Scoring With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  I shake my head adamantly. “It’s fine. I can handle it. Because I’m Grant ‘Lock It Up’ Blackwood.”

  She laughs softly. “Are you, though?”

  “Fuck, yeah. I’ve got this. I’ve done it for years. No one is better at this than I am,” I say, full of a bravado I don’t entirely feel.

  But maybe I need to fake it.

  We end the call, and I catch up with some of the other rookies. We hang in Sullivan’s room on the second floor, chowing on pizza in between Xbox sessions. Like we did in the minors when Sullivan and I were roomies and Miguel would hang at our place.

  Sullivan bests Miguel and me in a ruthless game on the virtual court, brutal enough to take my mind entirely off that other guy.

  After another thrashing, Sullivan sets down the controller. Hip hop blasts from his phone. “Dude, how much better is this suite than our shitty little apartment in Bakersfield?” He’s always had a kind of casual cool that makes him easy to hang with. “We’ve got our Xbox, and pizza and our music . . .”

  “The only thing that would make this better would be a couple of babes,” Miguel says. “And you can wingman us like you did in Triple A.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I say.

  “With your face and my charm, it’s a one-two punch reeling them in,” Sullivan says.

  I crack up. “You wish you reeled ’em in.”

  “I do have a good face, though. Admit it. Spitting image of Ryan Reynolds,” Sullivan says, setting a hand on his cheek and batting his eyelashes.

  I snort. “Hate to break it to you . . . you’re more like Ryan Reynolds in your dreams. IRL, maybe his second cousin or something.”

  Miguel guffaws. “So, if he’s Deadpool, can I be Michael Peña?”

  I shake my head. “Go for Rafael Silva as a comp. He’s much hotter. And if you don’t believe me, check out 9-1-1: Lone Star.”

  Grabbing his phone, Miguel googles the actor then nods approvingly. “Yes! I will take that comp, thank you very much. I will add it to my Tinder profile. How about you, Grant? You cruising for a spring-training hookup?”

  Yes, with our shortstop.

  “Nah. No time for that. Baseball is what I’m all about,” I say, underlining that in my head, putting it on a Post-it, and sticking it on my mental fridge.

  “True. That’s why hookups—and only hookups—are the way to go,” Sullivan says. “We need to be all about baseball.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I say.

  I wiggle the controller, asking if they want one more round. We go at it, and this time, I win. On that high note, I yawn and tell the guys I’m hitting the sack.

  “Catch you in the a.m.,” I say on my way out.

  I make my way to the elevator. With another yawn, I push the call button, and when the doors open, I startle briefly. The skipper’s in the lift, holding a carton of what looks like Thai food. He gives me a crisp nod. “Hey there, Blackwood.”

  “Hello, sir.”

  “How are you enjoying spring training?” he asks as I step inside.

  “It’s great, sir,” I say.

  “You’re playing well,” he says.

  I have no choice but to smile. “Thank you. And is that mango in there?”

  “Mango sticky rice. The Thai place down the street has it. I get it every night. Reminds me of this spot I used to go to when I played in the farm leagues.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “That was probably before you were born.”

  I laugh—he’s not wrong. Our manager played in the majors for fifteen years as a hard-hitting outfielder before becoming one of the best damn coaches ever, with a killer post-season record. He reminds me of Dusty Baker, in looks and in attitude, and he’s the calm rudder we need and want.

  “I imagine it was,” I say.

  “And now this mango sticky rice is my spring training vice. I suppose I’m allowed that at my age,” he says drily.

  “I’d say you’ve earned it, sir.”

  “Mrs. Fisher would have me cut back, but that’s why I indulge when I’m away.” He brings his finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell her.”

  “Your secret is safe with me, sir,” I say as the elevator reaches the sixth floor and I step out.

  I take a deep breath as soon as the door to my room shuts behind me.

  That was fun with the guys.

  I needed it too. It took my mind off other matters, and now sleep will do the rest.

  I hit the shower, which always helps me crash. I crank the temperature to high, and it heats me everywhere.

  Or maybe my thoughts do that—they return to Declan in a heartbeat. All that time with my buds did nothing to squash this desire.

  Not a damn thing.

  A few days later, Declan and I are running along the golf course again, debating a vital topic.

  “Pierce Brosnan is underrated,” Declan insists.

  I scoff. “You’re seriously telling me he was the best Bond?”

  “I’m saying he doesn’t get his due.”

  “Two words. Daniel Craig.”

  “I’m not denying that Daniel Craig does a fine job.”

  I snort. “A fine job? Daniel Craig is Bond. There is no question about it.”

  Declan shrugs easily. “The best Bond debate is not a one or the other for me. You’re a one-Bond man? Only loyal to Craig?”

  “I’m saying that once you’ve seen Daniel Craig, you can’t go back.”

  “Nah. I’m all for Brosnan. That’s my vote.”

  “I would say you’ve got a thing for Brits, but they’re all Brit,” I say with a laugh.

  “I don’t have a thing for Brits. Do you?” He sounds more serious than I did, like he truly wants to know my preferences.

  I wiggle a brow, fucking with him. “I don’t mind the blokes,” I say in a terrible British accent.

  He cracks up. “That was awful.”

  “Rubbish. It was rubbish.”

  “That too, mate,” he says in a decent Aussie accent.

  “Down under, are you there?” I ask, sliding into an Australian voice and botching it terrifically.

  “Wow. You really suck at accents,” Declan says.

  My big mouth gets the better of me. I don’t even think twice.

  “I do, but there are lots of other things I don’t suck at.”

  With a slow turn of his head, he locks eyes with me, his deep voice all kinds of raspy. “Such as?”

  In for a penny, in for a pound. “Sucking.”

  On that note, I do my best to leave him in the dust. But he catches up with me. “I thought we weren’t going to flirt,” he says.

  “Is it flirting if you’re telling the truth?”

  “You are too dangerous, rookie. Far too dangerous.”

  Maybe I want danger.

  “You like danger,” I counter, feeling bold.

  Declan laughs once, his lips curving up in a grin. “Seems I do.”

  The next day, I level-up the Bond conversation. I want to see what will happen if we get personal about our preferences. So, I pull out that reliable but inappropriate icebreaker, “Which out celebrities would you sleep with?”

  In the gym at the complex, we name them as we lift. It’s a roster of a lot of the usual suspects. For athletes, there’s former soccer star Robbie Rogers and retired hockey player Brock McGillis, and circling around to actors, we agree on Cheyenne Jackson for sure, and call Matt Bomer at the same time.

  We knock fists between reps.

  “I would not kick him out of bed for eating crackers,” I say. “I’d also kiss him in the morning, and I hate morning breath.”

  Declan laughs. “Same here. Also, there’s just something super-hot about men who know who they are and aren’t afraid to be themselves.”

  Yes, indeed, there is something super-hot about that.

  When the workout ends and we’re heading toward the locker room, I stop tangoing with danger.

  I roll the dice and tell Declan, “Wait, there’s one more.”

&
nbsp; “Who’s that?”

  I’ve never felt anything like this spark, this sizzle. It’s impossible to turn off when all I want to do is let him turn me on. I feel everything I’ve ever wanted to feel as a man. With a man.

  This kind of attraction.

  This kind of desire.

  I am in its clutches and it can have me, so I say, “There’s you.”

  Turning on my heel, I head into the locker room, buzzed, and I haven’t touched a drop of anything.

  With my every cell humming, I put on my baseball uniform then go out to the field with the team and stretch. The skipper tells me I’m starting the game today, and our backup catcher, Rodriguez, might come in for the fifth. I thank him, privately hoping his plan keeps me on track to win the starting slot.

  After we stretch, we pile onto the team bus for a game thirty minutes away. I sit next to Crosby and chat with him, doing my best to avoid Declan’s hot stare.

  At the moment I told him, it seemed like a good idea. But right now? Hell, I might have fucked up our friendship.

  Feels like a gut punch, and I ask myself if I’ve fucked up this team too.

  Why the hell did I throw that down?

  Because I can’t handle this much lust?

  Like hell I can’t.

  I put everything else aside, spend the rest of the ride getting into the zone, blocking out everything else.

  I call a flawless game, and I play even better at the plate, clobbering in a three-run homer that puts us in the lead.

  I breathe a small sigh of relief.

  Maybe I haven’t crossed the line.

  But there’s no time to dwell on it—in the bottom of the eighth, we nearly choke up the lead when Sullivan struggles on the mound.

  I’ve got a hunch about why he’s so nervous. I overheard the pitching coach saying that Sullivan was on the bubble for the final roster. His throwing tonight says he’s feeling the pressure. He’s all over the place, and I’ve been lunging for wild pitches left and right.

  Pushing up my mask, I trot out to the mound and clap a hand on his shoulder. “You got this, Sullivan. Take a breath, block out all the crap, and put that curveball in my glove. That is all you have to do. Nothing else matters.”

  He huffs out hard. “Thanks, man.”

  The next pitch is a wicked curve that the batter misses.

  Sullivan walks off the mound, not unscathed. But at least we’re still in the lead. He catches up to me and taps his glove to mine. “I needed that. Appreciate it.”

  That’s the type of advice my grandpa always gave to me when I was struggling, so I’m happy to pass on the wisdom to a friend. “Anytime.”

  Chance comes on at the bottom of the ninth to close it out, sealing up a win. We high-five, but when I make my way to the dugout, I look for Sullivan. “You want to toss the ball when we’re back?”

  His eyes light up. “You’d do that?”

  I furrow my brow. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  He exhales all those nerves in a frustrated sigh. “My head’s a mess. That wasn’t surprise, that was gratitude, because I’m glad for your help.”

  Sullivan and I meet later on the backfield at the Cougars complex, throwing pitches until he feels the mojo again. It’s just the two of us, and when we wrap up, we knock fists over a good session.

  “You’re the man,” he says, more relaxed and confident. “Any chance we can meet again in the morning before the first workout?”

  “Of course,” I say, hiding my disappointment at missing my time with Declan. But then, I have no idea whether he’s going to be up for it after this morning.

  We head to the locker room, and Sullivan showers lickety-split.

  I take my time, letting the water beat down on my head and neck, letting it soothe the aches from the game.

  When I turn it off, the locker room has that empty feel.

  Can’t say I mind it, though.

  Wrapping a towel around my waist, I grab another one, drying off my hair before I toss it in the towel bin then turn toward my locker.

  Someone’s waiting there for me.

  “We need to talk.”

  11

  Grant

  I do love a hot pair of wheels, so I tell Declan as much when I slide into the BMW that waits for us outside the complex.

  “Sweet ride,” I remark, trying to keep my voice steady as I compliment his rental. I slide into the passenger seat, buckling the seatbelt, clicking it in. “I’m going to get one of these someday. You’re happy with it?”

  I’m spitting out words, any words, because I have no idea what he wants to talk about, but it can’t be good.

  I glance out the window at the empty parking lot. It’s just us.

  Even so, there’s nothing technically risqué about me heading out with one of my teammates.

  “Yeah. It’s fine,” he bites out.

  The crispness in his delivery makes me wince.

  Shit. I’m talking too much to cover my nerves.

  A whole squadron of them.

  But what else would I feel? The man has demanded to talk to me.

  And I doubt it’s to tell me my comment from earlier was cool or that it rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. More likely it’s to say, Stop coming on to me, rookie.

  My brain races through other scenarios just in case I’m reading him wrong.

  He can’t want to talk about the way I throw to second base.

  He likely doesn’t need an intro to my agent.

  No, there’s only one thing he could want to discuss—putting an end to the I want to sleep with you talk.

  I put on an “everything’s fine” face like it’s armor.

  I did it for years when I was younger—when my parents fought, when they hurled vitriol at each other in front of me, when they went to their room and fucked it out.

  Nothing to see here, folks.

  Move along.

  We are all fine here.

  Only this time, there’s no escape to Grandma and Grandpa’s house or to Reese’s home. There is no hiding in the backyard to take imaginary swings with my imaginary bat.

  Instead, I am here, next to someone who actually wants to have a conversation.

  I’m not used to people wanting to talk.

  Declan cruises away from the complex onto the road that shoots us past the hotel.

  “I take it we’re not going to the suites?” I ask, though, if we were, he wouldn’t need his car.

  He shakes his head.

  “Where are we going?”

  He breathes out hard through his nostrils. “Someplace our teammates won’t be.”

  My stomach twists.

  This talk is going to be bad.

  But I started it. I’ve got to deal with the fallout. “I heard about a bar called The Lazy Hammock, not far from here in Scottsdale. Do you want to go there?” I looked up the place after Echo told me about her brother. Then I finish the suggestion with a key detail. “It’s a gay bar.”

  “Sounds good,” Declan mutters. “Tap it into the GPS.”

  I do as he asks, and the robotic lady tells us we’ll arrive in ten minutes. I slide my palms along my jeans to rid them of the sweat as he drives into the Arizona evening, saguaros lining the road like sentries in the night.

  I hunt for something to say, some words to fill the cavernous quiet in the car, something to replace the interminable echo of my mistake.

  “So, Sullivan is doing better,” I say, my voice raspy with worry.

  “Good.”

  Declan said he’s not a chatter. He is proving that tonight.

  “I’m going to help him again in the morning. A little extra bullpen practice.”

  “Bet he’ll appreciate it.”

  He doesn’t mention what that means for our routine. Am I the only one who’s going to miss not seeing each other at dawn?

  I try again to engage him. “So, that was a good game tonight.”

  His answer is clipped. “Yep.”

&
nbsp; My throat tightens. I screwed up royally.

  I push my head back against the leather headrest. Why the hell did I say that to him earlier? Why did I tell the shortstop that I wanted to sleep with him?

  Oh, yeah. Because I do. Because I want it so damn badly. Because the more time I spend with him, the more the desire to kiss him, touch him, taste him escalates. This desire pounds through my blood. It scrambles my brain.

  I tug on the brim of my hat, adjusting the bill.

  My neck is hot, prickling with nerves, as he turns down another street.

  He drives like he plays baseball. No distractions. All focus. Eyes on the road. I guess that’s a good thing, but it winds up the tension inside me until I think something will snap.

  After a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence, passing some office buildings, a shopping center, and a hotel, we reach the bar, and he parks then cuts the engine. As I get out, he grabs a Las Vegas Hawks ball cap from the console, and he pulls the brim low too. I doubt I’ll be recognized, and I’m not sure he will either, but better safe than sorry.

  We head inside, where I glance around, taking in the decor, mostly to have something to do.

  It’s very Arizona meets Florida. Open windows, Jack Johnson playing overhead, palm trees and cacti lining the deck. The place is casual, easygoing, and half-packed. As the host takes us to a table on the deck, we pass the bar, and I catch a glimpse of Echo’s brother. He looks just like he did in the picture his sister showed me. His left arm is covered in ink.

  He’s chatting with a customer—smiling too.

  I wish Declan would smile.

  We reach the table in the corner, and the host hands us drink menus, then a bar menu. Declan thanks him, and I do the same.

  Once he’s gone, Declan breaks the silence at last. “How’d you hear about this place? Have you been here before?”

  It’s a massive relief to be able to answer him rather than ask him dead-end questions. I slide a finger along the T-shirt fabric over my right pec. “The tattoo artist who did my arrow?”

  He nods, letting me know he’s seen that mark on me.

  “Her brother owns it. Runs it.”