Scoring With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  “I bet it is,” Miguel puts in, arching a smart-aleck brow.

  I toss a shrug Crosby’s way. “Guess they won’t find out until the end of the night.”

  Grant’s hanging out by the end of the table when he looks up from his phone. “Bullshit. This isn’t a prank,” he says, one of the first things he’s said all night.

  But I am not paying attention to him.

  I am playing a game.

  I aim, shoot, and send the ball into the pocket.

  “Woohoo! My teammate can handle a stick,” Crosby says, thrusting his arms high in the air.

  I bark out a cough then give him a side-eye stare. “Oh no you didn’t.”

  Crosby’s face goes slack. “Oh shit, man. I’m sorry.”

  I crack up, offering him a hand for high-fiving. “Don’t be sorry. You’re not wrong.”

  Crosby rolls his eyes. “Of course you know how to handle a stick, you big stud.”

  “And you’re an ace with the . . . glove,” I say, laughing, but I don’t risk a single glance at Grant.

  Not one.

  I take a few more shots till we miss. I grab my iced tea, and Crosby lifts a beer as Grant strides to the table with Chance, who is a steely-eyed mofo. This will be good practice for me too.

  Watching and talking and not thinking about seeing Grant later.

  Not at all.

  I lean back against the wall and toss out a critical issue for debate to the guys. “LeBron or Jordan?”

  Sullivan snaps his fingers. “Oh, man. That is a tough-ass question, but it has got to be MJ all the way. He did not lose a championship.”

  “Nope. LeBron. Better stats,” Miguel puts in, punctuating his point with a stab of his pool cue to the floor.

  That sparks a great basketball debate for another round as Grant lines up at the corner of the table, calls the shot, then pulls back the stick and smacks the white ball against the black one, sending it home, and winning the game.

  I want to shout, clap him on the back, and say good shot.

  Because I want to whoop and holler for this guy. But I’ve got to treat him just like any other teammate. He’s just another guy who played a solid round of pool. “Good game,” I remark.

  He nods a thanks. That’s all.

  Damn, he is good at ignoring the hell out of me too. I guess he could also teach a master class. He’s been doing it all night long.

  I’m good with that.

  So good with that.

  He clears his throat and lays down the next debate as he racks up. “Who would win in a game against the ’27 Yankees. Us or Murderers’ Row?”

  “Us,” Crosby says in a second.

  “Nah,” I say, shaking my head. “Them.”

  Chance hums thoughtfully. “And why is that?”

  I hold my hands out wide, like it’s obvious. “Because you don’t disrespect Ruth and Gehrig.”

  Grant cracks a smile. “Damn good answer, man.”

  If we were alone, or hell, maybe if we were at The Lazy Hammock again, I would toss out a joke. I would say something to him like, “And I’d also bet on them too, because I don’t think Ruth wanted to fuck Gehrig or vice versa.”

  Then Grant would say, “But what if he did? What if Ruth and Gehrig were really messing around after a game?”

  We’d have a laugh as we ate our dinner on the deck, the warm night air surrounding us, the palm trees swaying. We’d be in the corner table that River hooked us up with.

  It’d become our thing. Grant would call me Ruth and I’d call him Gehrig, and we’d joke about it the next day as we went for a run.

  Maybe he’d even become my off-season guy. The one I poured all my energy into after October. I’d remove my baseball blinders and give him the best of me for a few months.

  I’d take him out, take him home. Be seen or not be seen. I wouldn’t have to care. We could just . . . be. No need to post selfies of our dates, but no need to sneak around either.

  For a fraction of a second, hell, for more than that, I look at Grant like that’s where we are.

  Out together.

  Then in bed, alone.

  I look at him exactly the way I shouldn’t. Like he’s my lover.

  And that’s no good.

  I need control. Must have it. Like I have at the plate.

  Don’t swing at just anything. Don’t let bad calls get to you.

  That’s how I've been.

  And so, I do need to think about Ruth and Gehrig. Anything but Grant.

  Except when the rookie catcher lifts a drink and brings it to his mouth, my eyes sail to the bottle.

  Diet Coke.

  I swallow roughly, itching to touch him, aching to taste his Diet Coke lips. I want to take him in my arms and kiss the hell out of him.

  I practically break the stick in my hands because there’s so much tension flowing through my body.

  Then Grant sets down the bottle, reaches into his pocket again and grabs his phone. He turns away, tapping on it once more.

  I force myself to look away too.

  Practice. This is practice. Doesn’t matter if Grant’s on his phone, if Chance is on his phone, if Sullivan is on his phone.

  It’s not like I’m jealous.

  It’s not like there’s some other guy he’s talking to.

  I’m not worried about that.

  But I do want to know why he’s distracted.

  When it’s time to go, I’m no closer to finding out because half the gang piles into my car, the other half into Chance’s rental.

  Grant’s not with me, so I chat with Sullivan and Miguel.

  My crew walks through the door of the hotel at 10:31 and I make a show of yawning. At 10:33, I’m in my room. At 10:34, I text Grant.

  At 10:35, he replies that the hall is empty, but to give it five minutes anyway.

  I do just that and at 10:40 I leave my room, head for the stairwell, bound up the steps to the sixth floor, and push on the door. I glance right. Left. Right. Left.

  My heart skitters, pulse pounding.

  Coast is still clear.

  But my heart won’t calm down. It’s not from the exertion. A two-flight jaunt is nothing. It’s beating fast from the secret.

  From the sneaking around.

  And the chance that we could get caught.

  I suppose we could book a room at another hotel, but we’d still have to slip out and sneak back in. So even if we were elsewhere, it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.

  I act like I’m doing nothing wrong as I stroll down the hall and head for his room, taking one long glance behind me, making sure no one is around when I reach his door.

  I push it open.

  Once inside, I slide it shut, lock it, exhale.

  Do my best to leave the tension behind me. I made it here, safe and sound, unscathed. To my secret hideaway where no one can find us.

  Grant’s waiting for me on the edge of the bed.

  “How’s it going?” I ask.

  He shudders a sigh. “I’m a fucking mess.”

  My heart thumps with worry, as I head to the bed and sit next to him. “I noticed.”

  “You did?” His voice is stretched thin with worry.

  I run a hand down his thigh. “I kind of notice you,” I say, softly, repeating his words back to him. Speaking my truth.

  “You do?” He can’t seem to mask the smile.

  “Yeah, I notice you, Grant Blackwood.” I squeeze his thigh. “What’s on your mind?”

  I hope to hell it isn’t anything involving us.

  Because right now, right here, all that pretending, all that practicing, and all that rapid heart-beating disappears.

  This is where I want to be.

  25

  Declan

  Grant drops his forehead into his palm. “Skipper called me aside after the game,” he says.

  “What’d he say?”

  Grant adopts an older voice. “How’s it going? Is everyone nice to you?” He lifts his face, roll
s his eyes. “Like he has to make sure no one’s going to beat me up for sucking cock.”

  I sigh sympathetically. “Some of these older guys . . . it’s hard for them, so they think they have to be extra nice. We have to remember it wasn’t always this way. Hell, it wasn’t this way for a long time.” I tilt my head to the side, studying his face, the way his brow creases with worry, how his eyes are etched with concern. “But is that what's bugging you? Because honestly, you seem pretty tough. I don’t buy that one awkward exchange with the coach is turning you into a ‘fucking mess.’” I sketch air quotes. “Your words.”

  Grant shakes his head. “He had me stay for an hour of extra batting practice with Tanaka. Said he wanted to work on things with me. I keep thinking it's a sign, right? I’m the rookie they bet on. The horse they can’t make run, and I’m not performing so they're giving me extra laps, extra runs, before they decide if they’re going to let me go or not.”

  Oh, man. This guy.

  My chest squeezes for him. “Is that what you think?”

  The catcher shrugs, a little helpless. “Well, yeah. I’ve been playing well during spring training, and then I had one bad game, and all of a sudden, they’re all over me saying you’ve got to work on things. So, I bet not only am I not winning the starting job, I’m getting sent down. I called my agent, and she called the GM, and he said everything is fine. But that feels like the kiss of death. It’s like when a boss says he has my full support and the next day, they fire you.”

  I set a hand on his back, run it up and down for reassurance. I’m about to tell him what it means when he builds up a new head of steam.

  “I don’t want to get sent down, Deck. I really don’t. I want to prove to everyone that I can do this,” he says, a pained expression in his eyes. “You get it, man, right? I mean, we have to work that much harder than the others. Just to prove we belong.”

  A fist grips my heart, clutching it. “I get it. One hundred percent.”

  “I want to just fit in. Feel at home. Not feel like I have to work ten times harder. But I will work ten times harder. I have worked ten times harder. Know what I mean?”

  I squeeze his shoulder. “You know I do.”

  The rookie drags a hand roughly through his hair. “This is what I worked my ass off for, all those years. To build a new life,” he says, his voice strung tight with desperation. The sound of it makes it clear baseball is way more than a career for him—it’s a reinvention of his soul. I understand that deeply.

  Innately.

  I understand too, that I alone can put him out of his misery.

  In a soft but clear voice, I cut in. “If I could get a word in edgewise, I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

  “If it’s the answer to this, I would love that,” he says, sounding thoroughly miserable.

  I ruffle his hair. Stifle a grin. “It means they like you, rookie.”

  He jerks away. “What? No way.”

  “It means they absolutely like you. Want to know how I know?”

  “Yes.”

  “They asked me to do that my first spring training. It’s a sign. They’re asking more of you and want to know how you handle it when you have to take on more responsibility. More time. More practice. It’s not bad, Grant. Not at all.”

  “It’s good?” His voice is full of wonder and hope.

  “It’s very good.”

  He breathes out the biggest sigh of relief I’ve ever heard. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Even if they ask you to catch a scrimmage.”

  “Wait. The bullpen catcher and minor leaguers on the roster have been catching most of the inter-squad games. Should I be worried if they ask me to catch one?”

  I smile, shake my head. “No. At least, I don’t think so. I mean, they asked me to take extra batting practice, not catching practice, for obvious reasons. But my point is—it’s a good thing. They want to see you play—see how you perform. You’ve been starting most of the games, and they want to know you can handle the rigor, the attention, the bruising, punishing schedule.”

  “I can definitely handle it,” he says, a note of pride returning to his voice.

  “I know you can. But they want to know too. It’s a good thing.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” I hold out my hand for him to shake.

  He takes my hand. Tugs me toward him. “Thank you,” he says in a rush of gratitude-tinged lust.

  Grant kisses me deeply and passionately, exploring my mouth. Grabbing my face. Hauling me up on the bed. Pinning my wrists above my head. Pushing up on his arms. Staring down at me, playfully angry. “You let me get all worked up.”

  I chuckle. “You worked yourself up, rookie. I had to talk you down first.”

  “Before you could tell me the secret,” he says with narrowed eyes.

  “I wanted to tell you, but you needed to talk it out.”

  “I needed to know,” he grumbles, but does so with a smile. Then, with a deep exhale, he runs his hand through my hair, his touch surprisingly gentle. “I guess you knew what I needed.”

  “I think I did. I was glad I could give it to you,” I say.

  “I was a mess.”

  I laugh lightly. “I know. You were all nervous and twitchy at the pool hall.”

  He arches a skeptical brow. “But I thought you were ignoring me?” he asks, back to sassy, cocky Grant now.

  My eyes sweep up and down the man above me. “Have you seen you? You’re hard to ignore.”

  He hums. “How hard?”

  I raise my knees, plant my feet on the mattress, yank him down between my legs. “Feel for yourself.”

  “Mmm,” Grant murmurs, slamming his pelvis against my cock that’s warming up to come out and play.

  “Yeah, you’re getting good at that, rookie.”

  “At dry humping you?” he asks with a laugh.

  “At showing me what you want,” I correct.

  “It’s easy with you,” he says, swiveling his hips, grinding his hard-on against me.

  I loop my hands around to his firm ass, sliding them down the back of his shorts, grabbing that hard, muscled butt of his. Angling him just so, in the perfect way for him to ride my cock someday. Someday soon. “Why is it easy with me? To show me what you want?” I thrust up, like he’s riding my dick, and hell, that is a fine image.

  Grant lets out a long, hot shudder. “Don’t know,” he says, all husky as he works his ass against the ridge of my erection.

  “You don’t know?” I challenge, squeezing that flesh, my fingers drifting down the seam of his ass—my playground for tonight.

  “Maybe because you want to give it to me? That’s all I can figure,” he rasps out.

  I smile. Wickedly. “That’s a good enough reason,” I tell Grant on an upthrust, one that I hope lets him feel how hard I am for him. Then, I bring his face down to mine, and whisper across his lips, “I’d like to introduce myself to your prostate tonight.”

  Grant lets out a staggered breath. “Yes, please. Yes.”

  I tug at his shirt. “Off.”

  He nods savagely, slides away from me, and sheds his shirt, shorts, and boxer briefs.

  I do the same, grab the lube from the nightstand, and climb on top, straddling him.

  My dick slaps against his stomach, then I nod. “Gimme room. Want to be between your thighs.”

  He widens his legs. “Like this?”

  “Feel free to raise your knees. I want access.”

  With zero fear, only excitement, Grant lifts his knees, plants his feet down, widens his legs.

  I can’t resist giving him a preview. I kneel between those muscular thighs, slide my hands up the back of them, lift his legs up in the air, and get him in the perfect position for a pounding. “This position?”

  “Yeah?” His voice is dripping with sexual intrigue.

  “It’ll be one of your favorites.”

  “For topping or bottoming?”

  “Mmm. Bottoming. Feels so
fucking good. I love being on my back.” I rock my hips, thrusting my cock in the air, gripping his thighs harder, pushing his legs farther apart. “The way you are right now? How does it make you feel?”

  “Honestly? A little vulnerable,” the blue-eyed man beneath me admits. “But turned on too.”

  “Good. That’s how I’m going to feel when you fuck me like this,” I murmur.

  He stutters out a breath. “This is how you want it when I’m inside you?”

  I stare down at Grant, my blood roaring. “Yes,” I say, since I want to wind him up, turn him on, get him seeing all the ways we can fuck. With no limits on roles. I might be teaching him, but I want him to discover how we can turn each other on. All the ways we can trade off. “That’s how I want you to fuck me for the first time.”

  He just groans—a long, needy groan that makes my balls tingle. That lights me up. I slide my hand down to his ass, my fingers teasing over his skin. “Want to know why it’s going to feel so good for me?”

  “Yeah?” he says, like he’s hanging on every word.

  “Because I can look at you the whole time. I can see your face, the pleasure on it as you drive deep into me. Because I can enjoy the view of your body. And, when you fuck me like this, you can nail my prostate so damn good.” The glassy look in his eyes tells me he likes the sound of all that. “Let me give you a taste of how good that’ll feel.”

  I let go of his legs, settle between them and grab the lube, as Grant slides a hand down his shaft, playing with his balls.

  As I set to work on his ass, I stare at the sexy sight in front of me. This man I didn’t know a month ago. A man who has become a friend. A man I care about in ways I never expected.

  A man I want to take to the edge and back.

  So I begin.

  26

  Grant

  The internet is my best friend, my study companion, and my research guide.

  I’m so glad I was born in this time for so many reasons, but among them is the vast array of opportunities for self-directed education. I’ve learned about bodies.

  Explored my own body too.

  I’ve fingered myself.