Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Grant

Like that, we’ve become workout partners.

Early birds and all.

It’s not deliberate. It just happens. We run. We lift weights. We spot each other. One morning, I’m on the bench press and he asks where I’m from. Funny that this hasn’t come up in our many conversations.

“I grew up in Petaluma. It’s not too far from San Francisco,” I say, pushing up the weight bar.

He gives a slow and easy smile. “I know where Petaluma is.”

“Didn’t mean to imply you didn’t know your geography as well as your ornithology,” I tease, lowering the bar then pressing it up again. He stares down at me, his eyes roaming over my chest but never straying too far.

“I know my geography just fine. I also live in San Francisco,” he points out.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you venture to Petaluma.”

“I’ve been there on the way to wine country,” he says.

Out of nowhere, envy thrashes in my chest, painful as a cleat in the ribs. This is what happens when you become friends with your crush. I know why he’s been to wine country. He once dated a guy who lives there, a chef. I picture him cruising up the highway, laughing with some other guy in the passenger seat, free and easy. He’s headed for a weekend getaway. A weekend he could spend with that guy because they weren’t teammates.

“Must have been nice. Going to wine country.” I push up the bar, doing my damnedest to shove away this dumb jealousy too. “You from there?”

“No. I grew up in Los Angeles, but we moved to San Francisco when I was in middle school.”

“You and your family?”

His jaw tightens. “My mom and me.”

That’s all he says, and I let it go. There’s more there, but now’s not the time to mine that territory.

Instead, I ask, “You and she are close?”

“Definitely. Me and my stepdad too.” He answers, but his tone is clipped. I should change topics, but he does that himself. “Kind of crazy to wind up being drafted to your hometown team.”

“Maybe it was meant to be,” I say.

“You’re someone who believes that?” Declan sounds doubtful. “That things are meant to be?”

“I believe in hard work. But yeah, I think sometimes things are meant to be. I take it you don’t?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Not one bit.”

The shadows in his eyes go even darker, and if we weren’t treading on dangerous ground, I’d ask what he meant. But I know it’s for the best to nip this convo in the bud.

I set the bar down on the holder then sit up, my chest heaving. I’m about to stand when I catch him staring shamelessly at me. My pecs, my abs, my arms. My piercing . . .

“Like the view?” I ask. I can’t resist danger sometimes.

Without a reply, he tips his forehead to the bench, a sign for me to skedaddle. Hoping I haven’t pissed him off, I stand quickly, making room for him as he settles in. “You know I do,” he mutters, and a bolt of lust slams into me.

We’ve tangoed, and we’ve toyed. But that’s the first admission that he feels these sparks. This heat. This fire that’s blazing between us. It’s the first time we’ve outright fanned the flames.

I throw kerosene on them too. “Look at us . . . switching positions.”

Declan stares up at me, hunger in his eyes. “Is that a metaphor or a challenge?” His voice is husky.

And holy fuck, I am treading on uncertain ground. I’ve got to be careful. But holding back would be like letting a fastball down the middle pass you by. You have to swing.

“Maybe both,” I say as he pushes up the bar.

With a huff, he shakes his head.

Is he annoyed?

Shit. I do need to behave.

“Sorry,” I add hastily. “I’ll rein it in.”

Declan lowers the bar. “Rookie, we are both guilty.”

The way he says that—rookie—sends sparks down my spine.

“Very, very guilty,” I add, and inside, I’m beaming.

I shouldn’t be, but I am.

Another lift, another press, another sexy glance. He doesn’t talk, just grunts as he lifts in the early-morning quiet of the hotel gym.

When he finishes his reps, he racks the bar and wipes a hand across his forehead but doesn’t sit up.

Instead, he picks up the thread of the conversation. “You know how hot you are,” he whispers.

“Why would I know that?” I ask, fishing shamelessly for compliments.

He cranes his neck, taking a backward glance at my body. “You’ve got eyes. You look in the mirror. You know what you see. You know what I see.”

Electricity crackles and pops as I croak out, “What do you see?”

He sits, cocks his head, strokes his jaw. His dark gaze cranks my thermostat to furnace hot. “Danger. I see danger.”

That one word contains multitudes—in it, I hear him saying he wants danger, he craves danger.

But he won’t let himself have it.

I want it too, and I’m pretty sure I’m more reckless than Declan. The man seems so in control, and I feel wildly out of control with him. But it’s a feeling I crave more and more each day, even though I know the stakes. I’m well aware of the risks. We are as taboo as we can be.

I’m not flirting with some guy I won’t have to see at work. He’s someone I have to work closely with every single game, every single day on the field.

But the field is where I need perfect concentration. A millisecond mistake can cost a game. If my mind wanders to the guy manning shortstop, can I call the right pitch at a critical moment in a game?

No idea.

Trouble is, when I’m near Declan, my body lights up. My skin tingles, and everything inside me spins faster and faster. He’s like adrenaline, and I want another hit, then another.

I set a hand on the weight bar, not too far from his. “Our job is dangerous. Standing at the plate every day as someone throws a ninety-five-mile-an-hour ball at you is pretty risky,” I counter.

A sliver of a smile tugs at his lips. “Yep. And so is flirting with you.”

“You could stop,” I offer. I want him to know I’m not going to pressure him. I’m chill with being buds. “Or you could just acknowledge we enjoy some harmless flirting. That’s all it is, right?”

Those full lips curve into a grin. His eyes sparkle. He seems to weigh my question in his hand then decide he likes it. “That’s all it is, rookie. Harmless flirting.”

I hope he’s lying, like I am.

When we’ve finished our workout, he drops a hand on my shoulder like he did the first day we met. No one is around. He curls it tighter, clasping me. I nearly die of pleasure—his touch drives me insane with longing. I want those hands on me, grabbing me everywhere, reckless and crazed.

He squeezes, and that’s it. I am gone.

“Tomorrow, I won’t flirt with you,” he says as we leave the gym, and it sounds like a solemn swear.

One I hope he’ll break.

That night, I call Reese. She answers on the third ring. “I’m studying for a Spanish test, so this better be good,” she says.

I play my ace. “It’s the report you want. And my report is . . . you were dead wrong.”

She’s silent for a few seconds. “About what?”

“You said that my crush would go away when I met him in person.”

She laughs. “I am pretty sure you said that, not me.”

“Whoever said it was a dipshit,” I say, pacing my room. “Everything about him is intense. He’s also sarcastic, and interesting, and smart. And he notices things. And he’s the biggest flirt I’ve ever met.”

“So, this is a two-way street.”

I drag a hand down my face, nodding even though she can’t see me. I’m not the most experienced guy. I don’t have gobs of sex intel to draw on. But I know a hell of a lot about one thing—trusting your instinct. Everything is instinct with Declan.

“It’s not a one-way street at all, Reese. It’s like an electrical charge runs between us, and it’s frying my circuits.”

“But, Grant, are you going to do something about it?” Her question is an icy-cold shower. It’s bracing, and it knocks me out of the haze I’m in.

Ice—we need to keep this thing on ice.

I sink down on the couch, push my head back against the cushion, and heave a long sigh. “I’m not going to do anything. That’d just be dumb. So, I’ll do nothing.”

It’s gut-wrenchingly painful to say.

“But do you want to do nothing?” she asks tentatively.

“Girl, I want to do everything with him. Everything I’ve never done.”

She hums thoughtfully. “You need to be careful.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” I snap, and it sounds like I’m lashing out at her. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” She takes a beat. “You really like him?”

I shake my head adamantly. “It’s fine. I can handle it. Because I’m Grant ‘Lock It Up’ Blackwood.”

She laughs softly. “Are you, though?”

“Fuck, yeah. I’ve got this. I’ve done it for years. No one is better at this than I am,” I say, full of a bravado I don’t entirely feel.

But maybe I need to fake it.

We end the call, and I catch up with some of the other rookies. We hang in Sullivan’s room on the second floor, chowing on pizza in between Xbox sessions. Like we did in the minors when Sullivan and I were roomies and Miguel would hang at our place.

Sullivan bests Miguel and me in a ruthless game on the virtual court, brutal enough to take my mind entirely off that other guy.

After another thrashing, Sullivan sets down the controller. Hip hop blasts from his phone. “Dude, how much better is this suite than our shitty little apartment in Bakersfield?” He’s always had a kind of casual cool that makes him easy to hang with. “We’ve got our Xbox, and pizza and our music . . .”

“The only thing that would make this better would be a couple of babes,” Miguel says. “And you can wingman us like you did in Triple A.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say.

“With your face and my charm, it’s a one-two punch reeling them in,” Sullivan says.

I crack up. “You wish you reeled ’em in.”

“I do have a good face, though. Admit it. Spitting image of Ryan Reynolds,” Sullivan says, setting a hand on his cheek and batting his eyelashes.

I snort. “Hate to break it to you . . . you’re more like Ryan Reynolds in your dreams. IRL, maybe his second cousin or something.”

Miguel guffaws. “So, if he’s Deadpool, can I be Michael Peña?”

I shake my head. “Go for Rafael Silva as a comp. He’s much hotter. And if you don’t believe me, check out 9-1-1: Lone Star.”

Grabbing his phone, Miguel googles the actor then nods approvingly. “Yes! I will take that comp, thank you very much. I will add it to my Tinder profile. How about you, Grant? You cruising for a spring-training hookup?”

Yes, with our shortstop.

“Nah. No time for that. Baseball is what I’m all about,” I say, underlining that in my head, putting it on a Post-it, and sticking it on my mental fridge.

“True. That’s why hookups—and only hookups—are the way to go,” Sullivan says. “We need to be all about baseball.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say.

I wiggle the controller, asking if they want one more round. We go at it, and this time, I win. On that high note, I yawn and tell the guys I’m hitting the sack.

“Catch you in the a.m.,” I say on my way out.

I make my way to the elevator. With another yawn, I push the call button, and when the doors open, I startle briefly. The skipper’s in the lift, holding a carton of what looks like Thai food. He gives me a crisp nod. “Hey there, Blackwood.”

“Hello, sir.”

“How are you enjoying spring training?” he asks as I step inside.

“It’s great, sir,” I say.

“You’re playing well,” he says.

I have no choice but to smile. “Thank you. And is that mango in there?”

“Mango sticky rice. The Thai place down the street has it. I get it every night. Reminds me of this spot I used to go to when I played in the farm leagues.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “That was probably before you were born.”

I laugh—he’s not wrong. Our manager played in the majors for fifteen years as a hard-hitting outfielder before becoming one of the best damn coaches ever, with a killer post-season record. He reminds me of Dusty Baker, in looks and in attitude, and he’s the calm rudder we need and want.

“I imagine it was,” I say.

“And now this mango sticky rice is my spring training vice. I suppose I’m allowed that at my age,” he says drily.

“I’d say you’ve earned it, sir.”

“Mrs. Fisher would have me cut back, but that’s why I indulge when I’m away.” He brings his finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell her.”

“Your secret is safe with me, sir,” I say as the elevator reaches the sixth floor and I step out.

I take a deep breath as soon as the door to my room shuts behind me.

That was fun with the guys.

I needed it too. It took my mind off other matters, and now sleep will do the rest.

I hit the shower, which always helps me crash. I crank the temperature to high, and it heats me everywhere.

Or maybe my thoughts do that—they return to Declan in a heartbeat. All that time with my buds did nothing to squash this desire.

Not a damn thing.

A few days later, Declan and I are running along the golf course again, debating a vital topic.

“Pierce Brosnan is underrated,” Declan insists.

I scoff. “You’re seriously telling me he was the best Bond?”

“I’m saying he doesn’t get his due.”

“Two words. Daniel Craig.”

“I’m not denying that Daniel Craig does a fine job.”

I snort. “A fine job? Daniel Craig is Bond. There is no question about it.”

Declan shrugs easily. “The best Bond debate is not a one or the other for me. You’re a one-Bond man? Only loyal to Craig?”

“I’m saying that once you’ve seen Daniel Craig, you can’t go back.”

“Nah. I’m all for Brosnan. That’s my vote.”

“I would say you’ve got a thing for Brits, but they’re all Brit,” I say with a laugh.

“I don’t have a thing for Brits. Do you?” He sounds more serious than I did, like he truly wants to know my preferences.

I wiggle a brow, fucking with him. “I don’t mind the blokes,” I say in a terrible British accent.

He cracks up. “That was awful.”

“Rubbish. It was rubbish.”

“That too, mate,” he says in a decent Aussie accent.

“Down under, are you there?” I ask, sliding into an Australian voice and botching it terrifically.

“Wow. You really suck at accents,” Declan says.

My big mouth gets the better of me. I don’t even think twice.

“I do, but there are lots of other things I don’t suck at.”

With a slow turn of his head, he locks eyes with me, his deep voice all kinds of raspy. “Such as?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Sucking.”

On that note, I do my best to leave him in the dust. But he catches up with me. “I thought we weren’t going to flirt,” he says.

“Is it flirting if you’re telling the truth?”

“You are too dangerous, rookie. Far too dangerous.”

Maybe I want danger.

“You like danger,” I counter, feeling bold.

Declan laughs once, his lips curving up in a grin. “Seems I do.”

The next day, I level-up the Bond conversation. I want to see what will happen if we get personal about our preferences. So, I pull out that reliable but inappropriate icebreaker, “Which out celebrities would you sleep with?”

In the gym at the complex, we name them as we lift. It’s a roster of a lot of the usual suspects. For athletes, there’s former soccer star Robbie Rogers and retired hockey player Brock McGillis, and circling around to actors, we agree on Cheyenne Jackson for sure, and call Matt Bomer at the same time.

We knock fists between reps.

“I would not kick him out of bed for eating crackers,” I say. “I’d also kiss him in the morning, and I hate morning breath.”

Declan laughs. “Same here. Also, there’s just something super-hot about men who know who they are and aren’t afraid to be themselves.”

Yes, indeed, there is something super-hot about that.

When the workout ends and we’re heading toward the locker room, I stop tangoing with danger.

I roll the dice and tell Declan, “Wait, there’s one more.”

“Who’s that?”

I’ve never felt anything like this spark, this sizzle. It’s impossible to turn off when all I want to do is let him turn me on. I feel everything I’ve ever wanted to feel as a man. With a man.

This kind of attraction.

This kind of desire.

I am in its clutches and it can have me, so I say, “There’s you.”

Turning on my heel, I head into the locker room, buzzed, and I haven’t touched a drop of anything.

With my every cell humming, I put on my baseball uniform then go out to the field with the team and stretch. The skipper tells me I’m starting the game today, and our backup catcher, Rodriguez, might come in for the fifth. I thank him, privately hoping his plan keeps me on track to win the starting slot.

After we stretch, we pile onto the team bus for a game thirty minutes away. I sit next to Crosby and chat with him, doing my best to avoid Declan’s hot stare.

At the moment I told him, it seemed like a good idea. But right now? Hell, I might have fucked up our friendship.

Feels like a gut punch, and I ask myself if I’ve fucked up this team too.

Why the hell did I throw that down?

Because I can’t handle this much lust?

Like hell I can’t.

I put everything else aside, spend the rest of the ride getting into the zone, blocking out everything else.

I call a flawless game, and I play even better at the plate, clobbering in a three-run homer that puts us in the lead.

I breathe a small sigh of relief.

Maybe I haven’t crossed the line.

But there’s no time to dwell on it—in the bottom of the eighth, we nearly choke up the lead when Sullivan struggles on the mound.

I’ve got a hunch about why he’s so nervous. I overheard the pitching coach saying that Sullivan was on the bubble for the final roster. His throwing tonight says he’s feeling the pressure. He’s all over the place, and I’ve been lunging for wild pitches left and right.

Pushing up my mask, I trot out to the mound and clap a hand on his shoulder. “You got this, Sullivan. Take a breath, block out all the crap, and put that curveball in my glove. That is all you have to do. Nothing else matters.”

He huffs out hard. “Thanks, man.”

The next pitch is a wicked curve that the batter misses.

Sullivan walks off the mound, not unscathed. But at least we’re still in the lead. He catches up to me and taps his glove to mine. “I needed that. Appreciate it.”

That’s the type of advice my grandpa always gave to me when I was struggling, so I’m happy to pass on the wisdom to a friend. “Anytime.”

Chance comes on at the bottom of the ninth to close it out, sealing up a win. We high-five, but when I make my way to the dugout, I look for Sullivan. “You want to toss the ball when we’re back?”

His eyes light up. “You’d do that?”

I furrow my brow. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

He exhales all those nerves in a frustrated sigh. “My head’s a mess. That wasn’t surprise, that was gratitude, because I’m glad for your help.”

Sullivan and I meet later on the backfield at the Cougars complex, throwing pitches until he feels the mojo again. It’s just the two of us, and when we wrap up, we knock fists over a good session.

“You’re the man,” he says, more relaxed and confident. “Any chance we can meet again in the morning before the first workout?”

“Of course,” I say, hiding my disappointment at missing my time with Declan. But then, I have no idea whether he’s going to be up for it after this morning.

We head to the locker room, and Sullivan showers lickety-split.

I take my time, letting the water beat down on my head and neck, letting it soothe the aches from the game.

When I turn it off, the locker room has that empty feel.

Can’t say I mind it, though.

Wrapping a towel around my waist, I grab another one, drying off my hair before I toss it in the towel bin then turn toward my locker.

Someone’s waiting there for me.

“We need to talk.”