Scoring With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  He sighs contentedly, his voice tired. “Just a little.”

  God, he looks good like this. All stretched out and satisfied, his features relaxed, his smile soft. But when he turns his gaze to me again, his blue eyes flicker with a hint of concern.

  Oh, hell.

  I know why.

  I’m in my own head, but I need to be thinking of him.

  He’s got to be wondering how it stacked up for me.

  I run my hand over his pecs, my fingers playing with the fine dusting of chest hair, remembering how I felt a few nights ago after The Lazy Hammock when we stopped on the side of the road. I use those same words. “Wow. You are just wow,” I say.

  “Yeah?” His voice pitches up, like he needs confirmation. “Was I? Okay?”

  His words are breathy, nervous.

  But I’ll have none of his worry.

  I can’t let him think he was anything but everything I wanted.

  “You’re out of this world,” I say, running a finger down his chest. “You’re a moonshot. You’re a grand slam over the fences. That’s you, rookie. You’re my walk-off home run.”

  His smile grows wider, more relaxed. “You sure?”

  I tilt my head, trying to figure him out, to understand why he would doubt me. “You didn’t think I enjoyed it? Did you not like fucking me?”

  “I loved it. It was amazing. I just want to know . . . if . . . I mean . . . you’re so much more experienced than I am. I have no idea if I’m . . .” He nibbles on the corner of his lips.

  “Any good?” I supply.

  “Yeah,” he says on a harsh swallow.

  My hand glides down his stomach, over his abs. “Grant, there is no man I want more than you. No one I want to fuck so thoroughly. No one who turns me on like you.” I kiss his smile, wanting to add and there’s a reason for that. But I don’t know how to venture into those shark-infested feelings waters now, or whether I should. Clean and simple is my MO, so I keep it that way. “You do it for me. You just do.”

  “You really do it for me. In kind of every way,” he says, putting himself out there once again.

  Like he always has.

  Since the morning he said he wanted to sleep with me. Since the night he told me he was a virgin.

  Does he realize what’s happening here? Does he feel all the same things I do?

  My chest tightens with need. With desire. But none of it is sexual. All of it is real.

  I am . . .

  My God . . . Emma nailed it.

  I am besotted with Grant Blackwood.

  And that’s all new. Entirely virgin terrain. Words stick in my throat. My mouth goes desert dry. A wrecking ball slams into me.

  It’s so obvious it’s embarrassing.

  It’s so patently apparent what’s happening to me.

  I’ve spent my adult life with neat, compartmentalized off-season affairs. I meet men, I date them, I romance them. We do it up right. Fly to exotic locales, drive fast cars, play hard, fuck harder.

  And I say goodbye at the end.

  With barely a second thought. Never a look back. When endings grow complicated, I work even harder to keep the men in the past.

  I control everything, and I need that control to keep my life together. To keep baseball in the center of it all. Baseball—the thing that saved me from my father, that saved me from me.

  And now, I’m tempting fate.

  Gambling with my most prized possession. The game I love.

  And for what?

  My chest clutches, my heart hammering viciously against my rib cage since it knows the answer, has for some time now.

  For this.

  This soul-deep connection.

  Grant Blackwood is my undoing because he gets me. He understands me. He gives more of himself to me than anyone ever has.

  I want him beyond these walls, beyond this room, beyond tonight.

  Only, I can’t have him for keeps.

  There is no way for us to work.

  But at least there’s tonight. I reach for his gorgeous face, slide a thumb along his jaw, and lock eyes with him. His blue orbs flicker with vulnerability and something new too.

  Hope.

  Just raw hope.

  “I’m glad you waited. I’m glad it was me,” I say, starting with that bare truth.

  Grant’s lips curve in the start of a smile. “Me too.”

  “Being your first was incredible. Sex with you was incredible,” I add.

  A light shrug comes my way. “I have nothing to compare it to, but I’d have to agree.” He stops and corrects, “Wait. Hold on. I can compare it to my fantasies, and it was better. Worlds better.” He’s found his confidence again, but he doesn’t have to be all swagger and charm with me. I love seeing all his sides—his insecurities and his fears. I love, too, helping him through some.

  And having him here to help me through mine.

  Like this one—offering a real and true piece of my heart.

  But he deserves it.

  “Do you know why it was so good between us? So good for me?” I ask, digging down deep to find the guts to say something truly daring, something incomparably risky.

  “Tell me.” His tone latches onto mine, hangs on my every word.

  “I’m not more experienced than you in some things. Because with you, I feel like I’m experiencing everything for the first time too,” I say, trying that on as I start into a topic that’s terribly new. It’s like stepping off a cliff. I’ve no idea what’s down below—if I’ll land on soft grass or jagged rock.

  His voice is quiet in the night. “How so?”

  My heart climbs into my throat, and I wince. This is so fucking uncomfortable. This out-of-control feeling wrenches my guts.

  Grant and I, we’re out of control. We’re spilling past all my boundaries. Scrambling over all my walls.

  But I don’t want to stop. I want more, and more, and more.

  I swallow roughly and pour out as much of my heart as I can possibly spare. “I am so crazy for you, Grant. I don’t know what happened in the last few days, but that’s how I feel. Out-of-my-mind crazy. I know this has to end, but I don’t want it to end. I want you to be mine,” I say in a rush of words and emotions, and horribly messy feelings—feelings I wish I didn’t have. But they’re here. Lodging into my chest, wedging into my brain as I add, “All mine. Only mine.”

  Grant’s blue eyes sparkle with wild hope, and his lips hook into a grin. “I’m falling so fucking hard for you,” he says, and that’s it.

  I’m just done.

  I’m too far gone.

  I grab him, kiss him, and give him everything I can.

  For now.

  Because that’s all we have.

  When we break the kiss, he gives a helpless shrug. “Sorry, not sorry.”

  “No apologies. I’m in this too. I’m so far in this, and I wish we could last.”

  The catcher on my team lets out a sharp breath, his eyes brimming with sadness, resignation. “But we can’t.”

  There is no question mark.

  Since there’s no question.

  We are impossible.

  “But at least we have one more day,” I whisper.

  Too bad I wish tomorrow wouldn’t come.

  33

  Grant

  Newsflash: I am not sore the next day.

  Nope.

  I’m not sore as I crouch behind home plate, catching a scrappy inter-squad game before our afternoon one against the Bandits.

  I am not sore what-so-fucking ever as one of our starters throws to me and the team goes through a split-squad scrimmage.

  Okay, maybe I am sore.

  But I don’t care.

  I know how to put pain out of my mind to focus on my job.

  That’s what I do because as amazing as last night was, I still have a goddamn job to do, and the memory of my shitty game against the Sharks isn’t far from my head.

  How could it be?

  I’m not stupid. I know why I’
m catching this scrimmage.

  The same reason we’re having one.

  Our last game sucked.

  My last game sucked.

  This is the hierarchy. This is how it works. Show that you have the mettle for the starting job.

  The bullpen catchers aren’t here today behind the plate. It’s me against Rodriquez. Rodriguez against me.

  Can you say metaphor for my entire spring training?

  Right now, he’s at the plate. He’s on the squad with the stars—Crosby, Declan, Chance.

  Which probably means he’s starting today’s game against the Bandits.

  That’s not good for me.

  But it’s also an opportunity.

  If he starts it maybe I can finish it. Maybe I can show the skipper why I deserve the starting catcher slot on Opening Day. Rodriguez is good but I need to be better.

  There’s no room for pain.

  Plus, I know the man’s weakness. Dude swings at sinkers every time. Misses most of the time. I call for one, and he shifts his hips, then slices the bat through the air as the ball drops.

  Yes!

  That beautiful white orb finds a home in my glove with a welcome thunk.

  A few more like that, and Rodriguez whiffs.

  Better luck next time.

  Not.

  Crosby ambles over to the plate, adjusting his helmet, chewing gum, then blowing a bubble and cracking it so damn loud I swear it splits my eardrums.

  “Is that your new distraction strategy?” I ask.

  He wiggles a brow. “Yeah. Is it working?”

  “Considering I figured it out in a second I’d say no,” I say, then laugh. He snaps his fingers in an aw-shucks gesture as he adjusts his batting glove, hoists the bat, and then gets into the stance, taking a few practice swings.

  “Big game today,” he says, since he’s always been a chatty mofo at the plate. He does it to drive catchers crazy. To distract them.

  “Why is that? Do you have a tee time that you don’t want to miss?” I tease as I settle into the crouch. If I’m not distracted by the lingering ache of a big cock up my ass last night, I’m not gonna be distracted by Crosby’s yammering.

  “Touché.” He laughs, and I’m firing on all cylinders at being a part of the team today. Giving the guys a hard time and talking smack.

  I guess sex is good for me.

  Maybe I’ll go on a streak thanks to great sex.

  Maybe I could convince Declan to keep this up throughout spring training.

  But I shake that notion from my head as the pitcher nods at me and I give him a sign. A few pitches later we send Crosby packing to the dugout with a checked strike.

  Two outs and it’s Declan’s turn.

  Lowering my mask, I crouch back down, wishing this could be our norm. Opposing teams.

  That would come with its own set of challenges, but it’d be worlds better than being on the same team.

  Opposing teams would be workable, not insurmountable. We’d be competitors, but on a path to more rather than a road to nowhere.

  Me behind the plate, him at the plate—we’d be doable.

  I let that new fantasy play out for a few seconds as he takes a couple practice swings.

  A baseball fantasy.

  Striking out my lover.

  Oh, fuck yes.

  I want to watch him go down swinging, and my gut tells me how to do it. It shows me a flash of the game where he hit the grand slam off the slider last season. As I replay it, the memory sharpens.

  Did the pitcher hesitate?

  I don’t know, so I shelve it, but leave a mental Post-it to look it up on YouTube later. For now, I stick to a solid plan.

  Velocity.

  I call for a fastball, and he connects with a sharp line drive to second that turns into an easy out at first.

  Not a strikeout, but I’ll take it, thank you very much.

  I grin, since, damn, it is so satisfying to send my lover back to the dugout. As Declan walks away, I pretend he’s on the other team.

  But even though he’s not, maybe we can pull this off for a little bit longer. Would that be so crazy? Another few nights? Another few days?

  That idea takes hold of me the rest of the morning, and on into the afternoon when the Bandits arrive.

  Hell, if I pulled off that excellent scrimmage, I can pull off a terrific game.

  Especially since Fisher has me start.

  Yup. I’ve got this. I’ve so got this.

  Except in the second inning, a pitch skitters past me and I don’t fucking have it. I race after the passed ball, hustling to the backstop to field, but the runner on third scores and I curse.

  That was one hundred percent my fault.

  I return to the plate. As the pitcher goes into the windup, the runner on first makes a move to steal. Once the ball hits my glove, I throw to second. It should be an easy out—the runner lumbers like a bear—but I’m too late.

  He’s in safely.

  Fuck me.

  I grit my teeth, huff, and finish out the inning.

  When I reach the dugout, I park my sore ass on the bench and drop my head. Crosby claps me on the shoulder. “Focus, rookie. Get your head in the game. Is it someplace else?”

  I wince. Can he see right through me? My head is in the same stupid place as my stupid fucking heart. It’s fantasizing. It’s galloped off to tra-la-la land after the scrimmage. It’s picturing things it doesn’t have any right to picture.

  Declan’s not on another team.

  We can’t keep on doing this.

  We’re done at the end of tonight, and that is all. Baseball is what matters.

  I laser in on that when I’m at bat. But a pop fly to center ends my chance.

  Fisher pulls me aside and says Rodriguez will finish the game.

  “Hit the shower, rookie,” he says.

  Kiss of fucking death.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll talk later.”

  Dread crawls over me as I go into the locker room, shower and dress, and wait for Fisher.

  But all he says when the game ends is a crisp, “We need you to pick it up soon.”

  “I will, sir,” I say tightly, then I take off before the rest of the team pours in.

  I call my grandfather when I leave, walking along the road by the complex so I can burn off these fumes. “I had the worst game ever, Pops,” I say, my head hanging low.

  “But that happens. You have bad games,” he says.

  I blow out a long stream of air as I stalk down the street. “I can’t have bad games. Rodriguez has been playing better. I went into spring training thinking I had this locked. That he’d be my backup catcher. But he might get the starting spot, and I don’t even know if I’ll be the backup or if the team will call on someone else,” I tell him, my voice as strained as my heart. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “All you can do is focus on the fundamentals, kid. Focus on the game. You know how to play. You’ve always known how to play. And the only times you’ve been frazzled is when personal stuff has gotten in the way,” he says in that calm, paternal voice he has. “Remember all that stuff with Frank in high school and what a tough couple of games you had at the end of the season?”

  I stop near a bus stop as I listen, lean on the signpost as I drop my head and grit my teeth. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “And what did you do?” he asks.

  I swallow roughly. “I went to you. I talked to you, and you helped settle my state of mind.”

  “By reminding you that you’re a great ballplayer. The game is mental as much as it is physical. Your physical game is great. If you’re out of sorts, it’s usually because your mind is elsewhere.”

  He says it gently, but firmly. It’s a message from someone who knows me. Knows me like he can see inside my soul.

  God, I want to tell him.

  I want him to know what happened.

  I fell in love with this guy, and he’s all I can think about. I wan
t to find a way to be with him, but I can’t. Do you have any idea what I should do, Pops?

  I know what he’d say, though.

  Tough break, kid. But you need to let him go.

  “You’re right, Pops. I’ll keep my head in the game. Crosby said the same thing too,” I say heavily as I walk to the bus stop.

  That’s what I vow to do tomorrow. Tonight is my one last time with the man I’m falling in love with.

  Tonight, we end.

  Tomorrow, I reignite my love affair with baseball.

  “Grant,” he says, his tone thoughtful. “Is there anything else going on?”

  A breath shudders out of me. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Emotion clogs my throat. And the truth comes pouring out. “I met this guy. He’s kind of amazing. But nothing will happen, so I just need to end it.”

  End it.

  It’s like a knife serrating my heart.

  My grandpa sighs, a supportive, loving sound. “That’s hard. Love is hard when it comes at the wrong time.”

  I close my eyes, the desert sun beating down on me as I sink onto the bus stop bench. “Yeah, it is.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  I shake my head. “No. I just need to do what I have to do.”

  “I’m here if you need me,” he says.

  “I know. I love you.”

  “Love you too” he says, and when I end the call, I let my head fall back against the concrete of the bus shelter.

  Banging it once. Twice. Three times. Then the squeal of brakes makes me look up.

  A bus has stopped.

  I’m the only one here.

  I wave it off.

  It feels like my life passing me by.

  On the walk back to the hotel, I put my finger in the fire and do something I rarely do.

  I google myself.

  Wincing, I find a sports blog covering spring training. The subtitle of It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over reads: Who’ll be behind the dish for the Cougars? It’s a toss-up.

  The report mentions the Scoundrels game where the pitcher and I disagreed on the calls, then the hitless Sharks game, then today’s passed ball.

  Embarrassment churns through me.

  I close it and call Haven. She answers right away. “Talk to me. What’s on your mind?”