Scoring With Him by Lauren Blakely

Grant

Declan waves a hand at my right pec. “So, what’s the story with the arrow? Were you an archer in a past life?”

Laughing, I park my hands behind my head, but don’t answer right away. I’m kind of amazed he’s still here ten minutes later.

What’s the protocol on that? Are we screwing around more tonight? Is this pillow-talk time? Pillow-talk-before-more-sex time? I have no clue how this post-hookup stuff works. But we’re still naked in bed, albeit cleaned up, courtesy of a washcloth break.

I thought he’d leave after that—tug on his shorts, give me a tip of the cap and say, “See you tomorrow, rookie,” then wink and shut the door, leaving me to my thoughts.

That’s what most of my hookups have done.

They’ve been quickies.

Trading BJs in college.

Quick hand job for quick hand job.

But they never lasted. I didn’t have the time or the inclination to pursue anything more. Or the skills, to be honest. I don’t do relationships because I’ve never done relationships.

I’ve never had a boyfriend.

Is this arrow question normal post-hookup talk? Or maybe post-sex-Sherpa talk?

What am I supposed to make of this guy lying next to me asking about my ink, wanting to know me?

It’s all so uncharted. But it’s also cool.

And natural too, like I’m just lying in bed chatting on the phone or FaceTiming a friend. Gone are the nerves and excitement of sex for the first time, the worry whether I’m doing it right. Now it’s just us connecting, and I like it. I like it a lot.

“Was I an archer in a past life?” I repeat as I run my finger across the artwork Echo made. “Maybe I was. Maybe I was the god of archery.”

He seems amused. “Were you Apollo once upon a time?”

I preen a bit. “If I were to be any god in a past life, it would totally be Apollo.”

He chuckles. “Somebody thinks highly of himself.”

“Dude, it’s not because he’s hot. It’s because he was clearly one of the gay gods.”

Declan tilts his head. “Have you studied the gay gods?”

“I was a history major in college. So, I took Greek and Roman history, and that got me interested in taking a mythology class too.”

Declan pushes up, resting on his elbow on his side. “Tell me more about all the queer gods, then.”

This, I can do. I know how to talk about history. Plus, Declan has such a casual way about him, especially when he asks questions the same way he does when we work out in the morning. “Apollo had lots of relationships,” I say, shifting to my side too. “With lots of men and lots of women.”

“So, he was the original fuck boy?"

I crack up. “I’m sure that’s his nickname on Mount Olympus. Anyway, he was quite generous with the gift of his body. But one of his most important lovers was a nature god, who was also a Spartan prince named Hyacinth.”

His expression is dubious. “So, the fuck boy’s favorite lover was named after a flower?”

Shaking my head, I laugh. “Actually, I believe the flower was named after him. Legend says a dark blue hyacinth sprouted from Hyacinth’s blood when he was killed.”

“Did Apollo kill his lover, or was it one of those crazy god-gets-jealous-and-accidentally-offs-someone things?”

I tap my nose. “Good guess. One of the stories of Hyacinth’s death is that Zephyrus, the Greek god of the west wind, was jealous of Hyacinth’s relationship with Apollo. So, when Apollo was teaching Hyacinth how to throw a discus, the god of the wind blew it off course and killed Apollo’s lover.”

Declan mimes an explosion. “Wait. Wait a hot second. Not only was Apollo gay, he was part of a three-dude love triangle?”

“Homosexuality has been alive and well for centuries. And in spite of the debauchery, the infidelity, and the raging jealousy, the Greeks were pretty good flag bearers for LGBTQ back in the day.”

“Things you learn,” he says, a little delighted. “I suppose we owe them a debt of gratitude.” He presses his palms together prayerfully and gazes heavenward. “Thank you, Apollo.”

“Gods and poets, right?”

“Yeah, there were definitely a lot of poets who traveled on this side too.” His eyes go thoughtful for a few seconds, like he’s lost in time. “I think there’s a hyacinth in a T.S. Eliot poem. The Waste Land. ‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago . . .’”

I quirk a brow. “From Guns N’ Roses to T.S. Eliot? You’re quoting poetry now, shortstop?”

Declan rolls his eyes. “I took a couple poetry classes in college. Helped me a lot with some stuff. I’m not just a jock. But I know the body might make you think that.” He gestures to his firm, fit frame. Then he points to my arrow again, seeming determined, almost like he doesn’t want to linger on the topic of poetry. “All right, Apollo. What’s the story?”

“I got the arrow about a month ago. Right before spring training. It’s all about forward momentum. Focus. Goals. Funny thing, though—I planned to get this long ago.”

“You had a tattoo picked out when you were a kid?”

“Yep. My grandpa is covered in them. The dude has a full sleeve on his right arm,” I say, running my hand down my arm to demonstrate. “I always loved his tattoos, and I used to trace them when I was a kid.”

Holy hell, it is as easy to tell Declan these things as it is to talk to Reese. For a second, I wonder if I’m saying too much, but the eager spark in his dark brown eyes tells me to keep going. It’s like the coach waves me past first and I’m running hellbent toward second.

“I love ink that means something. So, for me, when I was five or six and I knew I wanted to be a baseball player, I told myself I was going to get a tat if I ever had a chance at making it to the Major Leagues.”

Declan smiles. “That is awesome dedication from a very young age.”

“I’m sure it was the same for you. Well, maybe not a tattoo. But didn’t you know that you wanted to play ball?”

He laughs softly. “Absolutely.” He inches a little closer, his voice turning reverent. “Do you remember the first time you stepped up at the plate when you were a little kid? And you dug in there, staring down the pitcher?” He sounds mesmerized, lost in time.

I nod, a tingle running down my shoulders as I picture it. “Like it was yesterday.”

“Yeah, and it was just magic, wasn’t it?”

I shake my head, amazed. “Nothing like it.”

“It was all I ever wanted to do.” He takes a beat. “Now, what about this?” He slides a finger down my bicep to the bands, black ink sketched like water, with waves. “Water is life? Go with the flow?”

“Sort of,” I say, a touch embarrassed. “It’s kind of cheesy.”

He wiggles his fingers. “Bring on the Swiss, rookie.”

“My grandpa has this one. On his arm. It’s the first one I had done.”

“Did you want to be like him?”

“Yeah. He took me to his shop. And he’s an athlete too. Not pro, but he runs marathons, and as I said, I always liked his ink as a kid. So, I wanted to have the same.”

He smiles. “Not cheesy at all. More like . . .” He stares into the distance. “Like a strawberry. Sweet.”

“Okay, now you’re making fun of me,” I say, but I’m smiling too.

“Nah. I think it’s cool. I like that you have the same one.” His fingers travel down my arm to the compass tattoo near my wrist. His touch warms my skin. “And this one?”

I swallow. Do I tell him? This one is even more personal. But he seems determined to know its meaning, since he doesn’t wait for my answer. He asks another question. “Is it for travel? Did you just want to see the world?”

“No. It’s a reminder,” I say, a little heavily, wondering if I should voice it. “To find my way out of the dark.”

Declan shifts, studying me more intensely, his brow furrowing. “Is this about being gay, like how you came out? Or something else?”

Lord knows it could be about the way I came out. Or really, the way I was outed. But nope, that’s not what this is.

“It’s not about sexuality.” Dragging a hand through my hair, I push past the discomfort. “It’s just shit from my parents. I told you they weren’t happy with each other. They weren’t happy with a lot of things. There were things they said to each other in the heat of the moment that were hard to hear.” The words taste like acid. Something black and tar-like twists inside me as memories jostle to the front of my mind, the terrible things they said to each other.

About me.

About my sister.

I swallow those down, tucking the dark truths into the far corner of my mind where nobody can know them.

His voice softens to a warm rumble. “I’m sorry you went through that. It’s not easy.” He sounds as if he understands what it’s like to have to deal with shit.

Something in me wants to get to know Declan more. “Spoken from experience?”

“Yep. Absolutely.” His eyes darken, and so does his tone.

I’m tempted to ask about his family, but that would be way too much for tonight. It doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about that either.

His eyes stray to my mountain tattoo. “And what about this?”

“Actually, this is the one that’s for adventure and travel,” I say, easy and breezy now, because that’s the nature of this ink in some ways. “When I was a kid, we didn’t go to many places. I never got on a plane until high school for state championships. And when Reese and I were younger, we used to plan all the places we would go.”

“What made the list?” he asks, more curiosity in his tone than I would have expected.

“Back then, we didn’t care. We would pick the globe, spin it, and put a finger on it. And then we would just pretend. When we were really young, we would grab our backpacks and wander down the street pretending we were escaping to China or Alaska or Canada. Then later, we would talk about what it must be like to live in New Zealand and Australia. Honestly, I just wanted to get away.”

Declan heaves a sigh, drags a finger absently down my arm. “Man, do I ever know that well.”

This is my chance to understand him. Maybe he keeps mentioning it because he wants someone to open the door for him. But I’m not sure how much I want to hear or how much he wants to say. I take only the most tentative of steps. “You were trying to escape from shit at home too?”

“My dad.” The word contains the weight of the world.

“You don’t get along with him?”

“I did. Incredibly well. For a long time. When I was really young, he was my hero.” Shaking his head, Declan blows out a long breath. “He was a ballplayer. A Minor Leaguer for a couple of years. A coach. But things changed . . .”

He’s quiet for a bit, contemplative. I don’t push. I don’t know how to ask or if I should.

“He left when I was at the end of middle school. And honestly, Grant, it was for the best.”

It’s as if Declan just skipped a period of his life in that pause. Maybe that’s the span he wanted to escape from. “Did you see him again?”

“Sometimes. He would show up now and then. He lives in Oakland now, and he still gets in touch when it’s convenient for him, usually to ask for stuff. Know what I mean?”

Do I ever. “Sounds a bit like my mom. She just told my grandpa this week that she wants to come to my first Major League game, assuming I make the roster. She never went to a single one in the minors. My dad is just the same. So yeah, I know what you mean.”

He settles back into his pillow, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. “It sucks, right? When I was younger, I wished I could fly away from it all sometimes.”

A few Declan puzzle pieces snap into place. “That’s why you like birds,” I say.

Shifting back to his side, he taps my temple, a smile playing on his lips. “You’re too observant for your own good,” he says and yawns. “Damn, I’m tired. That was a day.”

A second later, he gets up, pulls on his shorts, and pads to the door.

My chest tightens.

Did I say the wrong thing? Did I push too hard? It didn’t even feel like I was pushing, but now he’s staring through the peephole, his attention elsewhere.

“Crap. Some of the guys are wandering down the hall.”

My stomach twists, and I swing my legs out of bed, grabbing my shorts, so I feel less . . . well, naked. “Are they coming to my room?”

Declan shakes his head but walks back to the bed. “No. They’re just going by.” He kicks off his shoes, shucks his shorts, and stares at the king-size mattress. His eyes flicker with vulnerability. His voice dips to a gentle tone. “You mind if I crash here for a bit?”

I half want to say, “Weren’t you just about to leave? Wouldn’t you rather go?”

“Of course.” I don’t mind at all if he crashes, but I’m not ready to unpack why it doesn’t bother me.

“I’ll set my alarm. We’re going to work out, right?” His voice wavers the tiniest bit at the end like he really wants me to say yes to a workout. Like he needs reassurance that tomorrow we’re doing the same thing we did before we messed around.

I smile. “Yeah, we are.”

“Good,” Declan says.

I figure he’ll close his eyes, turn the other way and crash. But instead, he cups my cheek, brings his lips to mine, and whispers a kiss across them.

I shiver down to my toes.

His kisses are electric—even the soft, sweet ones.

“Mmm. Your lips taste so damn good, rookie,” he says. “I’m not sure I’ve ever enjoyed kissing as much as I do with you.”

I close my eyes so he can’t see how happy those words make me, and I sink into the softest, sweetest goodnight kiss I’ve ever had.

But then, I have nothing to compare it to—a goodnight kiss is another first. I let myself enjoy it for several delirious seconds that spill into a minute, maybe more.

Soon, Declan breaks the kiss, glides a hand softly down my chest, and crashes into sleep.

I don’t.

My brain is a maze, and I’m trying to find my way through twists and turns, past dead-ends, around bizarre angles. I’m trying to navigate all this newness.

A man in my bed.

My teammate asleep next to me.

My first sexual encounter like that. My first, too, where we were both that close, touching each other at the same time, coming at the same time, kissing after coming.

I run my finger over my bottom lip, replaying tonight, his body on mine, the heat between us.

I return too, to our kisses. I’ve never kissed anyone that much.

I drag a hand through my hair. I need to stop thinking about how good those kisses are.

He snores slightly, scoots closer, and drapes an arm across my chest with a soft murmur. I both hate and love how good that makes me feel. How my chest goes all flippity-flop.

But mostly, I love it, and I fall asleep just like that, with his arm around me.

When I wake, Declan is gone, but there’s a note from him on my phone.

Declan:See you at dawn, rookie.

Somehow, this makes me as happy as the sex.