Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

I cut the engine, but I don’t get out. I just breathe.

I rest my head against the back of the seat and stare out the windshield. A desert willow tree looms at the edge of the lot, and as I study the leaves, how they blow faintly in the night breeze, a pair of unblinking eyes watches me from a low branch.

An owl.

Rare sighting in Arizona. Rare sighting anywhere.

But only if you don’t look.

I always look.

When I was a little kid, I used to believe the owls were looking out for me. That they’d invite me to their homes, take me under their wings, so to speak.

It was a vivid childhood fantasy, one I needed for my own escape from my father and his habits.

My fantasies are different now, but even so, I’m still drawn to birds.

Some say owls are a sign of wisdom.

I’m not sure I was wise tonight.

Others say an owl means you should face your fears, reveal your secrets.

What was once my biggest secret—liking men—I revealed, so I’ve got no worries there.

I draw a deep breath, staring at the winged animal. The owl doesn’t look away. His eyes are challenging, like he can see inside me.

Like he knows my new secret.

Knows that I am struggling mightily. That kissing the rookie did nada to get him out of my system. I only want more of him.

And yet, I need to be strong.

I’ve got to live with this struggle, find a way through it. It can’t be harder than the other shit I’ve dealt with. From my father, to my own fuckups, to being one of the first openly gay athletes in baseball.

Even to Kyle and the trouble that came with the end of that relationship. The trouble that rattles through my life now and again, like late last season when I ran into him as he was signing up for a membership at my regular gym in San Francisco. He acted surprised that I worked out there. But it turned out my trainer had posted a pic of our workout online as he was hunting for other pro-athlete clients.

I chatted with Kyle to be polite, and he quickly mentioned he was single again. And did I want to go out for a drink? Or a not-drink, he added, since he knew I didn’t touch the stuff.

I declined, found a new gym, and hired a new trainer.

But that’s the last I heard from Kyle. As for Nathan, he never tried to get in touch with me after that epic fight on my front steps earlier this year. Emma told me in a text that his show was renewed and he was going to start shooting in Georgia next week, once he finished his family time in Florida.

They’re both in the past, where exes belong.

Now, I need to do better. Be better.

I’m here, living the good life.

I can’t just risk it all because Grant would be a good lay.

Ah hell, he’d be a great lay.

My skin burns as the images flash past me.

That man.

That sexy, flirty, outgoing man.

I let out a long, heavy sigh.

The owl hoots, the sound reminding me that some say owls are harbingers. They warn you of trouble.

Thanks, owl. But I can see the trouble clearly myself.

I unbuckle and get out of the car.

Sometimes an owl is just an owl.

But either way, I need to cool it. I need to resist Grant.

Tonight needs to be in the past.

Tomorrow I’ll reset.

Keeping my shit together is my specialty.

But as I cross the lot, tossing my keys up and down in my palm, my gaze strays to the hotel windows. I count up to the sixth floor, wondering where Grant is, what room he’s in, and if he’s taking matters into his own hands right now.

My cock twitches at the thought right as my phone bleeps.

Grabbing it from my shorts pocket, I slide a thumb across the screen. A notification pops up from the man who commands my thoughts.

My messaging app shows a preview of his text.

Grant:You’ve got to check out this movie clip. It’s the one you wanted to see.

My skin tingles. My mouth waters. I’m Pavlov’s dog.

I stop in my tracks, shove a hand in my pocket, hunting for my AirPods but coming up short.

If this is what I think it is . . .

I hustle to the lobby, my thumb hovering over the screen, eager, so damn eager to play it.

My room is too far away.

It’s going to take forever to get there.

I want to see this clip now.

But I can’t take a chance.

Nope.

I jam the phone in my pocket, stuffing it deep, but I keep my hand on it, protecting it. Like it’s a treasure, a precious artifact I’ve discovered.

When I step into the lobby, a basketball hurls my way. Instinct kicks in, and I palm it, then look up at the shooter.

“Nice reflexes, shortstop,” Chance says, striding in from the outdoor pool, Crosby by his side. They are wearing swim trunks.

I grimace privately.

Love these guys, but I want to be alone with this . . . message ASAP. I toss the ball back to Chance. “I do my best to keep them up. You playing Marco Polo?”

Crosby mimes dunking a shot. “Nope. We found a way to combine pool and basketball because we’re brilliant like that.”

“Maybe you’ll even start a league,” I toss out.

“Goals,” Crosby jokes.

“Feel free to join us tomorrow, man,” Chance offers.

Saved by the bell.

“I’m there,” I say. It’ll be good for me to spend time with them, rather than obsessing over the catcher I want to eat for an appetizer, dinner, and then dessert.

Crosby furrows his brow, then tips his forehead to the doors. “What are you up to? Hot date, Mr. No Dating During Spring Training?”

“Ooh, busted,” Chance says with a grin.

A worm of annoyance wiggles through me. I’m about to lie. I abhor lies. They’re everything I strive to avoid.

My chest squeezes and I ball my fists, thinking of that owl.

Just like I did when I was younger. When I had to tell lies about my father. Lies when he missed my games. Lies when I was late to practice.

But I couldn’t lie anymore when he showed up at my games drunk. When he practically stumbled onto the field, reeking of tequila sometimes, beer others.

I hate lying.

But then, if I were seeing some guy in town, would I tell Crosby and Chance? If I were dating River, would I advertise them of that?

I decide I would not.

So, this is not a lie.

“Just went to CVS to get some shit,” I say, though I’m empty-handed. For all he knows I bought condoms and they’re in my pocket.

Which reminds me . . .

“Anyway,” I say, pushing out a yawn. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They say goodbye and amble down the hall. I stab the button for the elevator, and it arrives instantly.

Anticipation winds through me as the doors close. I’m a horse at the gates. I’m champing at the bit.

Once the elevator chugs upward, I grab my phone, turn it to mute, and click open the message, hitting play.

One second in, I go up in flames.

“Oh, fuck me,” I mutter as the video plays.

I shut it down right away so I’m not sporting a raging boner as I walk along the hall. But I write back quickly.

Declan:Gonna watch this in 30 seconds. But I need to know—did you finish? If not, wait for me. I’ll send you something in a couple of minutes. Something you can finish to.

Grant:It’s Dirty Christmas morning! I’ll stroke it slow and easy, but don’t make me wait long. I’m dying here.

Declan: You have my filthy word.

A minute later, I’m in my room, shorts unzipped, hand in my boxer briefs, stroking my cock as I watch the sexiest video ever.

Grant is a goddamn porn auteur.

Has he done this before? Shot videos of himself? The dragon of envy thrashes inside me again.

But screw jealousy.

This video is mine.

And it is off the chain.

His fist curls nice and tight around his thick cock. He’s all lubed up, slick and hot. One hand slides up and down that fantastic shaft, slow and sexy, gripping the base, then squeezing his way up the head, sliding over his crown, pushing out a drop of liquid arousal on a guttural grunt.

“Yes, rookie. Stroke that beautiful cock,” I urge as I watch his moves, as my own hand travels up and down my pulsing length.

He moans and pants as he works his shaft, shiny with the lube, making it feel even better for him, I’m sure, and making me think of lubing him up and guiding him into me.

I shudder, a groan ripping through me as I jack harder.

The video lasts forty-five filthy seconds, and I am halfway there already, hard and horny and utterly amazed at this guy’s guts, at his confidence, at his ballsiness.

And speaking of balls, oh yes, do I ever want to get my mouth on his.

I write back, dictating because I don’t want to stop touching myself.

Declan:I’m on my bed, hand down my shorts, watching your video, stroking my dick, wanting desperately to taste your come . . .

His response is short and crystal clear.

Grant:Show me.

Declan:I will.

Grant:Wanna see you come. I want sound.

Declan:You a porn director?

Grant:I just know what I want.

I angle the phone on a pillow by my thigh, turn it to selfie mode, then video. I grab some lube from the nightstand, coat my dick, and I go to town, jacking it fast, recording every second. Every noise I make.

“Yes,” I grunt. “Fucking yes. Unghhh.”

My fist is a blur as lust torches my veins. As I picture Grant straddling my chest, his gorgeous cock hovering above my lips, then I see him plunging it into my mouth.

“Ah fuck,” I groan.

I thrust up, hips jerking as I unload on my chest, moaning and groaning till I drag a finger through the mess.

I hit end, then I send the video and grab a tissue to clean up.

I lay there, spent. Exhausted. Blissed out.

Sixty seconds is all it takes for my return delivery.

His text arrives, and I click so fast on the video.

He’s faster, harsher, louder than me, and hell, I feel like I could come again just watching him.

He grips tight and rough, moaning and cursing, hand flying until he comes buckets on his chest.

I am enrapt.

Utterly enrapt in the sexiest selfie I’ve ever received.

The filthiest too.

But it’s not even the dirtiness that turns me on. It’s the fact that he did this, that he sent it, that he threw caution to the wind like this.

I’m about to reply when a new message lands on my phone.

No video this time.

Just a text.

The preview says only: hey, I need to tell you something.

My brow furrows. That feels like the start of bad news.

Of a tough conversation.

Like Hey, I don’t think we should do this again.

My heart stops, stutters, then speeds up again in the span of several seconds. I swallow roughly, nerves thrumming through me.

I don’t want that outcome. I don’t want his stop sign.

With a deep, fueling breath, I click open the message.

Grant:Hey, I need to tell you something. I need to tell you what I was picturing there at the end. What I’ve imagined every time I’ve jacked off since I met you.

This is hard for me to say, for a lot of reasons, but partly because I know I talk a good game. I may act like I know what I’m doing. This isn’t easy, but I’m telling you anyway since I want you to know what I was thinking.

I was thinking how much I want to sleep with you. Yeah, that probably won’t surprise you at all. But maybe this will.

I’ve never had sex before. With anyone.

And now I want to. With you.