Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

Those two words—same here.

They echo in my skull, pushing me, prodding me.

Tension lines my body, as want wars with my better judgment.

I shouldn’t talk to him like this.

Shouldn’t put my cards on the table.

But Grant Blackwood is under my skin.

He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met, and it’s not just his body, his face, or his eyes. It’s . . . him.

Who he is. How he is.

Maybe talking this out will eject the desire from my head. Maybe acknowledging the white-hot sparks between us is all we need to move the hell on.

Put our lust through its paces. Laugh at it. Remind ourselves why giving in would be the worst idea ever.

“But you’re my teammate,” I say, presenting it as a logical argument. “We work together, and this wouldn’t be some office fuck where we screw in the mailroom and go to separate floors. We share a locker room. We’ll share a team plane. We’ll share a field. TV networks carry the Cougars. Sponsors endorse us.”

I grab another napkin, start shredding it.

“That’s all true,” he says, taking his time with each word.

“We have a manager. Fisher would not be happy if two of his guys were screwing. Not to mention, we have other teammates,” I say, my jaw clenching in between words. “Crosby, Chance, Sullivan.” I go around the horn and name the rest of the team to remind myself. Hell, maybe saying their names will free me from this lust as I rip this napkin to pieces. “They depend on us. All of them do.”

I link the fingers on both my hands together and hold them up, demonstrating my point. “We are a bond—nine guys on a field. We can’t give in.” I implore him, my voice tight as I do everything to convince him.

But it’s not Grant I’m trying to convince.

It’s me.

Because the way this man looks at me, with sex in his eyes, dirty deeds on his lips, makes it nearly impossible for me to resist.

“I know we can’t, Deck.”

That. Right there. His boy-next-door voice. That’s part of why I want him so much. I shake my head and laugh futilely. “Even that gets me going. The way you say my nickname.”

A smile curves his lips. “Deck.” He’s all gravelly and raspy, enjoying knowing what it does to me, and it does the trick.

“Mmm. Like I said . . .”

Grant jerks his chair closer to the table, licks the corner of his lips, and murmurs, “The way you call me rookie . . .”

My neck heats. My blood incinerates. “You like that?” I take a beat, lingering on his gorgeous face, the blue flames in his eyes flickering higher. “Rookie?”

He shudders, nodding. “Yeah. Makes me hard.”

“Jesus . . . fuuuuck.” I am broiling. “Do you get what I mean? Do you see the problem?”

“I do, Deck. I do.”

A bolt of heat slides down my spine. “I’m trying to tell you all the reasons why this is a bad idea, and now all I can think about is your cock.”

He shifts in his seat and swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I want to lick it. “Pretty much all I’m aware of too,” he whispers. “Safe to say all the blood in my body went straight to my dick when you said you were thinking of us fucking.”

I groan.

He shudders at the sound, his lips parting, his shoulders rising and falling.

“Dear God, I am going to climb across the table right now,” I warn.

“I think you know I won’t stop you,” Grant says.

And that is my reminder—I have to be the strong one. I have to be strong for both of us. I’ve got to look out for the rookie.

I let out a long exhale and lean back in my chair, searching for something else to focus on, when the man from the bar arrives. Ink crawls down one arm, and his smile is bright.

“Can I get you two a drink?” His voice is cheery, and it helps break me out of the haze.

“Iced tea for me, please,” I say.

The man shifts his gaze to my companion. “And you?”

“Diet Coke, please,” Grant answers.

“Great. Can I interest you in any food? Our Sonoran sandwich is pretty darn good, if I do say so myself. The barbecue sauce is to die for.”

“I’m not sure yet,” I say, and the guy nods, then glances once more at Grant, his gaze snagging on the bands on Grant’s biceps that look like water.

The man’s smile deepens, his eyes flickering with recognition. “Oh, wait. You’re Grant, aren’t you? My sister mentioned you to me. I’m River. Welcome to Arizona.”

“Thanks. Good to be here.”

River’s eyes return to Grant’s arm. “I heard you were a regular at Ink Lore. My dad did that one, right?”

Grant smiles and taps his arm. “Yeah, he did the bands a couple years back. Echo did my newest one a month ago, and I love it.”

“She’s a rock star of tattoo artists, but she works all the time. I keep telling her to get out of the shop and get some vitamin D. Go for a hike, Echo! She’s like a ghost, that girl,” he says with a laugh.

“All that time in the chair, though, is working for her. She’s super talented,” Grant says. For a second, I wonder if he’ll lift his shirt, show his arrow to this guy.

I grit my teeth. He better not.

The man taps his finger on the table. “Glad you could come by The Lazy Hammock.”

Something snaps. “He’s with me,” I bark out, jealousy ravaging my insides.

With a sweet grin, the man turns to me. “No worries, hun. I’m not hitting on your guy. Not my style.”

And I’m an asshole. I just snarled at the owner. It’s not like he’s some random dude flirting with Grant while I’m off taking a piss.

“My bad. Sorry. I just . . .” I don’t even know what to say. I don’t normally react like that. Hell, I never react like this.

“No worries. But I do understand why you’d feel possessive.” The guy dips his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If he were mine, I’d make sure no one got near him either. Now, why don’t you two let me know if you decide you want some food. I’m River, and I’m happy to help.”

He leaves, and Grant smirks. “You’re just a little jealous.”

“I’m a prick too, it seems,” I mutter.

“Yeah, but it’s sexy,” he says. “Your jealousy.”

“Is it?”

“Very, very sexy.” He nibbles on the corner of his mouth.

All the breath leaves my lungs as a hand slides onto my knee under the table, just below my shorts. He’s touching my leg, and I want to pounce on him. I push my knee closer, letting him know he can touch me all he wants. He takes my invitation and spreads his fingers wider. And now I know my knee is an erogenous zone, and Grant Blackwood has claimed it as his own territory.

“If we slept together,” Grant begins. “Would you want to . . .?”

I finish for him. “Fuck you?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes. I would.”

He nods. “You seem like you’d want to top.”

But he’s only half-right. “And the next night, I’d want you to fuck me.”

Grant blinks in surprise, then he curls his big palm tighter, covering my knee. “You would?”

“I’m vers, rookie. All the way.”

“You are?”

“One hundred percent. Best of both worlds,” I say. “God made sex with a man the most pleasurable thing ever in existence, and I don’t want to miss any aspect of it.”

“Jesus,” he says, gripping my knee tighter, clutching it.

“What about you?”

He hesitates a few seconds before he answers. “Same.”

I lower my hand under the table, reaching for his, taking it in mine. Our fingers slide together, and my entire body becomes a lightning rod. We clasp fingers, and it feels like a prelude.

Like it’s just the start.

That’s the good news.

And that’s the bad news.

Seconds later, River returns, and we let go. The owner sets down the drinks. “Here you go. Did you two decide if you want food?”

I shake my head but smile to make up for my earlier behavior. “Not yet. Promise to tell you soon, River.”

As I lift my iced tea, Grant looks at the glass. “Is that because you’re driving?”

“Yes, but if you’re asking whether I drink, then no.”

“I had a feeling.”

“Why?” I ask, curious.

“You’ve never had a beer when we’ve played video games with the other guys.”

“You noticed?”

He nods. “I kind of notice you,” he says, a little embarrassed. He lifts his Diet Coke, takes a drink.

“You can order a beer with me. I’m cool with that. I don’t expect you to make the same choices I do.”

He smiles, soft at first, then full wattage. It’s infectious, and it warms my soul. “I’m good, man. Also, I think kisses taste better this way.”

He lifts the glass again, his blue eyes twinkling above the rim as he knocks some back.

“Who’s the flirt now?” I ask.

“Both of us,” he says when he puts it down.

And now I’m thinking about kissing.

How he’d taste.

How he wants me to kiss him tonight.

He’s practically taunting me.

But someone has to lay down the rules. I bet Grant would strip naked for me if I asked him to. I bet he’d blow me in the car if I said the word.

It’s not that he’s submissive.

It’s that he’s eager. He’s hungry. He’s fucking horny. So am I. But someone has to pump the brakes.

“Grant,” I say, more serious now. “I don’t think it’s a good idea if this goes any further.”

His face is stony at first. He swallows, a little roughly, like I’ve wounded him, and he needs to shake it off. Then he shrugs, shooting me that magic grin as if this decision is no big deal. “I figured you’d say that. So, does that mean we can finally order? Because I’m starving.”

I crack up, laughing so damn hard. “Yes, let’s get some food.”

An hour later, we leave, stopping to say goodbye to River on the way out.

“Come back anytime,” he says from behind the bar. Then he quiets his voice. “If you want to keep a low profile, we’ve got your back. Happy to do that for our guests who need it. I can make sure you get a corner table away from anyone else.”

“Appreciate that.” I wonder what I did to deserve this dude looking out for us. Nothing, but I’ll take it.

Grant offers him a fist for knocking. “You’re a good one.”

River knocks back. “Anytime.”

When we get to my car, I have this impulse to open the door for Grant.

That’s how I like to treat my dates.

I head around to his side, behind him, reaching around his arm before he can open the door. He turns, spins, shoots me a what the hell look. “What are you doing?”

We’re inches away. The closest we’ve ever been. I can smell the shower on him still. The soapy scent of his neck. His shampoo, some classic barbershop scent that’s all man. The vein in his neck pulses. The heat from his chest warms mine. My brain goes haywire, but my arm stays still, my hand on the door handle. “I was going to open the door for you,” I say, awkward and uncertain.

“You don’t have to open my door,” he says. “I’m a grown man.”

And just like that, he makes it clear. We’re equals. However this plays out, we’re equals.

I swallow, my throat tight. “Shit. Sorry.”

“No biggie.”

His eyes drift away like something has caught his attention. I follow his gaze. A couple leans against a truck several feet away, wrapped up in each other, kissing soft and tender, but with the kind of passion that could turn hot and frenzied any second.

Grant and I look back at each other at the same time. Our eyes lock. I don’t move. He doesn’t either.

Neither one of us speaks, but our eyes say the same thing.

We could be those other guys.

We could kiss here in the parking lot.

He could open his door, I could open mine, and we could drive somewhere.

Get in bed.

And if we were anyone else, that’s where we’d be tonight.

In bed. Fucking. All night long.

But I have to see him tomorrow morning on the field.

I step away, even as it pains me, even as my libido screams, flailing and kicking, telling me to stop protesting, to just give in.

I don’t.

I go around to the driver’s side, get in, and turn on the engine. I take off my cap, toss it in the back seat, and turn on a playlist, hitting random.

Guns N’ Roses.

Grant lifts a brow. “‘November Rain?’ Seriously?”

“I’m old school.”

“So old school.” With a laugh, he shakes his head, then stares out the window, humming along to the lyrics.

I drive away, but each second that ticks by makes my chest squeeze. It’s like there’s a rope around my heart, tightening like a noose.

I can hardly breathe.

It’s unbearable, the thought of this night ending.

I glance over at him.

Is he thinking the same thing as the miles unfurl?

I breathe out hard, fighting like hell to focus on the road, and I do my best. I swear I do. But when he slides one hand absently along his jeans, I’m obsessed with it.

How his fingers felt in mine under the table.

How good it would feel to have his hands on me.

Mine on him.

The GPS interrupts Axl Rose, telling us we’re two miles from the hotel.

Two miles.

Those words reverberate in my skull, a warning or a countdown.

The thought of going back into this hotel in less than two miles without tasting his Diet Coke kiss is killing me.

Making a split-second decision, I hit the right turn signal, pull onto a residential side street, then cut the engine. It’s quiet enough. No one’s out.

He jerks his gaze to me. “Why’d you stop?”

I meet his eyes. Lift my hand. Hold his face. His breath hitches.

I slide my thumb along his jaw. Grant moans softly, and everything feels right in my world.

“Fuck it.” I inch closer, lick my lips. “Kiss me, rookie.”

He smiles. “Hell, yes.”