Scoring With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  I’m talking about the darker truths.

  The things that lie deeper beneath the skin.

  That’s why I’m open about some things and closed about others. Some pieces of yourself you wear on your body, and others you bury so goddamn far inside you that you’re not sure anyone will ever see them.

  “But the arrow is my favorite,” I say, glancing down at the one she’s doing.

  She smiles as she works, her gaze never straying from my chest. “I’m flattered, but it’s not even done.”

  “Almost though, and I already know it’ll be the one I like best,” I say.

  “Why’s that?”

  This is easy to share, part of the open book of me. Because nothing is hidden with baseball; everything is on the field.

  “I promised myself this ink back when I was six.”

  I’m stoked to be getting this milestone marker. I got the news from my agent the other day that the San Francisco Cougars were calling me up from Triple-A and sending me to spring training with the chance of making the majors.

  “I haven’t met a lot of clients who planned to be tattooed when they were six,” Echo says.

  “The first time I hit a homer in Little League when I was seven, I told my whole family I was going to get a tat when I had an opportunity to land a slot in the majors,” I say, shifting my gaze to Reese.

  My best friend lifts her phone, angles it toward me, and snaps a picture. “And look at you now.”

  Echo smiles, bright and wide. “Nice! When do you start?”

  “Next week. Pitchers and catchers report first, and I’m a catcher. I’m heading to Phoenix. First time at spring training.”

  “Then this arrow is even more perfect. Goals, focus, forward momentum. What’s your name so I can watch you become famous?”

  Reese answers like a ballpark announcer, warbling the lineup. “And now, batting fourth, and hailing from the great state of California, with a .327 batting average in Triple-A, is Grant ‘Knows He’s Hot Shit’ Blackwood.”

  I crack up. “Tell us what you really think, Reese.”

  Reese shrugs. “Actually, I think you’re hot shit too. So, I suppose it works.”

  Echo laughs as she finishes, putting down the needle on her work stand. “I will look out for that and maybe tell my brother to watch.” She gives me the instructions for tattoo aftercare, then sets her hand on my arm. “River lives in the Phoenix area if you’re looking for a friend during spring training. He runs a bar—The Lazy Hammock in Scottsdale. Don’t worry—it’s not a baseball bar.”

  She whips out her phone and shows me a picture of a guy standing at the sign for a trailhead. He has a full sleeve of ink, a trim beard, and kind eyes. He’s white, like her, but his skin is more tanned, closer to mine. Bet he enjoys the outdoors like I do.

  “Cool shot,” I say.

  She’s not showing me his picture for feedback on the framing of the pic. She wants to know if I want to meet him, and sure, he’s good-looking, objectively.

  Would I feel a spark in person?

  Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  But I won’t know because that’s not what spring training is about.

  I’m hunting for a diplomatic answer when Reese slides over, peering at the pic then chiming in with a laugh. “I swear, Grant. You can pick up cute men anywhere. You don’t even have to be in the same state.”

  The tattoo artist simply shrugs and locks eyes with Reese. “Right? It’s just kind of how it goes with the hotties, right? All you want to do is set them up.”

  “And they don’t need it,” Reese says, shaking her head. “Hot queer guys need no help finding other hot queer guys.”

  I’d beg to differ, but I’m not going to let on in front of Echo.

  Besides, Reese knows the truth. And I should keep up appearances—that I put my money where my rainbow mouth is.

  I grab my shirt, pull it on, then say, “Thanks, Echo. I appreciate the offer, and I’m sure your brother is a cool dude. But I think I’m going to lock it up during spring training.”

  “His loss,” she says with a smile.

  I pay for the tattoo, head out of Ink Lore, and wander down the street with my best friend.

  She arches an eyebrow, giving me a questioning stare. “Lock it up? Are you really?”

  “I am, indeed. Is that a surprise? Lock it up is my middle name.”

  She taps her chest. “Yeah, I have the same one.”

  I drape an arm around Reese, squeeze her shoulder. “You and me. We’re cut from the same cloth. Besides, I’m pretty damn sure spring training isn’t the place.”

  She frowns. “The men of Phoenix will be so sad. Especially River. He looked cute from the pic.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say, even though there is one man in Phoenix who intrigues me.

  But his name isn’t River.

  3

  Grant

  I slide my duffel bag onto the luggage belt, take the baggage check from the attendant, and give her a grin.

  “Appreciate you doing that,” I say, nodding toward the bag as it disappears below the airport.

  She flashes a quick smile that’s gone in a second. “Of course.”

  It’s all in a day’s work for her, loading bags, handing out stubs for them. But hell, for me? I’m buzzed, and I haven’t had a single drop of coffee. Nor do I want one. I want to remember everything about this moment.

  The noise and hubbub of the airport here in San Francisco.

  The drone of the announcements overhead.

  The click of shoes.

  The laughter.

  And my four favorite people here with me, seeing me off.

  With my grandparents, my sister, and Reese, I walk to security, backpack on one shoulder, then draw a deep breath as I cast my gaze to the checkpoint and the planes beyond, including the one that’ll take me to Arizona.

  “I want reports,” Grandpa says as he claps me on the shoulder.

  I give him a c’mon look. “When have I not given you full reports on every single game?”

  “More than games, kid.” His blue eyes hold mine with that intense look in them that he’s shone my way for as long as I can remember. “I want reports on batting practice, on drills, on the coaches, and on the games.”

  My grandma tuts. “Trevor, when has Grant ever deprived us of baseball reports?”

  “Kids change when they go away,” he says, all gruff. Sometimes he pretends he’s a toughie but—newsflash—the dude is a total softie, and I love him for it. His heart is a big old marshmallow.

  My sister barks out a laugh. “Hate to break it to you, Pops, but Grant’s been away three years for college and a year in the minors. He’s been gone for a while.”

  He snaps his gaze to Sierra, having none of her logic. “And he’s still a kid going away. And you’re even younger, so you’re a kid too.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Pops.” But she loves how he looks out for us. How both of them have looked out for us for ages, giving us the only place we could ever truly call home. “Grant’s still a kid at the ripe old age of twenty-two,” my sister adds with a scoff.

  “So young,” Grandma says, ruffling my hair.

  I am young, but not for long. In the majors, your age flies past you in dog years, and before you know it, you’re middle-aged at twenty-nine.

  You need to work hard and fast to leave a mark.

  Even though I knew I’d be eligible for the college draft after three years, I still wanted to get my degree, so I busted my ass to finish school and still enter the draft when I was twenty-one. I went in the first round, spent a short season in the Cougars’ farm league, and now I have the chance to play in the majors.

  Reese wraps an arm around me and pulls me a few feet away, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Now listen, I want reports too. But not on the batting practice or games.”

  I shoot her a knowing glance. “You want the uncensored report on the men?”

  She sticks out her to
ngue. “Yes. Duh.”

  I pat her head like she’s a little duckling. “It’s a good thing I love you so much. I must, to tolerate this kind of relentless questioning.”

  “Oh, please. I’m only looking out for your . . . libido.”

  Laughing, I answer her. “I already told you. I’m not going to do a thing. I am the king of restraint. My libido will be resting in my duffel bag. Side pocket, in fact. Like hibernation.”

  “Fine, fine, you’re a bear.”

  I crack up. “You saw my chest at the tattoo shop. Definitely not a bear.”

  Reese rolls her eyes. “Yes, you are not a bear, my friend. But,” she says, tap dancing her finger on my shoulder, “what is your libido going to do with that big old crush you have on the Cougars shortstop? Is that just going to go into hibernation too?”

  I tilt my head back and forth like I’m weighing my options. “It was either that or my powerful mind vise. I opted for the mind vise, and I smashed the crush out of its existence,” I say, grinding my right fist into my left palm to demonstrate, and kind of wishing mind vises did exist.

  She arches a questioning brow. “Did you now?”

  “I did indeed. And seriously, who cares? Crushes are harmless. They don’t matter.” It’s just stupid affection from afar. “Besides, I refuse to crush on another ballplayer on my team—or any other team. I admire his gameplay, but that’s all. That’s all it can ever be. I am not, not, not going to do a single thing with a ballplayer.”

  Reese’s blue eyes are brimming with intensity. “Goals, focus, forward momentum,” she says, repeating what I told Echo when I got my new ink the other week.

  “You know it. Crushing on a teammate is like arguing with an umpire and thinking it’ll work out. You just don’t do it,” I say.

  But honestly, crushing on someone I work with is worse. It can have lasting consequences. It can wreak havoc with how we have to work together on the field, with the focus I need to have behind the plate. With, well, everything that matters when it comes to playing the game I love for a living.

  “Besides,” I add, “if I wanted to hook up with someone, and I do not, there’s a whole town of men who are not ballplayers.” I flap a hand to indicate the landscape of the city in Arizona. “Bartenders, store owners, bankers, mailmen, painters, construction workers, hell, even Echo’s brother if I’m truly looking to get laid. What they all have in common is they aren’t on the twenty-five-man roster for the San Francisco Cougars.” I stab my forefinger against my chest. “I need to be on the roster and stay on the roster. I do not need to fuck the roster.”

  She holds up her hands in surrender. “I wasn’t saying that. As someone who’s had her share of crushes too, I was just asking. And don’t worry, Grant. You’ll be on the roster. I have zero doubts, only faith in you.”

  But this isn’t about faith.

  This isn’t some breakup I need to get over.

  Declan is just . . . some dude I admired.

  Nothing more.

  I flash her a smile, my best everything is good here grin. “I bet I won’t even be attracted to him in person,” I say, lifting my chin high.

  “Exactly! Tons of crushes die a quick death when you meet the crushee. So, there’s that.”

  “Yup. I mean, he’s probably a cool guy, but chances are we won’t have an ounce of spark.”

  “It’ll evaporate the second you meet him.” She throws her arms around me. “I’ll miss you.”

  “Same. But you have college to keep you busy.”

  “And we all still miss seeing your face around campus, but I’ll see you in San Francisco this summer when you’re playing for the home team in the best sport there is.”

  “I. Can’t. Wait.” I hug her hard, grateful to have her, glad there’s someone who knows about crushes I’ve entertained from afar. Crushes that’ll burn to ash any day now, I’m sure.

  “Enjoy your spring training with no spring flings, Grant ‘Lock It Up’ Blackwood,” she says.

  I let go, return to my grandparents to hug them too, barely giving a second thought to where my own parents are—they’re never around—then my sister.

  “Good luck in school,” I tell her, then turn to Pops. “And I’m expecting another top-ten finish for you in the Napa Valley Marathon.”

  “As am I,” my grandma chimes in, patting his chest. “I want to say I’m married to a top-ten finisher.”

  Pops drops a kiss to her forehead. “Anything for you.” Then to me, he says, “See you soon, son.”

  My throat tightens with emotions, then I swallow them down and wave goodbye.

  I head through security, taking the next step toward the dream I’ve chased my entire life.

  I settle into my seat, loving the cushy comfort of the first-class chair. It’s my first time in the second row.

  “I could get used to this,” I say to myself as the flight attendant meanders by. He stops in his tracks, then tosses me an inviting smile that’s pretty much the equivalent of a full-body eye fucking. Someone is bold, and I like bold.

  “Well, I sure hope you get used to it. Would love to see you on another flight,” the man says, with a lift of his brow, a quirk of his lips. “Or . . .”

  Clever. Way to make the meaning clear without crossing a line.

  I scan his name tag. Dylan. Then I let my eyes take a one-second tour of his face.

  Square jaw, high cheekbones—he’s attractive. But do I feel a spark?

  My body’s not flashing hot. My skin isn’t tingling. Which raises the question—is this guy my type? Or not?

  Hell if I know. I’m not even sure if I have a type. Except I’m pretty certain I’m not a guy who’s into one-night stands or banging somebody in the mile-high club if that’s what Dylan is proposing.

  But is that what he’s hinting at? Pickup lingo is still new to me—I spent ninety-nine percent of college either studying or playing ball.

  Nah, Dylan’s just feeling me out.

  And I’d probably need a few dates to see if we sparked. That won’t happen, so I find the gentleman’s way out. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” I say with a grin, and he continues on his way.

  This is my MO: flash a smile. Say some friendly words. Be on good terms with everyone.

  That’s what’s gotten me through ups and downs, good times and bad times, hard times and absolutely fucking hard times. When the people who were supposed to stand behind you let you down.

  In the worst ways possible.

  But that’s okay.

  I have everything I need now that I’m twenty-two. And this arrow? It’s not only about goals and milestones. It’s protection.

  Sure, things have changed in pro sports over the last several years. Some players in the NBA, NHL, NFL, and MLB are out now. The closet isn’t what it used to be in pro ball—the only place for a gay athlete. Leagues, owners, and marketers have embraced the LGBTQ sports nation.

  Plus, I’m not even the only queer dude on the team.

  I am all the way out, and I’m out on my terms. I don’t need a single soul whispering, talking behind my back, or speculating. I don’t like to leave it up to anyone’s best guess. My Instagram and Twitter profiles are decorated with rainbows.

  But even when you’re out, people can still trip you up.

  That’s why I need the arrow for protection.

  From the people who let me down.

  Those who have, and those who will.

  I close my eyes, picturing the arrow going forward, riding that momentum to take me through the next several weeks, then, I hope, on to my first ever baseball season in the Major Leagues. Finally, finally, everything in my life feels right, and I don’t want anything to change that.

  Not even the fact that I have a crush on one of my teammates.

  The next day, I’m a bottle of Diet Coke mixed with Mentos. I rise before dawn, shower, get dressed, and head for the ballpark, all jitters and excitement.

  I walk the half-mile from the hotel. The sign f
or the ballpark looms high above the gates, graced with the name of the team’s first owner.

  Helen Williams Field.

  The spring training home for the San Francisco Cougars.

  It’s beautiful, and it beckons me.

  Memories flash before me. The time I first picked up the well-worn baseball glove my grandfather gave me. When I threw a ball to him in the backyard. When he tossed it back to me and I caught it on the first try, and he said, “You’re going to be an all-star catcher someday.”

  Years of practice.

  Sore muscles, broken bones, heartbreaking losses.

  But victories too.

  High school state championships, college World Series, the Major League Baseball Draft.

  As I head into the team’s spring training facility for the first time, I take it all in. The plaques, the trophies, the photographs. I’m in the presence of greatness. Just look at the pics of all these guys who’ve come before me, won rings, snagged batting titles, earned Cy Youngs.

  They played here first, took batting practice out on the diamond, and fielded ground balls.

  I get to do that now. It’s my chance to show my team that I have what it takes to be their starting catcher for the next decade.

  Nothing will distract me. Nothing will throw me off.

  I make my way down the corridor, my shoes echoing against the concrete, as I say hello to everyone I pass. I greet the groundskeepers, the janitors, the staffers, asking how they’re doing. I like to be the one people can rely on for a friendly face, an encouraging word. That’s how I fit into the team and the organization.

  And with the pitchers too, since they’re the guys who have to rely on me most.

  Item number one on my to-do list?

  Earn the pitchers’ trust.

  It’s mostly just pitchers and catchers at the complex for the first few days, working out on a practice field. I toss balls with the starters, then the relief pitchers, then the team’s closer, Chance Ashford. The man has a punishing cut fastball, and I love it.