Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

I learned my lesson from Kyle, and from the tons of men and women who came before me, pro athletes who found out the hard way—the way I did—that love and sports don’t mix.

To perform at the top, at that one percent of one percent of one percent, you need to laser in on the job.

If love lures you with a whisper or a sexy smile, convinces you to give your energy to it, then more often than not, the sport loses out to temptation.

Sure, there are cases where things work out. Maybe a guy has had a girlfriend or boyfriend for years, maybe since high school even, so by the time he enters his rookie year, romance is the baseline, part of the fabric of his existence. But I suspect those happy endings happen to people who live a charmed life in the first place.

That’s not my story.

It might seem like a fairy tale, especially from the outside, and I won’t pretend things aren’t good right now—fat salary, plum endorsements, a swank house in San Francisco.

But it wasn’t always this way.

My mother worked in advertising, penning copy for commercials at an agency in Los Angeles before we eventually moved to San Francisco. She met Tyler there and opened a boutique shop for writing and recording commercial jingles.

My dad was a terrific minor leaguer once upon a time, racking up batting titles in the farm leagues. When that played out, he owned a tow truck business, and that went belly up. Last I heard he was still in the Bay Area—he moved there when I was in high school—and is now with wife number three, trying to start a new towing business with his cousin.

It was a workaday world, growing up. When I was younger, my parents did alright, but no one was getting rich, no one was paying off loans. But my dad was developing other interests—other than baseball, work, for his family. He kept them hidden for a long time, but eventually, painfully, his bad choices spilled over onto my mom, my life, and my sport. Baseball was my one true love, and memories of him showing up at my games in the worst way, over and over again, still make me cringe.

I’d give a lot to erase them, along with the crap that happened after.

To me.

It took me a long time to right the ship after it capsized, but I managed, and I vowed to never forget. To never fall back. I learned firsthand that focus is a rare and precious thing. You need to hone it, nurture it, protect it.

No one else in the whole entire world can do that for you. You can only do it for yourself.

In college, I was damn good at staying zeroed in on my goals, but man cannot live on sports alone.

I’m human. I need connection now and then. And every once in a while, I need some intimacy.

Plus, I suppose I’ve always been a sucker for a soft heart, and Kyle had one.

He was a friend from college, and the two of us reconnected when I played minor league ball in Bakersfield. He came to some games. We went out. Everything was . . . fun.

Then I went to spring training right as it was getting more intense with him. He was a gentle soul, a writer who wore his heart on his sleeve, poured it into his words.

And into me.

More than I expected. More than I had room for.

I tried to make room for those emotions—talking to him in the evenings after practice, trying somehow to sustain a long-distance thing.

“I miss you, babe,” he’d say. “Do you miss me too?”

“Send me a text in the morning, so I know you’re thinking of me.”

“Can I come see some of your games? I’ll catch a plane. Root for you.”

Soon, my answers—“Thanks, but my schedule is crazy,” or, “I was out for a run at six-thirty in the morning so I forgot to text”—weren’t enough.

He wanted more. Wanted to buy a ticket to Phoenix to see me play. Wanted to go out to dinner after a game.

I was stretched thin, with little experience at balancing a boyfriend’s needs with my own. I was twenty-two with a pro contract and a future I desperately needed. I didn’t know how to manage his hurt. The more he needed me, the less I could give, and the more it weighed on me.

I didn’t want to be that kind of boyfriend.

Soon enough, the late-night calls and the early-morning pleas affected my game.

There is no room for a few bad games in the Major Leagues. There’s barely room for one when you’re a rookie in spring training.

But I served up two in a row, whiffing at the plate, missing easy grounders, fumbling all over the diamond. My agent flew down from New York, took me to a steak house, lavished praise on me, the kind that warns you that it’s the good news before the bad. I girded my loins, and finally, he stared me right in the eyes and said, “You need to get your shit together right now, D.”

I gulped. “What do you mean?”

Vaughn raised a solitary finger. “You get one rookie season. Count it. One. It started a few weeks ago. The clock is ticking,” he said, pointing to a clock on the wall in the restaurant. I swore I could hear every second, like a bomb counting down. “Whatever is bringing you down, whatever’s getting in the way, you need to get rid of it. Trust me. I know exactly how fleeting this job can be.” He tapped his right knee. A meniscus tear had shortened his career to three mere years in the NFL. “I don’t want to see you miss your chance,” he said, softening.

I broke up with Kyle. Took him a while to get the message, but I stuck to my guns. Didn’t look back. The result? I watched my stats soar, and I chose to live with no regrets.

Baseball is it for me now.

I don’t have a fallback plan. I can’t afford to let the game slide. Back in high school I made some foolish choices, self-destructive ones, during a stretch when things were the most beyond my control. But I came back from it.

Baseball has already given me a second chance, and I don’t take that for granted.

That’s why I gave Grant my warning.

This sport deserves my best years. Deserves his best years too.

I wake early the next morning and tug on gym shorts, so I can log a dawn run. There’s a high school a few blocks away that has a great track. Hardly anyone’s on it at six-thirty, so I can get lost in the rhythm of the laps and the music in my ears. With the Arizona sun opening its eyes above the horizon, I crank up the tunes, blasting a mix of Pearl Jam and Nirvana, Soundgarden and Alice in Chains.

Old habits die hard. I grew up with these bands as a teenager, courtesy of my mom blasting Pearl Jam tunes in the house.

As Black reverberates, I make out another noise coming from behind. The unmistakable sound of sneakers on dirt. One glance and my skin heats in seconds.

It’s not from the sun. It’s from the rookie.

AirPods in, he flashes a grin my way.

On the one hand, I wish he weren’t here.

On the other, I don’t object to the view.

I pull out an AirPod as I keep running. “Didn’t peg you for a stalker,” I tease.

“I didn’t peg you for a Type A, neurotic, early-morning, obsessed-with-performance, extra-exercise runner,” he says.

The plethora of words tumbling from his lips makes me laugh. “Really? That was hard to figure out?”

“Maybe because you make it all look so easy.”

“I do my best to maintain the illusion. But the way I see it, you’ve got to put the extra time in. Stay on top of the game.”

“Only way to do it. I guess you found this spot too,” he says, glancing around.

“Year or two ago. School doesn’t start here till eight, so I get the track all to myself most mornings.”

“Except today,” he says. “Also, for the record, I’d like to say I was here first.”

I arch a brow as we round the top of the track. “And how do you figure, rookie?”

“I’ve been running here the last five mornings. This is the first time I’ve seen you.”

I laugh, tossing my head back. “Because I just showed up at spring training.”

“Even so. I’ve got squatter’s rights.”

“So, you’re claiming the entire field. No one else can use it but you?”

“Just staking my claim, if it comes down to it.”

“Ah.” I stroke my chin as we head along the straightaway, sneakers pounding the track. “You think there might be a scuffle?”

His dark blue eyes twinkle, full of all sorts of mischief. “Maybe. Scuffles can be fun.”

I walked right into that one. Now I’m picturing a hot, sweaty scuffle with him after this run. Oh, yes. I’d scuffle with him. Except that’s a terrible idea.

I’m quiet for a beat.

Grant shifts gears for us. “What’s that you’re listening to?”

Music. Playlists. This is safe to talk about. Much safer than scuffles.

I slide into the new topic like I’m stealing second. “Pearl Jam. Ever heard of them?”

He adopts a confused expression. “Gee. I have no idea who they are.”

I roll my eyes. “Then I won’t tell you Nirvana is on here too.”

“Dude, are you from our generation or are you time traveling from another one?”

I jerk my head back. “Well, someone is a smart aleck when he’s not handing over his phone.”

“Evidently,” he says with a laugh, a warm, bright sound, and I want to make him laugh again. It’s an infectious noise, and I just dig it.

“Funny, how everything changes when you’re not covered in ketchup,” I say.

“But weren’t you wielding the whipped cream, Deck?” he tosses back. “That’s what you were covering me in.”

Those words—covering me in—conjure up entirely different ways I could cover him.

Cover him with my body.

Cover him with my hands.

I look away.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks.

I can’t let him win this battle of words and wills. I turn my gaze to him as we run. “No. I’m just thinking of . . . other uses for tongues.”

It’s too much fun to watch his reaction. To see his handsome face flush with a hint of embarrassment and a touch of something strangely like innocence in his blue eyes.

At last, Grant answers. “That is a nice thing to think about.”

His voice is raspy, and he stumbles a little on his words.

The stumble is all kinds of sexy on him.

Fifteen minutes into our run, I’m discovering that our rising-star catcher is a delicious mix of smartass and shy, flirty and a bit awkward.

He’s too adorable and too hot for words.

Time, once again, to steer the conversation toward safer shores. “I’m guessing you’re not listening to ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ so what have you got on your playlist?”

He rolls with the rerouted topic. “Britney Spears.”

I arch a brow. “For real?”

“What?” He feigns surprise. “I don’t look like a Britney fan?”

“I’m not going to touch that one.”

“Fine. I was listening to Lady Gaga.”

I call bullshit on that too. “Really?”

“Don’t be a hater. Gaga is awesome. I love her like crazy.”

I groan, rolling my eyes. “Not my favorite, but I’m not a hater. Not of music. Not of anything.”

“That’s a good philosophy.” He looks ahead, rearranges his expression to a more serious one. “And I was listening to Cher, if you must know.”

I crack up, a big belly laugh. “Are you running through a list of gay icons?”

“It’s a test to see if you pass.”

I laugh harder. “Oh man, I don’t think that’s the best test.”

He snaps his fingers, points at me. “You’re right. There are much better tests. More fun ones.” His eyes glint, and, holy hell, I am in for a world of trouble with him. The flirt is strong in this one. “Don’t you worry, rookie. I’ll pass with flying colors.”

“Good to know,” he mutters, then rakes his hand through his thick hair, which flops back on his forehead, all perfectly disheveled.

I nod toward his AirPods. “So, for real, what are you listening to?”

“Nothing . . . at the moment.”

I roll my eyes. “What were you listening to on that secret playlist?”

He sighs heavily. “I’m listening to a book.”

“Did you think I would laugh?” I hold my arms out wide. “I’m not. See?”

“True. You’re not. I guess I’ll tell you what book, then.”

I wiggle my fingers. “Fess up.”

He looks straight ahead. “The Major League Baseball rule book.”

I gaze heavenward. “Why am I even asking you questions?”

“Because I’m the most interesting workout buddy you’ve had in a long time,” he says with a confident grin.

We round the corner, our breaths coming fast, T-shirts getting sweaty, and I shoot him a glance. “I think that’s fair to say.”

He is, and I’m having far too much fun, so I reach for the bottom of my T-shirt, whip it off, and toss it to the ground.

Grant blinks. He lets out a noise that sounds like ungh, then looks away, blows out a long stream of air.

“I’m listening to, um, a political thriller,” he says, delightfully awkward again.

“Does it have a title?”

His eyes drift down to my chest, before he rattles off the name of what sounds like a James Patterson book.

“Sounds fascinating. A real page-turner. Bet you can’t put it down.”

His eyes stay locked on me, roaming over my abs.

I shouldn’t savor his reaction so much.

But I do.

So far this morning, he’s been winning the Flirt Game, but this round goes to the shortstop.

“Some things are hard to look away from,” I say.

“I’ll say,” he murmurs.

He stares shamelessly.

Hungrily.

Making this my best morning workout in ages—and also my hardest.