Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Grant

I do love a hot pair of wheels, so I tell Declan as much when I slide into the BMW that waits for us outside the complex.

“Sweet ride,” I remark, trying to keep my voice steady as I compliment his rental. I slide into the passenger seat, buckling the seatbelt, clicking it in. “I’m going to get one of these someday. You’re happy with it?”

I’m spitting out words, any words, because I have no idea what he wants to talk about, but it can’t be good.

I glance out the window at the empty parking lot. It’s just us.

Even so, there’s nothing technically risqué about me heading out with one of my teammates.

“Yeah. It’s fine,” he bites out.

The crispness in his delivery makes me wince.

Shit. I’m talking too much to cover my nerves.

A whole squadron of them.

But what else would I feel? The man has demanded to talk to me.

And I doubt it’s to tell me my comment from earlier was cool or that it rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. More likely it’s to say, Stop coming on to me, rookie.

My brain races through other scenarios just in case I’m reading him wrong.

He can’t want to talk about the way I throw to second base.

He likely doesn’t need an intro to my agent.

No, there’s only one thing he could want to discuss—putting an end to the I want to sleep with you talk.

I put on an “everything’s fine” face like it’s armor.

I did it for years when I was younger—when my parents fought, when they hurled vitriol at each other in front of me, when they went to their room and fucked it out.

Nothing to see here, folks.

Move along.

We are all fine here.

Only this time, there’s no escape to Grandma and Grandpa’s house or to Reese’s home. There is no hiding in the backyard to take imaginary swings with my imaginary bat.

Instead, I am here, next to someone who actually wants to have a conversation.

I’m not used to people wanting to talk.

Declan cruises away from the complex onto the road that shoots us past the hotel.

“I take it we’re not going to the suites?” I ask, though, if we were, he wouldn’t need his car.

He shakes his head.

“Where are we going?”

He breathes out hard through his nostrils. “Someplace our teammates won’t be.”

My stomach twists.

This talk is going to be bad.

But I started it. I’ve got to deal with the fallout. “I heard about a bar called The Lazy Hammock, not far from here in Scottsdale. Do you want to go there?” I looked up the place after Echo told me about her brother. Then I finish the suggestion with a key detail. “It’s a gay bar.”

“Sounds good,” Declan mutters. “Tap it into the GPS.”

I do as he asks, and the robotic lady tells us we’ll arrive in ten minutes. I slide my palms along my jeans to rid them of the sweat as he drives into the Arizona evening, saguaros lining the road like sentries in the night.

I hunt for something to say, some words to fill the cavernous quiet in the car, something to replace the interminable echo of my mistake.

“So, Sullivan is doing better,” I say, my voice raspy with worry.

“Good.”

Declan said he’s not a chatter. He is proving that tonight.

“I’m going to help him again in the morning. A little extra bullpen practice.”

“Bet he’ll appreciate it.”

He doesn’t mention what that means for our routine. Am I the only one who’s going to miss not seeing each other at dawn?

I try again to engage him. “So, that was a good game tonight.”

His answer is clipped. “Yep.”

My throat tightens. I screwed up royally.

I push my head back against the leather headrest. Why the hell did I say that to him earlier? Why did I tell the shortstop that I wanted to sleep with him?

Oh, yeah. Because I do. Because I want it so damn badly. Because the more time I spend with him, the more the desire to kiss him, touch him, taste him escalates. This desire pounds through my blood. It scrambles my brain.

I tug on the brim of my hat, adjusting the bill.

My neck is hot, prickling with nerves, as he turns down another street.

He drives like he plays baseball. No distractions. All focus. Eyes on the road. I guess that’s a good thing, but it winds up the tension inside me until I think something will snap.

After a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence, passing some office buildings, a shopping center, and a hotel, we reach the bar, and he parks then cuts the engine. As I get out, he grabs a Las Vegas Hawks ball cap from the console, and he pulls the brim low too. I doubt I’ll be recognized, and I’m not sure he will either, but better safe than sorry.

We head inside, where I glance around, taking in the decor, mostly to have something to do.

It’s very Arizona meets Florida. Open windows, Jack Johnson playing overhead, palm trees and cacti lining the deck. The place is casual, easygoing, and half-packed. As the host takes us to a table on the deck, we pass the bar, and I catch a glimpse of Echo’s brother. He looks just like he did in the picture his sister showed me. His left arm is covered in ink.

He’s chatting with a customer—smiling too.

I wish Declan would smile.

We reach the table in the corner, and the host hands us drink menus, then a bar menu. Declan thanks him, and I do the same.

Once he’s gone, Declan breaks the silence at last. “How’d you hear about this place? Have you been here before?”

It’s a massive relief to be able to answer him rather than ask him dead-end questions. I slide a finger along the T-shirt fabric over my right pec. “The tattoo artist who did my arrow?”

He nods, letting me know he’s seen that mark on me.

“Her brother owns it. Runs it.”

Declan’s jaw ticks. He works the information over, then breathes out hard. “Did you date him?”

“What?” I jerk my head back. “No.”

“Did you fuck him?”

What the hell? I shake my head adamantly.

Declan has no idea how far off he is. And I’m honestly not sure if I want to tell him just now or if I’ll let loose that little secret at all. I don’t know how he’ll react, whether it’ll turn him off or turn him on.

The man sighs heavily, dragging his hand down his face, over his jaw, running it through that sexy stubble I want to feel against mine. I want him to rub his chin against my cheek. To slide his thumb along my face. To touch me . . . everywhere.

I am a tuning fork, vibrating with need, but a red-hot desire got me into this situation. I can’t keep acting on it—or voicing it.

After a pause, Declan speaks again, his voice low. “Do you see the problem?”

The tension in me twists even higher. “I honestly don’t know,” I say, holding my hands out wide.

He rubs his palm along the back of his neck, then his eyes laser in on mine. He holds my gaze, and electricity crackles between us—a hot, sizzling charge. He parks his elbows on the table, parts his lips.

“I’m already jealous of the possibility of you fucking someone else,” he says, a plain admission that scorches me.

Declan’s jealousy sets me on fire. Every square inch of me burns for him. “You are?”

“I am.” His voice is smoke in the desert night. “And what you said this morning?” he prompts, like I didn’t remember it perfectly.

“Yeah?” I ask, letting him lead this conversation wherever he’s taking it.

“Grant,” he says, his tone shifting, full of vulnerability and heat. “It’s driving me absolutely crazy.”

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t say a word. A haze envelops me as anticipation builds higher and higher, wrapping me in its naked grip.

He grabs a napkin from the napkin holder, balls it up, rips it. Then he meets my eyes once again, leveling me with a stare that’s more dangerous than any he’s flashed my way before.

But his words are the true risk as he says, “You and me fucking would be the worst idea ever. And yet I can’t get it out of my head.”

My throat is dry. I can’t swallow. I am an electrical wire. I want to remember those words for the rest of my life.

I want to remember this feeling forever. I’ve never been this aroused, this turned on.

This . . . alive.

Especially when I answer him with the easiest words I’ve ever spoken. “Same here.”