Scoring With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  As good as new.

  That’s how Benji describes my sleek i-8 when I arrive to pick up the BMW on a Saturday morning at his body shop in San Rafael, just past the Golden Gate Bridge.

  “Check it out, Declan. You can’t even tell that the butterfly door was smashed,” he says, sweeping an arm out to show off his handiwork.

  I wince at the reminder of how terrible those beautiful doors looked a few weeks ago and how much it’s cost to fix them.

  I’m not talking about money.

  I’m talking about the ugly scene in front of my home in Pacific Heights when I saw what my ex had done to this hot tamale of a sports car.

  “You, sir, are a master at covering up all the mistakes of my past,” I say, pointing to the man in coveralls.

  Benji laughs. “We’ve all been there,” he says, then opens the gorgeous car door. There’s not a single nick in the paint, much less a gargantuan crack down the middle.

  “Let’s hope none of us go there again. Promise you’ll never date a jerk who thinks knocking back a bottle of merlot and taking your new car out for a joy ride is a good idea.” The words are bitter, but nothing compared to the acrid memory of the damage the TV star had done that night.

  Not just to the car.

  To my trust.

  Benji holds up a fist for knocking. “I’ll do my best to avoid it. But I have dated jerks. Happens to all of us. So don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  But that’s what I do.

  If I don’t stay disciplined, if I’m not obsessed with doing my best . . . I’ll do my worst.

  I thank Benji and pay him, adding a fat tip, then I slide into the black beauty and pat the dash.

  “Missed you, babe,” I say, even though I’m not a car person.

  It wasn’t the car I missed while it was under the knife with Benji.

  It was the control.

  As I turn the engine on and cruise onto the highway, that sense of order starts to return. It floats through the air in the vehicle, wafts around like a new cologne. Scent of Sensibility.

  I laugh at that, but sensibility is precisely what I need, along with discipline and order.

  With the car fixed and the relationship kiboshed, I’m getting my life in order. I despise messes like this—Nathan getting loaded while I was recording a radio spot in a studio on this side of the bay, then grabbing my keys and speeding across the Golden Gate Bridge in this baby. I hated how his Ari Gold-esque agent showed up to triage the debacle and spin it into something less damning for his A-list client than getting drunk on merlot and wrecking his boyfriend’s car.

  Oh, I mean, ahem, getting a ride home from Ari’s assistant who was totally sober when they took out the hapless hydrant. Which didn’t even make sense.

  After the tow truck arrived, I said good riddance, but Nathan showed up at my place after midnight, swore he wouldn’t do it again, and made a public scene on the front steps until his agent arrived (again) and carted him off to a “spa” for a month-long rest.

  As for me, I erased Nathan’s number from my phone.

  Clean break is the best way to go.

  My jaw clenches as I rewind past that night to too many nights when I was younger, too many lies from people I trusted. But as I hit the bridge, the Pacific Ocean spreading out to the west, the bay to the east, I leave those lies behind—those from men, those from family.

  Once I reach the city, I cruise over to Russian Hill, snag a sweet spot on the street, and meet my mom and her husband for lunch at one of our favorite cafés.

  Inside, I drop a kiss to Mom’s cheek—we have the same dark brown hair and the same color eyes—then hug Tyler and ruffle his sleek black hair. The dude has locks like a K-Pop star in his fifties. “Ty, I know Mom likes you for you, but it’s hard to believe the hair didn’t factor into her saying I do.”

  Mom brings her finger to her lips. “Shhh. He doesn’t know I married him for his hair,” she whispers. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “I get it. There’s nothing like a full head of hair on a man,” I say.

  Tyler flicks his hair around like a shampoo model. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

  I love that these two are so into each other eight years after tying the knot. My mom deserves it after the shit she went through with my dad.

  Scanning the table, I spot a glass of water with my name on it, and I lift it and toast, “I’ll drink to the two of you and the start of baseball.”

  “Let’s all drink to that,” she says, and both of them raise their glasses.

  Just a few more days till Arizona, and that means it’s nearly time for blinders.

  Family, friends, and baseball.

  I’m seeing family now, and then tomorrow I’ll head to New York to visit some friends before spring training begins.

  That is all I need.

  That is all I want.

  Things I’ve learned about good friends: they will always take you out after a breakup.

  Things I’ve learned about breakups: pool makes everything better, and it’s a necessity since most dates don’t work out. Most men don’t amount to much. And it’s a good thing too. Balancing a man and this life would be hard.

  I circle the table, then line up the shot at The Lucky Spot in Chelsea, where I play the game with my buddy Fitz and his sister.

  “Bet you miss,” he rumbles as I pull back the cue, the red ball in my crosshairs.

  “Yeah, because my eye-hand coordination is soooo bad,” I drawl as I take aim at the white ball, hit it, then send the red ball into the corner pocket. I gloat at the pro hockey star, squaring my shoulders. “Take that, player of a less popular sport.”

  “Ouch,” he says, wiggling his fingers like I’ve scared him. “Also, that was a lucky break.”

  Emma laughs, leaning against the corner of the table, nursing the tail end of a margarita. “James, you do realize this is the third game in a row where Declan has destroyed you?” She’s the only person who calls James Fitzgerald by his first name. Everyone else, present company included, shortens his last name.

  Fitz scoffs, shrugging off his sister’s most accurate scorekeeping. “I won the first game.”

  “The first game last night,” I point out.

  Emma holds up a palm to high-five me, and I smack back. I return my laser sights to the table, moving around it to send the purple ball, then the orange one, to their homes before I miss with the green.

  “Damn,” I mutter.

  “Have you considered that maybe I let you win the other games because I felt sorry for you on account of your douche of an ex?” Fitz asks as he strikes the cue ball square in the center, knocking it against a striped ball that spins straight into a corner pocket.

  “You are so damn competitive that even if you felt sorry for me, you don’t have it in you to let someone win,” I say.

  He growls. “Dammit. You’re right.”

  I pat my chest. “Ergo, I won fair and square.”

  Fitz raises his right arm and points to the side of the table. “A hundred bucks says I hit the blue stripes into the center pocket.”

  “What are you, Babe Ruth calling your shot? Five hundred bucks says I crush you in this game.”

  “How about both of you sit in the corner in time-out for beating your chests like boys?” Emma asks with a laugh. “It’s just a game. Who cares?”

  I freeze in horrified disbelief. “Just a game?”

  Fitz blinks, staring at her like she’s speaking math. “Who cares?”

  I point at her, steel in my gaze. “Nothing is just a game. Games are life. Games are everything.”

  Fitz nods solemnly, stabs a finger against his sternum. “And we care. We care completely. Allow me to demonstrate how much.”

  But he misses his shot, and I proceed to destroy him, and fifteen minutes later, I collect $500, thank you very much.

  I set my cue in the holder on the wall. “Too bad you’re not better, Fitz. I’d have expected you to win a few since you play a game w
ith a stick.” I take a beat. “But then again, I play with sticks and balls.”

  Fitz scrubs a hand across his jaw, lifts his beer from the edge of the table, takes a drink, then says drily, “I’m pretty sure I do that too.”

  “Guys.” Emma shoulders her purse, shaking her head. “Is it possible to spend one game of pool with you two without some dirty innuendo?”

  I look at Fitz, screw up my lips in consideration, then shake my head. “It’s not possible, I’m afraid.”

  “Ems, just cover your ears if you don’t like it,” Fitz says.

  Truth is, though, she doesn’t care.

  She’s used to us—and to me. Back in college, where I met her, I helped her in math, and she helped me in poetry, of all things.

  But I needed it. Hell, did I ever.

  She’s how I met Fitz, too, when she took me to one of his hockey games shortly after I was drafted. Nothing ever happened between her brother and me, and that’s a good thing. I like having him in my life—friends are constant; men come and go.

  “So, did you pretend all night that the eight ball was Nathan? Is that why you were so zoned in?” Emma asks, draping an arm around me as we make our way out of The Lucky Spot.

  “I’m over him. He’s yesterday’s news,” I say. “I deleted his number.”

  “But has he contacted you?” Fitz asks, pinning me with a stare.

  “Nope. Just the way I like it.”

  “Nobody does clean breaks like you do,” Emma says.

  She’s not wrong. It’s my special skill, and Nathan is the latest red-hot reminder that relationships belong on the back burner.

  Now, more than ever—this is a critical time in my career.

  I’m twenty-six, entering my fifth year with the San Francisco Cougars. The money is good, the sponsorships are great, the perks are awesome, and I treat my body like a temple, so it treats me the same way.

  “Besides,” I add, “I’m not looking for a relationship, let alone a fling or even a hookup. I’m heading into spring training with zero distractions, just like I do every year. This season will be no different.”

  Fitz chuckles—a knowing, self-deprecating sort of laugh. He went into training camp a season or so ago with the same mentality. “Famous last words.”

  I toss him a smirk. “Famous for you. You broke your pact, but you’re the exception.”

  He flashes the platinum band his husband gave him several months ago. “Breaking it did work out pretty well.”

  “Ignore my brother. He’s a big love showoff,” Emma chimes in, then links her arm through mine. “But you’re tough as nails, Declan. You’ll go to Arizona with Nathan behind you and the game ahead of you.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “I’m not looking to meet anyone, but it doesn’t matter because I won’t do anything. I won’t give in to temptation.”

  A few days later, I arrive in Arizona, refreshed, renewed, and determined.

  Then I meet Grant Blackwood.

  After the one day spent with him, I’m pretty sure he’s about to become the biggest temptation of my life.

  2

  Grant

  A week before spring training

  * * *

  I’ve wanted this since I turned six. Knew when I would do it too. When I’d walk through the door of this tattoo shop, strip off my shirt, and flop down in the dentist-style chair, skin on display, ready to be marked.

  The one thing that has changed over the years is what kind of ink I’d want when this moment arrived.

  At six or seven, I imagined a ball or a glove, but later, those seemed too childish.

  When I was a teen, I thought I’d get a saying. One of those great baseball adages from Yogi Berra about how it’s not over till it’s over.

  Eventually, I realized this ink needed to be something bigger.

  A tattoo to mark the dream I’ve been chasing since I was a kid, and what I hope is the start of the rest of my life.

  I’m even at a shop in the town where I grew up. Seems fitting.

  The electric-blue-haired, lip-ringed tattoo artist tugs on latex gloves, snaps them, and shoots me a now-or-never look. “Ready?” Echo asks.

  “I’m always ready,” I say.

  That’s how I’ve learned to live my life. Lord knows I was blindsided too many times when I was younger. I learned too many things I didn’t want to know about people I loved. People I trusted.

  I toss my navy-blue T-shirt to my best friend, Reese, who catches it one-handed then clutches it to her chest. “Should I act like one of your adoring fans? Try to steal your shirt? Ask for an autograph?”

  I laugh. “They’re free for you, babe.”

  She hugs the shirt tight. “I’m so lucky.”

  “Course you are,” I say with a wink. Then I shrug. “And I don’t have that many adoring fans.”

  “Emphasis on yet,” Reese says.

  “Did I say yet?”

  “No, but I heard the yet,” she says.

  The tattoo artist laughs as she rubs alcohol on my right pec. “Gotta say—I heard it too.”

  “Fine, fine. If you ladies insist, I’ll try it again.” I clear my throat. “I don’t have that many adoring fans. Yet.”

  “But you will so very soon,” Reese says as she sinks into the chair facing me in Echo’s work area.

  “How long have you two known each other?” Echo asks as she reaches for a razor, quickly adding she’s going to shave the location for the ink.

  “Since I was eight. She was six,” I say, tossing a glance at Reese, her blonde hair curling over her shoulders, her face as familiar as my sister’s. “We grew up on the same block, across the street from each other.”

  “Our grandmothers are besties,” Reese adds. “They played competitive Scrabble together as teammates, and on nights when I would fall asleep in his room at their house, we’d hear them arguing over whether ‘ew’ is a word.”

  “It’s definitely a word,” Echo says as she works the blade across my chest. Delicate vines and tiny flowers twine along the porcelain skin on her right arm. “And that’s adorable. The grandmas and the sleepovers. And that you’ve known each other forever.”

  Reese’s blue eyes twinkle in my direction. We’ve been down this road many times, people always trying to figure out if we’re childhood sweethearts.

  But Echo doesn’t ask the usual next question—are you two together? She just tosses the razor into the trash, grabs the stencil paper, and transfers it to my chest. The design is a simple arrow; my style is minimalist when it comes to my ink. No swirly lions or elaborate skulls for this guy.

  “What’s the story with this arrow?” Echo asks, sounding genuinely curious.

  I’m happy to share the meaning behind this ink—my words to live by. “Reaching your goals. Finding your way. And keeping your momentum.”

  “Finding your way is a good message. A good reminder.” As Echo preps the needles and ink, her eyes stray to my other tats—the mountain design, the compass, and the bands around my biceps that look like water.

  “Nice art. When did you get your first?” she asks, and I’m glad she’s not prying open the why of each one.

  Echo seems to sense it’s best to tread carefully. Smart woman. Ink is usually personal, but I drop a nugget I bet she’ll dig. “My grandpa brought me here for my first one when I was eighteen. He wanted to make sure I went to a good shop with a good rep,” I say.

  Her smile deepens. “Let me guess—Grandpa’s got some ink too?”

  “He does.” I keep going, staying ahead in the story. “I like to mark the big events in my life. That’s kind of my thing. When I hit a milestone, I like to celebrate with a tattoo. Or a piercing.”

  In some ways, I am an open book. People ask me questions, and I answer them.

  A lot of times, I offer info.

  I don’t see the point in being all secretive and shit about who you are. It takes you long enough to figure it out sometimes, but once you do, there’s no reason to hide it.
>
  “Once you’ve figured it out” being the operative phrase.

  “What about this one?” she says, pointing to the stainless-steel barbell on my left pec. “What’s that for?”

  I glance down at the piercing that runs through my left nipple. I definitely want to get ahead of this story.

  Sometimes it’s easy to say.

  Sometimes it takes serious cojones.

  It depends on who you’re telling, and you never know with people.

  “Ah, this thing?” I say, “Got that when I knew for sure I liked guys.”

  I wait for the momentary surprise, the quick rearrangement of her expression. Everybody’s got some sort of reaction. But this woman with the chill attitude? She just laughs then leans a little closer. “What do you know? I’ve got one too, on my left boob. Feels great when a guy touches it, right?”

  I crack up. “I highly recommend it.”

  Echo glances at my friend and shoots her a smile. “I had a hunch you two were just friends.”

  Reese, who shares a name with the famous actress she looks like, twists her hair into a ponytail, smiling too. “He’s my best friend.”

  I wink at Reese. “You’re mine, woman.” Then I turn to Echo. Since she didn’t assume we’re together, I have a chance to satisfy my curiosity. “What gave away that there’s nothing more between us?”

  The tattoo artist gives me a smile. “You look at her like she’s your sister, not your lover.”

  “Fair enough,” I say as Echo dips the needle into ink and gets to work.

  Of course I don’t look at Reese that way. But what would it be like to look at someone like he was my lover rather than a hookup?

  I’ve no clue. No clue at all.

  As Echo colors in the stencil, she chats more about my ink, asking the what, why, and when. I give her some answers, but I don’t dive into the nitty-gritty of everything the tattoos mean to me.

  There is more to them.

  There’s more to almost anything in life. But I’ve learned that you need to pick and choose who you share your shit with.

  I don’t mean the shit I’m easily open about now—I play baseball, I love board games and thrillers, I dig dudes, I will stand by my friends come hell or high water, and if you make bank and you don’t give a ton of it away, you’re a dick and not the good kind.