeah, I bet that’s a rule of sexual gravity.

  Also, Grant smells incredible. All clean and soapy still, even hours later, and that freshly showered smell is my favorite one on a man.

  Especially when I can dirty him up.

  Damn it.

  Isn’t that exactly what I’m not supposed to think about?

  I blame the elevator. This one feels like it’s two-feet wide, and all I want to do is push him into the corner, slide my hands down his chest and get my lips on his.

  I clench my teeth.

  Will the lust to evaporate.

  I’ve got this. I know what I’m doing. And I sure as shit am not giving in to temptation. I know how to handle the hard stuff. I’ve been handling it for years, ever since I got my life in order in college. Ever since I decided how I wanted to live—in control, in charge.

  This temptation of the rookie is nothing.

  But a little help comes in handy now and then.

  Drawing a deep breath as the elevator chugs past the first floor, I repeat the words I needed back in college. Words that Emma taught me when I was struggling to have the guts to speak in front of a crowd. Doors she opened for me through stanzas, verses, beats.

  I start with Robert Frost.

  The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

  But I have promises to keep . . .

  Poems helped me get over some of my fears.

  They’ve given me strength. They’ve fed me.

  This one gives me the courage to say something I don’t need to say, but I definitely want to say. Grant might admire me for my gameplay, but I admire the hell out of him for what he voiced tonight with one simple pronoun.

  Sometimes when I go on a date, he pays for me. But sometimes I pay for him, depending on my mood.

  I turn to the man next to me. “That took a lot of guts, what you said in the locker room.”

  He meets my gaze, the expression in his dark blue eyes serious. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I’d rather tell my own story.”

  There’s more there for sure. A conversation I’d love to have if we were at dinner. A deep dive I’d like to take. But I can’t, and I won’t.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” I say, keeping it simple as I offer a fist for knocking in solidarity.

  He knocks back.

  But I can’t seem to stay away, so I toss out one question. “Spoken from experience?”

  “Yeah. Before I was ready,” he says, his jaw tight. But then he rolls his shoulders, like he’s shrugging it off, or maybe just moving on.

  “That sucks, man. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” I say, a pang of sympathy tugging on my heart for whatever he went through.

  “That’s why I’d rather speak up. You know?” He looks to me, waits, a man-to-man moment. Wiseass Grant has left the elevator. Hell, he hasn’t been a wiseass this whole ride.

  Solemnly, I nod. “I do. I absolutely do.”

  He exhales deeply, the sound of relief. “What about you? Did you have to do a big song-and-dance show your rookie season too?”

  With a straight face, I answer him. “I did. I chose tap for my routine.”

  “Ah, so that was your pick in the talent portion of the coming out pageant?”

  “Of course. What conveys it better than that?”

  “Little else,” he says with a grin.

  The elevator stops at my floor. As the doors open, I ask, “What floor are you on?”

  “Sixth.”

  I stick my arm between the doors to keep them open. This convo isn’t finished. “But in all seriousness, I wasn’t quite as smooth as you. Honestly, I didn’t know what I was doing.” The memory flashes clearly of awkward, unsure me. “I wrote it down. On a sheet of paper. Photocopied it.”

  His eyes light up with interest. “Yeah? You were going to go the ‘letter to my teammates’ route?”

  The elevator buzzes a complaint, signaling it doesn’t want to entertain this talk. The machine wants to send Grant upstairs, but fuck that. Some talks aren’t meant to remain unfinished.

  I nod to the quiet hall. “Let’s let the elevator do its business. Walk with me, and I’ll tell you the rest.”

  He steps out, and we head down the carpeted hallway. I swallow a little roughly, vividly remembering my first spring training four years ago. “I had this whole letter ready to go. I have a boyfriend, but even if I didn’t, don’t worry. I’m still me.”

  “And did you share it with them?”

  I shake my head. “No. I read it in front of the mirror. Like it was a poem I was practicing for lit class in college. And it sounded so stupid that I crumpled it up and threw it out. Anyway . . .” I heave a sigh and scrub a hand over my jaw. “It took me a while to figure out what to say. I’m not a . . . sharer.”

  That’s the understatement of the year. Of my life.

  “Not everyone is. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “But it was dragging me down, an albatross hung around my neck. So finally, a couple weeks in, I just told the guys when we were playing video games.”

  “And?”

  A small smile tugs at my lips as I remember that night. “Chance said Cool, and we can talk about that if you want, but I’d really like to beat our roommates in Madden first.”

  “And did you? Beat them?”

  I chuckle as we near my room. “We did. Easier to focus after I got that off my chest. Then Chance asked me more questions. He was engaged then. He’s married now to Natasha, but he’s been a relationship guy for as long as I’ve known him. So, he was easy to talk to. Wanted to know if there was someone I was involved with. I said yes. Then he went all Sherlock Holmes and said, ‘that must be why you’re always talking on the phone at night.’”

  “Were you?”

  “Yeah. The guy I was seeing at the time was . . . chatty.”

  “And you’re not?”

  Laughing, I scratch my jaw. “I guess I’m chatty this second. But no, not usually. And I’m more of a texter, anyway.”

  “And what about the rest of the team? Did you say something to them?”

  “The next day, I said something at practice. It was not my finest moment.” I grimace. I’d worked like hell, learning to speak smoothly in front of a crowd, and I wish I’d handled that better. Less . . . chip-on-my-shoulder-y. “I said, ‘this doesn’t mean I’m checking you out in the locker room.’”

  Grant feigns shock. “What? You’re not staring at every other guy around you? You don’t want to bang everything with a dick? C’mon. If you like dudes, you must like every dude, right?”

  I smile, digging his sense of humor. “That’s the gist of it. So, I asked if they wanted to bang every woman they saw.”

  “That made it clear, I hope.”

&
nbsp; I snort. “Not entirely. A couple of guys were like, I’m up for pretty much any chick who wants to sleep with me.”

  Grant cracks up. “Men. We’re pigs, right?”

  “Total fucking pigs,” I add.

  “Did your boyfriend come to games?”

  Unfortunately, he did, even after I told him we needed to cut back, that I had to focus on the sport. Kyle would hang around after the last pitch, waiting for me in the parking lot. When I explained I needed space so I could play the game, he went out and got a press pass and used that to get into the locker room after a game.

  I shake away the unpleasant memories and tell Grant, “He showed up at too many games.”

  The rookie winces. “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. Ouch, indeed.” I pause, weighing what I’m about to say, and who I’m really telling. It’s for me more than him, but I think he’ll listen. He seems to notice a lot, to take everything in.

  “I’ll give you one piece of unsolicited advice,” I say solemnly. “Don’t get involved with a soul your rookie year. You do not need distractions in your first pro season. It’s a make-it-or-break-it time.”

  He gives an I’ve got you grin, clearly on board. “I couldn’t agree more. My best friend calls me Grant ‘Lock It Up’ Blackwood.”

  I arch a brow at that. “You don’t say?”

  I know I need to eighty-six this convo now. By my own advice, I shouldn’t give in to curiosity when something about him intrigues me. But how do I resist when everything about him is so damn intriguing?

  “Only way to do it, right?” Grant says.

  “Only way,” I agree. We’re at my door and I reach for the key card. “You know, they’re going to think that we’re fucking.”

  It’s just an observation, but once those words make landfall, I can picture it, crystal clear.

  Him. Me. Tangled together in the sheets. Sweat, heat, muscles, moans, grunts.

  It’s too damn tantalizing.

  And . . . I should not have put that out there as a hypothetical.

  Now the image of us fucking is playing on repeat in my head.

  And it’s turning me all the way on.

  “Good thing we’re not then,” Grant says.