Scoring With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  “Crap. Some of the guys are wandering down the hall.”

  My stomach twists, and I swing my legs out of bed, grabbing my shorts, so I feel less . . . well, naked. “Are they coming to my room?”

  Declan shakes his head but walks back to the bed. “No. They’re just going by.” He kicks off his shoes, shucks his shorts, and stares at the king-size mattress. His eyes flicker with vulnerability. His voice dips to a gentle tone. “You mind if I crash here for a bit?”

  I half want to say, “Weren’t you just about to leave? Wouldn’t you rather go?”

  “Of course.” I don’t mind at all if he crashes, but I’m not ready to unpack why it doesn’t bother me.

  “I’ll set my alarm. We’re going to work out, right?” His voice wavers the tiniest bit at the end like he really wants me to say yes to a workout. Like he needs reassurance that tomorrow we’re doing the same thing we did before we messed around.

  I smile. “Yeah, we are.”

  “Good,” Declan says.

  I figure he’ll close his eyes, turn the other way and crash. But instead, he cups my cheek, brings his lips to mine, and whispers a kiss across them.

  I shiver down to my toes.

  His kisses are electric—even the soft, sweet ones.

  “Mmm. Your lips taste so damn good, rookie,” he says. “I’m not sure I’ve ever enjoyed kissing as much as I do with you.”

  I close my eyes so he can’t see how happy those words make me, and I sink into the softest, sweetest goodnight kiss I’ve ever had.

  But then, I have nothing to compare it to—a goodnight kiss is another first. I let myself enjoy it for several delirious seconds that spill into a minute, maybe more.

  Soon, Declan breaks the kiss, glides a hand softly down my chest, and crashes into sleep.

  I don’t.

  My brain is a maze, and I’m trying to find my way through twists and turns, past dead-ends, around bizarre angles. I’m trying to navigate all this newness.

  A man in my bed.

  My teammate asleep next to me.

  My first sexual encounter like that. My first, too, where we were both that close, touching each other at the same time, coming at the same time, kissing after coming.

  I run my finger over my bottom lip, replaying tonight, his body on mine, the heat between us.

  I return too, to our kisses. I’ve never kissed anyone that much.

  I drag a hand through my hair. I need to stop thinking about how good those kisses are.

  He snores slightly, scoots closer, and drapes an arm across my chest with a soft murmur. I both hate and love how good that makes me feel. How my chest goes all flippity-flop.

  But mostly, I love it, and I fall asleep just like that, with his arm around me.

  When I wake, Declan is gone, but there’s a note from him on my phone.

  * * *

  Declan: See you at dawn, rookie.

  * * *

  Somehow, this makes me as happy as the sex.

  23

  Grant

  When I find Declan on the track the next morning, he gives me a chin nod. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” I say, unsure what happens next. Do we just start running? Do we acknowledge last night? Do we flirt still?

  I have no idea how anyone navigates trysts, let alone a tryst with your teammate. Then he says, “Apollo,” and shoots me his cocky grin that’s so damn sexy.

  I grin right back. “Hey—”

  He holds up a hand. “Don’t you dare call me Hyacinth.”

  I smirk. “He’s also known as Hyacinthus. That better?”

  He shakes his head adamantly. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Well, I won’t invite you to throw the discus with me then either,” I taunt.

  “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

  Declan nods toward the track, and we start running. “Sleep well?” he asks.

  “Very,” I reply, my lips twitching.

  “Yeah. Me too.” His mouth curves up the slightest bit as well.

  I pretend I don’t notice, but my pulse does. It speeds up long before the cardio kicks in.

  We run along the track, then he gestures toward the gate and we take off through it, heading for the golf course. Along the way, we pass the lake. This time, the heron is doing more than preening. It’s rubbing up against another heron.

  “Dude, that’s Apollo,” I say, tipping my forehead to the scene near us.

  “I think Apollo is banging his Spartan prince,” Declan quips.

  “Is it any surprise? Those herons were hot for each other.”

  “I feel like I understand birds even more now,” Declan drawls.

  “The birds and the bees,” I add.

  We laugh and kill thirty more minutes like that. Like friends, not like lovers. It feels right, a necessary antidote to last night. Something about the talking then felt almost too close.

  Everything about my life right now is new.

  My job.

  My career.

  My totally-awesome-for-the-first-time-ever sex life.

  But Declan is the first guy who’s ever spent the night, and I don’t need to make stupid mistakes with him.

  Being friends, though? This I know how to do. “Friends” is also what I’ll have to be with Declan when our affair ends in only a few more nights.

  Because it will end, but he’ll still be around. I’ll still be around. And we’ll have to get along. So, I have to be careful with him.

  When we finish our workout and return to the complex, he catches my eye again and lowers his voice. “Your room tonight? Ten?”

  I grin. I can’t help it. I really want to see him again.

  But before I can tell him so, he wiggles a brow, licks his lips and says, “You’re looking forward to that too?”

  It’s the too that makes me shiver. Before I even have to say yes, that’s an admission that he’s on the same page as me.

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Catch you later,” he says, and relief flows through me.

  We can do this.

  We can be friends in the day. We can be lovers at night. And when it ends, we can be friends and ballplayers.

  Nothing will go wrong.

  Except baseball.

  We lose the game against the Chicago Sharks that afternoon, and by an embarrassing amount.

  It’s not just a rout, it’s a clubbing. I whiff at the plate every time. My pitchers roll over too, throwing softballs down the middle that the Sharks clobber over the fences.

  Maybe I called for the wrong pitches. Did I set the target too low?

  But it’s spring training, and I’ve played well until now, so I hope no one’s too worried.

  We return from the Sharks spring training home, pile off the bus, drop our bags on the field, and run a mile.

  “Burn off the loss, men. Burn it off,” Fisher says.

  I run.

  We all run. Heads down.

  No one pairs up.

  One by one, we trudge through the dugout and into the locker room. I’ve just grabbed my bag when Fisher calls my name.

  “Blackwood. A word.”

  Tension slides down my spine. A word is never a good word.

  I wheel around, following the manager back out to the field, joining him at home plate. The hitting coach is there too.

  I drop my bag by my feet. “Yes, sir?”

  His gray eyes remain locked on the rest of the team headed inside. Once it’s just the hitting coach and me, Fisher says, “How are you doing?”

  Is this a test? I’ve never liked pop quizzes.

  “I’m well, thanks.”

  I’m also tense in every single muscle in my body.

  “Everything is good?” he asks next.

  Why is he asking me if I’m good? Why are we having a random conversation after a shit-tastic game?

  “Everything is great.”

  “You fitting in?”

  Ohhhh.

  Is that why we’re tal
king?

  “Yes, sir,” I say, my stomach curling. I hope this isn’t the be nice to the new queer player moment.

  But I know I should be grateful I’m playing now rather than five or ten years ago.

  The skipper scrubs a hand over his chin. “Good. Is everyone . . .?”

  Oh man, he can’t even finish the sentence. I wince but try to fight it off. I hate this shit. It’s so awkward for everyone, but for me, it dredges up all the crap I thought I was past. The moments I had no control over, the times when others took ownership of my identity. My skin crawls with uncomfortable memories, but I remind myself this doesn’t have to become another one.

  He clears his throat, starts over. “Is everyone treating you right?”

  I exhale. Fasten on a smile. “Yeah. It’s all good, sir.”

  He swipes one palm against the other. That’s done. “Excellent. I like the way you’re working out.”

  Some of the tension unwinds. This is just a politically correct conversation. A moment to be diplomatic. I can live with that. He probably wants to be a better ally. He’s in his late fifties, so I bet this is still all new to him. New generation, new effort. I get it.

  This, too, is why I’m out, openly out. For chances like these—to speak freely with others, to allow them to speak freely with me.

  “Glad to hear,” I say with a smile, because that’s how I choose to be. No snark, no pushback—just be me, and be authentic.

  I bend to pick up my bag, figuring we’re done, but he keeps talking. “But could you take some extra time with the hitting coach right now?”

  I freeze, midway to the ground. “Extra batting practice?”

  “Yeah. It’d be good for you. Especially as we figure out our roster.”

  I rise, leaving the bag there, unsure what to do, what to think, except this is part of the test for the starting slot. But this is batting practice, not catching practice.

  He claps me on the shoulder. “Thanks, Blackwood.” He walks off and I turn to the hitting coach, who strides over from the edge of the field.

  Coach Tanaka is gruff and no nonsense. He nods at me and says, “I’ll be back. Give me ten.”

  And I freak the fuck out.

  Why the hell does the hitting coach want to work with me? I pace around the field, fishing my phone from my bag as Tanaka heads inside.

  With the speed of a falcon on speed, I call my agent in New York.

  Haven answers right away. “What’s going on, Grant?” Her calm voice does nothing to soothe me.

  “Dude, what is going on? Why does Fisher want to have the hitting coach work with me?”

  “I don’t know. Your batting average is terrific. You’re batting over three hundred,” she says, heading straight for stats, since stats are everything.

  “So, what the hell?”

  “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,” she says. “But I’ll do some digging. And don’t you go googling yourself.”

  That’s the advice she’s been giving me since she signed me. “I won’t, but here’s the thing.” I shake my head. She’s wrong. “My gut is telling me something else is going on, Haven. Why the hell would he want to work with me? There’s something he’s not happy with. Is Rodriguez moving up from backup? I thought this was my spot to win. Can you find out? Are they going to send me down?”

  Panic kicks in. I can’t be sent down. I have plans. Big plans. A future. I only want to go up.

  “Grant, the team has you in its sights as its new starter. I don’t think there is a thing to worry about, but I’ll make some calls. See what’s going on.”

  “Thanks, Haven,” I grit out.

  I hang up, tossing my phone in my bag as Tanaka strides over to me at home plate. “You ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  For the next hour he takes me through my paces, works with me on my hitting, on my stance, on my swing.

  Over and over.

  When we’re done, he’s as stoic as Fisher.

  “That’ll do,” he says, in a monotone that gives nothing away.

  That’ll do?

  That’s what the farmer said to the pig in Babe.

  But at least then, it was a compliment.

  This is a non-compliment.

  I stand there, trying to make sense of what just went down.

  I thought I was having a great spring training, especially for a rookie.

  But now I have no clue.

  And no idea what this means for the starting slot.

  Especially when Tanaka walks off the field, gives me a curt nod, and says, “Thanks, rookie.”

  I don’t like the way he says rookie. I don’t like the way he says it at all.

  I definitely don’t like being left in the dark. This moment feels all too familiar—other people knowing secrets about you, whispering them privately, leaving you to guess.

  I head to the locker room, stalk into the shower, and let the hot water rain down over me, letting it wash off my annoyance and my frustration.

  It doesn’t do the trick.

  Instead, my gut twists. My jaw clenches.

  My brain races three laps ahead, trying to figure it out but coming up empty.

  When I walk into the locker room, it echoes.

  I’m all alone.

  And something about that feels like an omen.

  I get dressed quickly, grab my phone and my wallet, then head out of the locker room, calling my agent once more, “Did you find out anything?”

  Haven is warm and reassuring as she says, “I talked to the GM. He says all is well.”

  I wince, stopping, sinking against the wall, closing my eyes. “But isn’t that the kiss of death before you’re sent down?”

  “Grant, let me work this. Don’t jump to conclusions,” she says.

  “Okay. Thanks.” I hang up because there’s nothing else to do.

  I head into the hotel so I can call someone to talk, but I quickly veto Pops. I don’t want to stress him. Not while he has to schedule his knee surgery. Maybe I’ll try Reese.

  On my way to the elevator, I bump into Sullivan, who’s strutting down the hall in his cool cat mode. “You, me, C and C. They invited us to pool tonight.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Crosby and Chance. They look like . . .” He furrows his brow. “Ah hell, I don’t know how to do your celeb comp thing. Two white dudes who look like all-American ballplayers. Maybe you’ve heard of them? Those guys want to go out to play some pool,” he says, miming pulling a pool stick behind him and smacking a ball with it.

  Right—C and C. I should have figured that out. But my mind is elsewhere.

  “Come with?” he asks, back to his smooth style. Glad to see he’s doing better after those wobbly games.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, answering quickly.

  Pool is better than sitting here moping and stressing and not wanting to bother anybody.

  “By the way, I’m pretty sure Ryan Reynolds’s second cousin is fifty times hotter than I am, so thanks for the tip,” he says with a wink.

  I laugh lightly, but it fades quickly since my mind is elsewhere.

  “See you at nine,” Sullivan adds and struts off.

  Nine. Fucking nine.

  I groan, a huge sigh of disappointment. I can’t tell him I have someplace to be at ten. That’d look suspect. I can’t say I’ll play pool at nine, but I have to be somewhere else less than an hour later.

  And I can’t get out of it.

  When I reach my room, annoyance is hitting sky-high levels in me.

  I’m annoyed at myself.

  I’m annoyed at the world.

  I’m annoyed at the fucking game.

  I sink down in the chair and send a text to Declan.

  * * *

  Grant: Hey. Can we push tonight back a bit? I’m going to play pool.

  * * *

  I say going rather than I’ve got to.

  I don’t want it to look like my friends are an obligation. I don’t want it
to look to him like I would’ve canceled to see him.

  But I would have.

  He writes back right away.

  * * *

  Declan: At the Cactus Club. Yeah, I’ll be there too.

  * * *

  A grin tugs at my lips.

  * * *

  Grant: Cool.

  * * *

  Declan: Want to see how good I am at acting like I don’t want to fuck you?

  * * *

  As I read his text, I smile big and wide and genuinely for the first time in hours.

  I write back.

  * * *

  Grant: Dying to.

  * * *

  Declan: Considering how much I want you, it’ll be a goddamn master class.

  24

  Declan

  This is great practice.

  This is what we’ll have to do in a week.

  Then, come April, we’ll be traveling together on the team plane. Going out after games sometimes.

  We’ll need to blend in.

  So, as I line up the shot at the Cactus Club, I don’t think about who Grant is texting on his phone.

  Nope. I don’t care if his attention is elsewhere. Just like I wouldn’t care if Crosby was keeping himself busy.

  But Crosby is not.

  Crosby is all teammate tonight as he tosses down a fifty-dollar bill. “Fifty bucks says the shortstop and I kick all your sorry asses,” he says to the other rookies.

  I glance over at him as I line up the shot. “You’re so damn lucky I let you be my teammate at pool.”

  Crosby laughs. “Because there’s no way I’d win without you.” Then he wiggles his fingers at Sullivan. “Come on. Pay up too. Bet’s for everyone.”

  Sullivan shoots him a dubious look. “Wait. This is another rookie prank, isn’t it?”